Reed looked at Henderson, and Alex watched her client’s eyes pop, his pupils dilating, the involuntary reactions reminding her of a lesson she’d learned too many times. They all lied to their lawyer about something, and the more important it was, the bigger the lie they told.
“He the money?” Reed whispered.
“Yeah,” Alex murmured. “He’s the money.”
Reed squeezed her wrist, his eyes cold and hard, the sour smell of the jail oozing through his pores.
“I ain’t gonna get another chance. You got this?”
Alex had been a public defender for fifteen years, and Reed was just the latest accused murderer she’d represented. If she let the Dwayne Reeds of the world shake her, she’d never be able to give them the same measure of justice the rich and well-bred received. That’s what everyone, guilty or innocent, highborn or low, deserved, and that’s why she’d become a public defender. At times like this, that higher calling mattered to her more than what her clients had done.
She pulled her wrist free and nodded. “Yeah. I got this.”
Chapter Two
“Come forward and be sworn, Mr. Henderson,” the judge said.
Margot Bates, Judge West’s court reporter, met Jameer in front of the witness stand. Middle-aged and as stern as a knuckle-rapping nun, she administered the oath.
“Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you’re about to give in this proceeding is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” he said and took the stand.
He was soft-spoken, a hard-to-hear mumbler, the kind of witness who wouldn’t fight back, making Alex anxious to cross-examine him.
Judge West lifted his head, scowling as the door at the rear of the courtroom opened. Alex turned to see what had gotten his attention. A black woman in a pale blue dress, two young children in tow, entered and slid into the back row. A black man in his twenties wearing low-slung jeans and a backward-facing baseball cap trailed behind them, taking a seat on the opposite side of the courtroom, slouching, his arms spread across the back of the pew, a toothpick stuck in his mouth.
“Counsel approach,” Judge West said.
Alex and Bradshaw stood in front of the bench looking up at Judge West, who leaned down, his hand covering his microphone so the jury wouldn’t hear what they were saying.
“Who are those people who just came in? Witnesses aren’t allowed in the courtroom prior to testifying.”
“I don’t know who the man is, but the woman is Jameer Henderson’s wife,” Bradshaw said. “We don’t intend to call either of them as witnesses. The kids belong to the Hendersons. We don’t intend to call them either.”
“Works for me,” Alex said.
“Very well. Proceed.”
Alex met the eyes of a stocky woman sitting in the first spectator row and cocked her head toward the back of the courtroom. Grace Canfield nodded and patted the laptop computer she was holding.
Grace was an investigator in the public defender’s office, an African American woman from Kansas City’s hardscrabble east side, home to many of the public defender’s clients. A trusted face in the churches and on the streets of those neighborhoods, she turned over the rocks Alex would only trip on.
Alex opened her trial binder to the statement Jameer Henderson had given to the police. The one-page statement, typed by homicide detective Henry “Hank” Rossi and signed by Henderson, was all she needed to know that Henderson was the money.
She hadn’t taken Henderson’s deposition before trial because she didn’t want to give Bradshaw the chance to undo whatever damage she might have done. It was bad enough that Bradshaw had had months to get Henderson ready for his moment in the sun. She expected their duet to be so tightly choreographed that the judges on
“Tell the jury your name, please,” Bradshaw began.
“Jameer Henderson.”
Several jurors edged forward in their chairs. Bradshaw caught their movement, smiling at Henderson to put him at ease and encourage him.
“You’re a quiet man, Mr. Henderson. Please speak up so that the jury can hear you.”
Jameer nodded and looked at the jury, clearing his throat and speaking louder. “Sorry.”
The jurors who’d moved up in their seats smiled and sat back. Pleased, Bradshaw continued.
“Where do you live?”
“Over on Garfield, offa Twenty-Sixth.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Henderson?”
“Cut hair. I got a shop on Prospect. Thirty-Second and Prospect.”
“Are you married?”
The question brought a nervous twitch. “Yes, sir, I am. Married and got two kids.”
“Is your family in the courtroom today?”
Henderson hunched his shoulders. “That’s them in the back, there. My wife, Mary, and my daughter, LaRhonda, and my son, Cletus.”
The jurors swung around, examining Jameer’s family. Mary smiled, the gesture forced, bringing no joy to her long, narrow face. The kids, both under ten, squirmed.
None of this had anything to do with the charges against Dwayne Reed, but Alex didn’t object because it was all fluff she knew the judge would allow. Bradshaw was trying to put Henderson at ease with softball questions that would humanize him, letting the jury know that he was a good family man who’d come to court to do the right thing. It was a smart strategy that would make the jury like Henderson and inoculate him against Alex’s attacks. All she could do was sit back and wait her turn to show them how wrong they were.
“Mr. Henderson, you ever testify in court before?”
“No, sir. My mama always say stay out of courtrooms and doctor offices ’cause the news more likely to be bad than good.”
Everyone laughed, including Judge West. Bradshaw waited until it was quiet again.
“I take it, then, that you aren’t here voluntarily.”
Henderson shook his head. “No, sir, I ain’t. Ms. Kalena Greene from your office, she served me with a subpoena. Said I didn’t have no choice.”
“Did you know Ms. Greene before she served you with the subpoena?”
“Yes, sir. Known her a long time. We belong to the same church. Her and my wife, they sing in the choir.”
“Ms. Greene didn’t subpoena your wife and children. Why are they here?”
Henderson sucked in a breath, staring past Bradshaw, settling on his family. Alex followed his gaze and saw his wife’s trembling lips and how she clutched her children to her sides, casting a worried glance at the young man who’d followed her into the courtroom. Mary Henderson was terrified, and that was enough to bring Alex out of her chair.
“Objection. May we approach?”
Judge West waved the lawyers forward. “What’s your objection, Counsel?”
“Your Honor,” Alex said. “I don’t care what her answer is, but it can’t possibly be relevant. I can see and the jury can obviously see that Mrs. Henderson is afraid. And that makes me very afraid that her husband is about to say that she’s afraid of what might happen to him because of his testimony.”
“Don’t make me guess what you’re getting at, Counsel.”
“Fine. I assume that Mr. Henderson is going to give damaging testimony against the defendant. If he weren’t, Mr. Bradshaw wouldn’t have subpoenaed him. In the part of Kansas City where my client and Mr. Henderson live, being a snitch is bad for your health. The witness shouldn’t be allowed to testify that his wife is scared that whatever he’s about to say could get him killed. That calls for speculation, and whatever concerns she may have
