The Lincoln Lawyer - Michael Connelly [169]
“ ’Spose.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
“The defendant is African-American, correct?”
Torrance laughed.
“Looks like it to me.”
“As are you, correct, sir?”
Torrance started to laugh again.
“Since I was born,” he said.
The judge tapped his gavel once and looked at me.
“Mr. Haller, is this really necessary?”
“I apologize, Your Honor.”
“Please move on.”
“Mr. Torrance, when Mr. Woodson used that word, as you say he did, did it shock you?”
Torrance rubbed his chin as he thought about the question. Then he shook his head.
“Not really.”
“Why weren’t you shocked, Mr. Torrance?”
“I guess it’s ’cause I hear it all a’ time, man.”
“From other black men?”
“That’s right. I heard it from white folks, too.”
“Well, when fellow black men use that word, like you say Mr. Woodson did, who are they talking about?”
Vincent objected, saying that Torrance could not speak for what other men were talking about. Companioni sustained the objection and I took a moment to rework the path to the answer I wanted.
“Okay, Mr. Torrance,” I finally said. “Let’s talk only about you, then, okay? Do you use that word on occasion?”
“I think I have.”
“All right, and when you have used it, who were you referring to?”
Torrance shrugged.
“Other fellas.”
“Other black men?”
“That’s right.”
“Have you ever on occasion referred to white men as niggers?”
Torrance shook his head.
“No.”
“Okay, so then, what did you take the meaning to be when Barnett Woodson described the two men who were dumped in the reservoir as niggers?”
Vincent moved in his seat, going through the body language of making an objection but not verbally following through with it. He must have known it would be useless. I had led Torrance down the path and he was mine.
Torrance answered the question.
“I took it that they were black and he killed ’em both.”
Now Vincent’s body language changed again. He sank a little bit in his seat because he knew his gamble in putting a jailhouse snitch on the witness stand had just come up snake eyes.
I looked up at Judge Companioni. He knew what was coming as well.
“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”
“You may,” the judge said.
I walked to the witness stand and put the file down in front of Torrance. It was legal size, well worn and faded orange—a color used by county jailers to denote private legal documents that an inmate is authorized to possess.
“Okay, Mr. Torrance, I have placed before you a file in which Mr. Woodson keeps discovery documents provided to him in jail by his attorneys. I ask you once again if you recognize it.”
“I seen a lotta orange files in high-power. It don’t mean I seen that one.”
“You are saying you never saw Mr. Woodson with his file?”
“I don’t rightly remember.”
“Mr. Torrance, you were with Mr. Woodson in the same module for thirty-two days. You testified he confided in you and confessed to you. Are you saying you never saw him with that file?”
He didn’t answer at first. I had backed him into a no-win corner. I waited. If he continued to claim he had never seen the file, then his claim of a confession from Woodson would be suspect in the eyes of the jury. If he finally conceded that he was familiar with the file, then he opened a big door for me.
“What’m saying is that I seen him with his file but I never looked at what was in it.”
Bang. I had him.
“Then, I’ll ask you to open the file and inspect it.”
The witness followed the instruction and looked from side to side at the open file. I went back to the lectern, checking on Vincent on my way. His eyes were downcast and his face was pale.
“What do you see when you open the file, Mr. Torrance?”
“One side’s got photos of two bodies on the ground. They’re stapled in there—the photos, I mean. And the other side is a bunch of documents and reports and such.”
“Could you read from the first document there on the right side? Just read the first line of the summary.”
“No, I can’t read.”
“You can’t read at all?”
“Not really. I didn’t get the schooling.”
“Can you read any of the words that are next to the boxes that are checked at the top of the summary?