The trial opened on a cold, bright Monday in federal court in Portland, Maine. The courtroom was packed: reporters, writers, fans of Dana's book, and a whole row of women from my critique group, there to support me. The judge, Abigail Sorensen, was a stern, fair woman in her sixties, with a reputation for running a tight courtroom and having no patience for theatrics. She looked at both sides and said, "This court will hear the truth, and only the truth. Anyone who wastes this court's time will regret it." I believed her.
Daniel's opening statement was simple and powerful. He told the jury: "This is a case about a book. Not just any book — a book that Nora Ellison wrote, word by word, over two years, in the grief of losing her husband, in the quiet of her kitchen in Bar Harbor. And this is a case about three people who took that book, put another name on it, and made over a million dollars from it. By the end of this trial, you will see the proof. You will see the drafts. You will see the forged signatures. You will hear from the women they did it to before. And you will know, beyond any doubt, who wrote *The Lighthouse Keeper's Widow*." The jury listened, quiet and attentive. Several of them looked at me, and I tried to look back steadily, without crying.
Dana's lawyer gave a very different opening. He painted Dana as a talented, hardworking writer who had been "mentored" by me, who had "collaborated" with me, and who was now being punished for succeeding where I had failed. He said the matching passages were "coincidence and shared inspiration." He said the copyright registration was "a clerical error." He said the forged signature was "a misunderstanding." Every sentence was smooth, polished, and false, and I sat there gripping the edge of my chair, forcing myself to stay calm. Daniel had warned me: "Let them lie. The evidence will catch up with them."
Then I took the stand. For three hours, I told my story: Tom's death, the writing, the critique group, the day I found Dana's book at #1, the break-in, the threats, the long road to that courtroom. Daniel asked me gentle, clear questions, and I answered them honestly, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing at a memory of Tom, always telling the truth. Then Dana's lawyer stood up for cross-examination, and the real fight began. He asked me if I was jealous of Dana's success. "No," I said. "I'm angry that my work was stolen. That's not jealousy. That's justice." He asked me if I had ever been treated for depression. "Yes," I said, calmly. "I grieved my husband. Grief is not confusion. I know what I wrote." He asked me, again and again, if I could prove I had not given Dana permission. "I can prove I never did," I said, "because I never would. That book was the most personal thing I ever wrote. I would never give it away." When I stepped down from the stand, my legs were shaking, but Claire, sitting in the front row, mouthed the words, "You were perfect." I believed her, for once.
