“Then the state will proceed on the facts alone,” he said.

By five-thirty that evening, the autumn air was turning cold over Elm Street.

I parked my Buick LeSabre in the gravel driveway and walked up the back porch steps.

I had barely unlocked the kitchen door when a pickup truck pulled up behind my car.

Uncle Raymond got out of the cab, pulling his flannel cap off his head as he walked toward the porch.

He looked tired, his shoulders sloped under his heavy work coat.