Corbin continued. “Do you have an account at Penn Bancorp?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember if you have an account there? You know that’s an easy one to look up?”
“I ain’t got no account.”
“Then what were you doing there?”
Beaumont again didn’t respond.
“Why were you at Penn Bancorp on June 14th?” Corbin pressed him.
“I don’t know, I forgot.”
Corbin laughed. “You forgot?”
“Yeah, I don’t remember. I’m not debatin’ wit’ chu.”
“Do you know what the manager says?”
“I don’t know no manager.”
Corbin flipped over several pages in his notepad. “That’s funny, she remembers you. She says you opened an account in the name of Scott Stevens.” Stevens worked with Corbin in the Washington office.
“I don’t know nothin’ about that.”
“Nothing?” Corbin asked with mock surprise.
“No, nothin’.”
“So you can’t refute her statement then.”
“I didn’t say that,” Beaumont blurted out. “You putting words in my mouth!”
“Where did the checkbooks and credit cards come from?”
“The cop planted them-”
“Which cop?” Corbin demanded even before Beaumont finished speaking.
“I don’t know, I didn’t see which cop,” Beaumont answered. He was becoming confused. Corbin had increased the pace of his questions, giving Beaumont less time to think. This was breaking down Beaumont’s prepared story.
“You told us earlier you watched him ‘drop the evidence’ before they hauled you to the cruiser.”
“So what?”
“So which is it? Did you see him ‘drop the evidence’ or did they do it after you left?”
“I saw ’em drop it.”
“Then which cop did it?”
“Man, I don’t know,” Beaumont replied angrily. He wiped the sweat from his brow against the upper part of his sleeve; the shackles kept him from lifting his hands to his head.
“Did they plant the gun as well?”
“Yeah, that ain’t my piece. I don’t own no piece.”
“Have you ever owned a gun?” Corbin increased the pace of his questioning again.
“Naw, man. I don’t need no gun.”
Corbin flipped to another page in his notes, and without missing a beat, asked: “Didn’t you make the same claim two years ago, that the cops planted a gun on you?”
“Yeah, ’cause they did.”
“And you made the same claim the year before that!”
When Beaumont didn’t respond, Beckett interrupted: “Beaumont, at trial, the judge will make you answer these questions.”
Beaumont shot an angry, doubtful look at Beckett. “I don’t got to answer nothin’. I got constitutional rights to remain silent.”
Beckett shook his head. “If you choose to testify, then you need to answer all questions. You can’t pick and choose which ones you want to answer.”
Beaumont visibly recoiled.
Corbin resumed his attack in the same aggressive manner as before. “What do you do for a living, Beaumont?”
“I make do,” Beaumont responded, as he glanced around the room.
“Where do you work?”
“What do you care?!”
“You sell drugs for a living, don’t you.”
“No.”
Corbin’s eyes bore into Beaumont’s. “You were arrested five years ago for selling crack cocaine.”
“Man, they arrested me, but I didn’t do nothing.”
“When they arrested you, they found $4,200 on you.”
“That ain’t no crime.”
“Those dollars were in fact marked, correct?”
“How would I know?”
Corbin reached for the file. “I have in this file, the sworn testimony of two officers, who state the money found in your possession had been marked as part of a drug sales sting.”
“Look, man,” Beaumont said, sitting up straight and trying to point at the file, though his shackles prevented him from raising his hands more than a couple inches from his lap. “I had nothing to do with that! That was some of my boys. They running low on cash. They owed their street tax. So, they sold a little dark idol. Ain’t no crack. They give me some money I was owed, that’s it. The cops try to make me part of some conspiracy, but that ain’t true.”
“‘Dark idol’?” Corbin asked.
“Heroin! Man, where you from?!”
“Do your friends normally give you the proceeds when they sell heroin?”
“Naw, he owed me money. I sold him a car.”
“I thought you said it was ‘street tax.’”
“No, it was a car.”
“What make and model?” Corbin demanded immediately.
“I don’t remember.”
“We can look that up at the DMV,” Corbin said in a tone that told Beaumont he could disprove Beaumont’s lie. “Car sales get registered, unlike guns,” Corbin added, trying to lead Beaumont to his next mistake. Beaumont took the bait.
“That’s what I meant, a gun.”
“I thought you’ve never owned a gun.”
“Fuck, I don’t remember what the money was for. The cops dropped the charges. That means it didn’t happen.”
Corbin shook his head at Beaumont. “What was the name of your friend?”
“Farrouk. . Farrouk Winslow.”
“Was he the only one?”
Beaumont remained silent.
“I can look up the arrest record if I need to.”
“David Carson. He gave me money too, and they busted him too.”
Corbin flipped through his notes before beginning again. “Do you know a CarrieFey Benz, aka ‘Santa Fey’?”
“What about her?” Beaumont asked suspiciously.
“She called the cops on you, didn’t she? She told them you sold crack to her son. He was twelve at the time.”
“Shit, she’s the crackhead.”
“And when the son didn’t pay, you beat him with a lead pipe while two of your friends held him down.”
Once again, Beaumont remained silent.
“So why does a big man like you need help to hold down a twelve year old kid?”
“I don’t need nobody to hold down no twelve year old!” Beaumont blurted out before catching himself. He turned to Beckett. “Look, that never happened,” he explained to Beckett, ignoring Corbin’s stare. “If I would’a beat
