“Wipe off the handle,” Patricia’s recorded voice rang through the room, clear and calm.

“Pour the rest of the syrup by her head and tell the police she tripped.”

Patricia sat frozen on the bench behind the defense table, her fingers clamped around her leather handbag.

“Your Honor,” Detective Mitchell said, clicking her blue ballpoint three times before going on.

“Harold Whitmore installed this security system in May, and it automatically uploaded video files to an offsite cloud server every sixty minutes.”

“Did the homeowner erase the local memory card?” Marcus asked.