"Thank you, your Honor." The prosecutor helped the flighty woman into the witness box.
"Will you please give the court your name?"
The woman simpered. "Ida Mae Holk. Mrs. Ida Mae Holk."
The prosecutor cleared his throat and ruffled the papers in his hand.
"How long have you known the defendant, Mrs. Holk?"
"Why, ever since he was about two years old. Him and his Ma came to Elmwood right after his Pa was killed in that big Oak Ridge explosion. He was born right there on the government project, you know. Never could understand why Mrs. Sloan, that was his Ma, never did get married again, her being so pretty and all, and any number of nice widowers just—"
"Uh, yes, Mrs. Holk," the prosecutor interrupted. "Was your acquaintance with the defendant continuous throughout his childhood?"
"Well, it was until he was ten years old. They sent him away to that crazy house then."
"I object to the term 'crazy house', your Honor," the public defender addressed the court.
"I am sure that the witness meant to say the Rochelle School for Retarded Children," the prosecutor said mildly. "Didn't you, Mrs. Holk?"