“He is my brother,” I said.

My voice sounded small in the high-ceilinged room, but it did not shake.

I kept my eyes on the prosecutor, refusing to look at the rows of jurors who were writing in yellow legal pads.

“On the night of Tuesday, the twelfth, did your brother Caleb visit your apartment in Columbus?”

“No,” I said.

“Did your father, Arthur Whitmore, ask you to state that Caleb was with you on that night?”

“Yes,” I said.