The Lincoln Lawyer - Michael Connelly [167]
Vincent stood and objected, saying I was covering ground he had already trod in direct testimony. I argued that I was looking for a fuller explanation of Torrance’s incarceration, and Judge Companioni allowed me the leeway. He told Torrance to answer the question.
“Like I said, I got a count of assault and one of robbery.”
“And these alleged crimes took place during the riots, is that correct?”
With the anti-police climate permeating the city’s minority communities since even before the riots, I had fought during jury selection to get as many blacks and browns on the panel as I could. But here was a chance to work on the five white jurors the prosecution had been able to get by me. I wanted them to know that the man the prosecution was hanging so much of its case on was one of those responsible for the images they saw on their television sets back in May.
“Yeah, I was out there like everybody else,” Torrance answered. “Cops get away with too much in this town, you ask me.”
I nodded like I agreed.
“And your response to the injustice of the verdicts in the Rodney King beating case was to go out and rob a sixty-two-year-old woman and knock her unconscious with a steel trash can? Is that correct, sir?”
Torrance looked over at the prosecution table and then past Vincent to his own lawyer, sitting in the first row of the gallery. Whether or not they had earlier rehearsed a response to this question, his legal team couldn’t help Torrance now. He was on his own.
“I didn’t do that,” he finally said.
“You’re innocent of the crime you are charged with?”
“That’s right.”
“What about looting? You committed no crimes during the riots?”
After a pause and another glance at his attorney, Torrance said, “I take the fifth on that.”
As expected. I then took Torrance through a series of questions designed so that he had no choice but to incriminate himself or refuse to answer under the protections of the Fifth Amendment. Finally, after he took the nickel six times, the judge grew weary of the point being made over and over and prodded me back to the case at hand. I reluctantly complied.
“All right, enough about you, Mr. Torrance,” I said. “Let’s get back to you and Mr. Woodson. You knew the details of this double-murder case before you even met Mr. Woodson in lockup?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you sure? It got a lot of attention.”
“I been in jail, man.”
“They don’t have television or newspapers in jail?”
“I don’t read no papers and the module’s TV been broke since I got there. We made a fuss and they said they’d fix it but they ain’t fixed shit.”
The judge admonished Torrance to check his language and the witness apologized. I moved on.
“According to the jail’s records, Mr. Woodson arrived in the high-power module on the fifth of September and, according to the state’s discovery material, you contacted the prosecution on October second to report his alleged confession. Does that sound right to you?”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
“Well, not to me, Mr. Torrance. You are telling this jury that a man accused of a double murder and facing the possible death penalty confessed to a man he had known for less than four weeks?”
Torrance shrugged before answering.
“That’s what happened.”
“So you say. What will you get from the prosecution if Mr. Woodson is convicted of these crimes?”
“I don’t know. Nobody has promised me nothing.”
“With your prior record and the charges you currently face, you are looking at more than fifteen years in prison if you’re convicted, correct?”
“I don’t know about any of that.”
“You don’t?”
“No, sir. I let my lawyer handle all that.”
“He hasn’t told you that if you don’t do something about this, you might go to prison for a long, long time?”
“He hasn’t told me none of that.”
“I see. What have you asked the prosecutor for in exchange for your testimony?”
“Nothing. I don’t want nothing.”
“So then, you are testifying here because you believe it is your duty as a citizen, is that correct?”
The sarcasm in my voice was unmistakable.
“That’s right,” Torrance responded indignantly.
I held the