The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [131]
“Certainly.”
“My cocounsel, Mr. Herrin, will assist. Bobby, if you’ll kneel on the floor.”
Bobby walked over and knelt in front of Scott.
“Now, Agent Hu, your testimony is that Clark was halfway between lying and kneeling on the floor like Mr. Herrin is here when he was shot, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And the killer was facing Clark, as I am now, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And the killer grabbed Clark’s hair on the right side of his scalp, like this?”
Scott grabbed Bobby’s hair with his left hand.
“Yes.”
“And the killer than stuck the gun to Clark’s forehead above his left eye, like this?”
Scott fashioned his right hand like a gun and stuck his index finger to Bobby’s forehead.
“And the killer then shot Clark?”
“Yes. That is how I believe the crime occurred.”
“Well, I agree with you. But doesn’t this demonstration prove something else, something important about the killer?”
Agent Hu frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“The killer was right-handed.”
Agent Hu’s expression revealed his realization. “Yes, most likely the killer would have been right-handed.”
“The killer grabbed Clark’s hair with his left hand and held the gun with his right hand, correct?”
“Yes, that would be correct.”
“One other thing, Agent Hu. The medical examiner testified that there was a contusion around Clark’s right eye, as if he had been hit with a fist.”
“Yes, there was.”
“As a forensic expert, is it more likely that the person who hit Clark’s eye was right- or left-handed?”
“Left-handed.”
“So the person who punched Clark McCall was left-handed, but the person who shot him was right-handed?”
“Yes, that would be the most likely scenario.”
Scott called FBI Agent Edwards to the stand again.
“Agent Edwards, you testified that you arrested the defendant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that you took her statement?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You typed what she said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then she read it over and signed it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With which hand did she sign her statement?”
Agent Edwards thought for a moment, then said, “Her left hand.”
The jurors had yet to see the defendant in person. They had seen her mug shots and pictures in the newspapers and on television, but they had not seen her. And they needed to see her and hear her, to listen and watch as she denied killing Clark McCall. Scott knew he had to put Shawanda on the stand, the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution notwithstanding, but he wanted to give her the best possible chance of success. So he had done two things: he had persuaded the judge to allow her methadone treatment, and he had kept her out of court until this moment.
Now all eyes—those of the judge and the jurors and the prosecutors and the spectators—were focused on the door at the side of the courtroom, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Shawanda Jones. Boo and Pajamae and Karen had been allowed in her cell—after being searched by a female guard—to help Shawanda get dressed. They had come into the courtroom a few minutes ago. Boo gave Scott another thumbs-up.
The door opened and a murmur ran through the room. Shawanda did not look like the heroin addict Scott had seen earlier that morning; she looked stunning and young. Scott had forgotten she was only twenty-four, the heroin had aged her so. But today she had recaptured her youth. She was wearing Rebecca’s navy blue suit, Rebecca’s high heels, and Rebecca’s makeup; her hair was fluffed lightly and brushed smooth; her eyes were sharp and alert. She looked at Scott and smiled. Shawanda looked like Halle Berry on a very good day.
The jurors’ eyes followed her as Ron escorted her over to the defendant’s table and pulled out her chair. She sat daintily and Ron pushed her chair in. She turned and looked at each juror, one by one, and they looked at her. Their first impression was a good one. Scott glanced back at the McCalls: the senator’s face revealed his worry, Jean’s face her jealousy. Beside them, Dan Ford’s face showed renewed interest in the proceeding.
Scott stood and said, “The defense calls Shawanda Jones.”
Shawanda