A trial was obviously in progress, the antiseptic silence and formality coupled with tension. Dread filled her chest. In just a few short weeks, her Tommy would be on trial just the same.
Deidre took her seat and watched. In the center of the room, a lawyer in a gray suit stood with a pointer in his hand, next to a blow-up photograph that rested on a tripod and was turned toward the jury. From what she could see, it was a photograph of a gas station and a street.
“Now, Ms. Engles,” the lawyer boomed, “are you confident that you had a clear and unobstructed view of the shooting?”
“Yeah.” In the witness stand sat a young, pretty African-American woman, mid-twenties at best.
“This truck.” Turning to the blow-up photograph, the lawyer aimed his pointer at a truck parked at the gas station, parallel to the street and perpendicular to cars that would be pumping gas, except that there were no cars in the photograph. “This truck did not obstruct your view?”
“No. We were on the far end. You could see the street around the truck.”
“For the record, the far west end?” The lawyer used that pointer again. “The furthest-west end of the gas station?”
“Right.”
“The furthest-west row of gas pumps?”
“Yeah.”
“And you were on the west side of that last row of gas pumps?”
“Yeah.”
“And showing you People’s Twenty-four, previously introduced.” The lawyer moved to a second photo, a second tripod. “Does this photograph accurately depict your point of view, sitting in the driver’s seat of your automobile, while your car was parked on the west side of the farthest-west row of gas pumps on the night of the shooting?”
“Yeah, that’s how I saw it.”
“And you can easily see straight ahead to the street, which would be south, without obstruction from that gas truck?”
“Yeah, real easy.”
“And you are certain, Ms. Engles, that the person you saw fire a weapon and kill Malik Everson is sitting in the courtroom today?”
“Yeah, it was Rondo.”
“By ‘Rondo’ you mean Ronaldo Dayton.”
At the defense table, the lawyer nudged an African-American man sitting next to him. That man stood up.
“That’s Rondo right there,” said the witness.
“The record will please reflect that the witness identified the defendant, Ronaldo Dayton.” The prosecutor nodded with satisfaction. “Nothing further,” he said.
Deidre sighed. The prosecution had so many resources. An army of police officers and lab specialists and doctors, fancy blow-ups and diagrams, everything that defendants like her Tommy lacked. It was such an unbelievably lopsided fight. Unless you had money.
Or you got really lucky with a good defense attorney.
“Afternoon, Ms. Engles.” The defense lawyer strode into the center of the courtroom. Her first full look at him, he wasn’t what she’d expect in a lawyer. He looked more like a football player. Tall with broad shoulders. A formidable person. Judging from the expression of the witness, she held the same opinion as Deidre.
“My name’s Jason Kolarich. Can I call you Alicia?”
“Yeah, okay,” she said. “Can I call you Jason?”
She giggled a bit. So did a couple of jurors.
“Sure, why not?” he said. The lawyer didn’t have any notes with him. He stood just a few feet away from the witness, angled toward the jury. “Alicia, you have a relationship with a guy named Bobby Skinner, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Bobby is the father of your daughter.”
“Yeah.”
“And Bobby, he’s a member of a street gang, right? The African Warlords?”
“Not no more.”
“Well, we might disagree on that, but-we can agree, at least, that Bobby used to be a Warlord.”
“Yeah, used to be.”
“And he still has friends there. He still hangs with them, doesn’t he?”
“He’s got some friends, yeah.”
“And my client, Ronaldo Dayton, he runs with the Black Posse. Isn’t that your understanding?”
“Yeah, Rondo’s with the Posse.”
“And the Posse and Warlords, as far as you understand it, they don’t get along so well, do they?”
“No, they don’t get along.”
“It would be just fine with the Warlords if a member of the Posse went down for this shooting, wouldn’t it?”
“Objection,” said the prosecutor.
“Sustained,” said the judge, an attractive woman with long gray hair.
“Your boyfriend, Bobby, told you to make this story up, didn’t he?”
“Objection.”
“The witness can answer.”
“Bobby didn’t tell me that,” the witness protested.
This lawyer, Jason Kolarich, seemed to have already moved on, expecting the denial. He nodded and shifted a step to his right. The jury seemed to be paying close attention to him. He had a commanding presence in the courtroom, a quiet confidence that seemed to draw everyone in.
“You testified that you bought gas at the Mobil station at about a quarter to two in the morning.”
“Yeah. Yeah, see, ’cause I left my friends and I’s low on gas and I didn’t wanna get gas the next morning before work ’cause I wouldn’t a had time.”
Kolarich nodded. “The attendant at the gas station-he didn’t see who shot Malik Everson, did he?”
“Don’t know about that.”
“You’re the only eyewitness.”
“Don’t know about that, neither.”
Kolarich smiled amiably enough. “That’s fair. Now, when you first told the police that you witnessed the shooting, you weren’t real clear on where your car was positioned-which row of gas pumps you were using. Correct?”
“I–I don’t think we talked about it.”
“Okay, but you didn’t say, ‘I was on the furthest-west row of gas pumps.’ Nothing like that.”
“Not right away, but they didn’t ask, y’know.”
“Right. I know.” Kolarich looked over at the prosecution. “It was only after you were shown the photograph of that gas truck blocking virtually the entire view of the street that you and the cops came up with a story that your car was on the far-west row of gas pumps.”
“Objection.”
“Sustained,” said the judge. “That question is stricken. Mr. Kolarich, we’ve discussed this.”
“We have, Your Honor. But Alicia, I have the chronology right, don’t I? It was only after you saw that photograph of that huge gas truck blocking the street view that you told the police your car was parked at the only gas pump from which you could’ve had a view of the street.”
The witness shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think maybe that’s right.”
Kolarich went to the table and lifted a document. “I can have you review the police report chronology if you like.”
“No, I’ll take your word for it,” the witness said.
“Good enough.” Kolarich paused, looked at the ceiling, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “And-you said you were driving a 2006 Pontiac Grand Prix. That was the car you filled up at the gas station.”
