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“Next” appeared on the bottom right corner of the board, and when Haviland touched it, a box appeared over 8:25 PM on December 2, which read “Police arrive at Kelley home.”
    â€œIs this time correct?” Haviland asked.
    â€œYes, it is,” Peyton said.
    Haviland spun briefly to give the jury and the audience a good look, then leaned it against the table. “So you came to the house and found evidence of firearm violence and a very angry Jacob Kelley,” he said. “What did you do next?”
    â€œI called it in, and they started a manhunt for Brian Vanderhall. We put an APB out on his car and searched the neighborhood, but we didn’t find him,” Peyton said.
    â€œYou didn’t find him? Was this a halfhearted search?”
    â€œNo, sir. We went house to house for blocks in every direction, knocking on doors and searching yards. We alerted the departments in surrounding towns, as well as the New Jersey State Police. Nobody saw him.”
    â€œHow long did the search continue?”
    â€œUntil his dead body was found.”
    â€œAnd in all that searching, did Mr. Kelley mention to you that there was a secret bunker, hidden underground, in which he and Mr. Vanderhall used to perform scientific experiments?”
    â€œNo, he did not.”
    â€œHe didn’t suggest to you that Vanderhall might be hiding down there, evading capture?”
    â€œNo, sir,” Peyton said.
    â€œWhy do you think that is?”
    â€œObjection,” Terry said. “He’s asking the witness to speculate.”
    â€œSustained,” Roswell said.
    Haviland shrugged. “One final question. What time did the police leave the Kelley home that night?”
    â€œAt 10:55,” Peyton said.
    Haviland picked up his whiteboard and pressed the “Next” square again, causing a new box to appear over 10:55, which read “Police leave Kelley home.”
    â€œIs this correct?” he asked.
    â€œYes, it is.”
    â€œNo further questions, Your Honor.”
    Haviland sat down. Terry leaped to his feet and practically ran to the lectern, where he threw down his notes. The pose of yawning indifference had disappeared in a moment. He glanced at me briefly, and his eyes were ablaze.
    â€œMr. Peyton,” he said in the same strident tone I used to use to call one of my children to task when they misbehaved.
    â€œOfficer,” Peyton corrected.
    â€œAh yes. An officer of the law. Keeper of the truth. Mr. Peyton, in your eight years as a police officer, how many times have you been called to a scene of violence in someone’s home?”
    Peyton made a huffing noise. “I don’t know. Hundreds.”
    Terry held up a sheaf of papers. “According to police records, over five hundred times?”
    â€œI would believe that, though I don’t keep track,” Peyton said.
    â€œAnd how many of those incidents have involved one or more angry persons?”
    Peyton gave him a strange look. “I’m sorry?”
    â€œCome on, Mr. Peyton. In how many of those incidents of violence in the home did you encounter someone who was, if I may quote you, ‘blazing mad’?”
    â€œMost of them, I guess,” Peyton said.
    â€œAnd how many of them resulted in someone’s death?”
    â€œNot many.”
    Terry held up the papers. “Fifteen?”
    Peyton was getting a bit irritated. “It could be. I don’t remember the exact number.”
    â€œSo is it safe to say,” Terry said, “in your expert opinion as a police officer, that when someone is angry, it doesn’t necessarily mean he will kill someone?”
    â€œNo, it doesn’t.”
    â€œMr. Peyton, when you encounter a man who you believe is a danger to himself or other people, what do you do?”
    â€œWe take him into custody.”
    â€œWould you include in your report your belief that you feared that person would do violence to