Page 110 of Defend Me

“Your honor, I enter defense exhibit five. May I approach the witness?” The judge nods. “Sheriff, do you recognize this?”

The sheriff frowns. “It looks like an entry log for Bayside Shooting Range.”

“This is the range where you train recruits?”

“Yes.”

“This is the range where Mr. Patterson’s gun was kept?”

The sheriff starts to look nervous. “Yes.”

Von opens the book and flips to the correct page. “Sheriff, can you read the date at the top of this page for the jury?”

“June twenty-first.”

“The day before Marion Everton was murdered.”

“Yes.”

“So, your theory is that Mr. Patterson used his own gun to commit the murder. Which means he would have needed toprocure it from the range where, as you testified, it was kept. Tell me, at what time did Mr. Patterson sign in on this entry log?”

The sheriff’s eyes skim down the list. They widen for the briefest moment when, I assume, he sees his own name.

He looks up at Von, his face tight. “It appears he wasn’t there that day.”

There are some whispers in the gallery and the judge bangs his gavel. “Silence,” he warns.

“You do not see his name anywhere, correct?”

The sheriff grinds his teeth. “That’s right.”

“Sheriff, could you read the names thatareon that entry log? The names of the people whowereat the shooting range that day?”

The sheriff’s eyes flicker to Wilbur, then down at the book. A dull red flush starts to creep up the back of his neck. Wilbur is frowning, looking back and forth between the sheriff and the book in his hands.

“Joe Wilson,” the sheriff reads. “Dave Falco. Michelle Martinez…” He reads seven other names then hesitates. Von is ready.

“Is that all, Sheriff?”

The sheriff clears his throat. “John Briggs.”

This time, louder whispers erupt in the gallery. Wilbur leaps to his feet. “Objection, your honor! How dare the defense make accusations without evidence.”

Von raises an eyebrow. “I am not accusing anyone of anything, Mr. Jenkins. I am merely pointing out that there were a number of people who had access to the murder weapon the day before the shooting. And that Mr. Patterson does not appear to be one of them.”

I see some of the jurors’ eyes widen slightly, while others scribble in their notebooks. The sheriff looks thunderstruck.

“Noah Patterson had motive, means, and opportunity,” heinsists, fuming. “He knew about the garden entrance. He was writing her letters.”

Von looks at him like a parent trying to maintain patience with a belligerent toddler. “Sheriff, we have been over this. There were many people who knew about that entrance. There is not a shred of evidence that Mr. Patterson wrote those letters. And this logbook casts doubt on the idea that he was anywhere near the murder weapon on the weekend of the murder.”

“Objection,” Wilbur says again. “She’s testifying, your honor.”

“Is there a question in there, Miss Everton?” the judge asks.

“Apologies, your honor,” Von says. “Thank you, Sheriff. No further questions.”

I want to punch the air and cry victory. Von really nailed him to the wall. I glance at her to see her reaction, but of course, her expression is professional and neutral. Grayson writes something on his notepad, and she glances at it and nods. She was beyond magnificent on that cross examination—she cut right through the sheriff’s bluster to get to the heart of the matter.

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