Page 22 of The 1 Lawyer

“Because I saw him.”

“Was he wearing a dark jacket? A dark shirt? Dark pants?”

She hesitated again, probably suspecting a trap. “A dark top. I think.”

“Was he wearing glasses?”

That’s when she gave herself away. Her eyes darted to the defense table.

I stepped in front of my client. “No, ma’am! Ms. Mitchell, don’t try to bolster your testimony. You just looked to see whether the defendant was wearing glasses, didn’t you?”

She wore the guilty expression of a kid caught cheating in class.

The jurors saw it. They knew she had tried to see if Caro wore glasses. And he did, rimless glasses with rectangular lenses.

Still blocking Caro from her view, I said, “Isn’t it true that when you gave your statement to the police, you didn’t say anything about clothing or hair or glasses? That you didn’t provide a description at all?”

“I told the police I saw a man.”

She was faltering. I stepped closer to the stand. “And you never identified anyone to the police, did you?”

“Not to the police, no.”

I turned to the jury to convey my incredulity. “So how could your recollection magically grow sharper over time? Come on! You’re not really certain that the person you glimpsed in a dark car is sitting in the courtroom today, are you?”

The witness didn’t answer. She looked like she was torn between fight and flight.

I pushed her. “Are you certain? Remember, ma’am, that you’re under oath.”

She didn’t want to back off, I could tell. So she hedged. Her voice held an aggrieved note when she stabbed Gordon-James in the back: “The DA said I’d need to identify him in court. He told me I had to. So I did.”

Booyah!

CHAPTER 18

I MADE my case right where I stood, by the witness stand. “Your Honor, the defense moves to strike from the record this witness’s in-court identification of the defendant.”

Gordon-James was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor.”

I didn’t give him an opportunity to argue. “She just stated under oath that her identification testimony was coerced by the prosecution!”

“Gentlemen, please approach,” the judge said.

When I joined the DA at the bench, Gordon-James said in a low voice, “Request to discuss this matter in chambers, Your Honor.”

He wanted the conversation outside the hearing of the jury. But I sure didn’t. My words rang out. “Your Honor, we need to resolve this issue right here. We just heard Ms. Mitchell state that her in-court identification of the individual she allegedly saw in the victim’s car resulted from the DA’s insistence rather than her own recollection of the events.”

Judge Walker toyed with his gavel, rubbing the end of the wooden handle under his chin. “I don’t think she went quite that far.” The judge turned to study her as if that might help him decide how to rule on my motion. Brandy Mitchell met his eye, appearing unperturbed by the uproar. She lifted her shoulders in an unrepentant shrug.

When Walker grimaced and shook his head, I sensed that he would, like King Solomon, try to split the baby and give each side a partial victory. “No need to go into chambers. You can’t unring that bell, Mr. Gordon-James. But I’m overruling the defense motion to strike.”

I edged closer to the bench. “Your Honor—”

“Mr. Penney, the witness’s testimony speaks for itself. The jury heard what she said. It will go to the weight of the evidence.” He set the gavel down. “You may continue with your cross-examination.”

I was done with Brandy Mitchell. I didn’t intend to give her a chance to back down from her statement. Gordon-James wanted her gone too. When the judge asked the DA whether he wished to ask questions on redirect examination, he declined.

When the courtroom door shut behind Mitchell, the DA announced, “The State calls Detective Stokes to the witness stand.”

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