The Lincoln Lawyer - Michael Connelly [170]
Torrance looked down at the file and his eyebrows came together in concentration. I knew that his reading skills had been tested during his last stint in prison and were determined to be at the lowest measurable level—below second-grade skills.
“Not really,” he said. “I can’t read.”
I quickly walked over to the defense table and grabbed another file and a Sharpie pen out of my briefcase. I went back to the lectern and quickly printed the word CAUCASIAN on the outside of the file in large block letters. I held the file up so that Torrance, as well as the jury, could see it.
“Mr. Torrance, this is one of the words checked on the summary. Can you read this word?”
Vincent immediately stood but Torrance was already shaking his head and looking thoroughly humiliated. Vincent objected to the demonstration without proper foundation and Companioni sustained. I expected him to. I was just laying the groundwork for my next move with the jury and I was sure most of them had seen the witness shake his head.
“Okay, Mr. Torrance,” I said. “Let’s move to the other side of the file. Could you describe the bodies in the photos?”
“Um, two men. It looks like they opened up some chicken wire and some tarps and they’re laying there. A bunch a police is there investigatin’ and takin’ pictures.”
“What race are the men on the tarps?”
“They’re black.”
“Have you ever seen those photographs before, Mr. Torrance?”
Vincent stood to object to my question as having previously been asked and answered. But it was like holding up a hand to stop a bullet. The judge sternly told him he could take his seat. It was his way of telling the prosecutor he was going to have to just sit back and take what was coming. You put the liar on the stand, you take the fall with him.
“You may answer the question, Mr. Torrance,” I said after Vincent sat down. “Have you ever seen those photographs before?”
“No, sir, not before right now.”
“Would you agree that the pictures portray what you described to us earlier? That being the bodies of two slain black men?”
“That’s what it looks like. But I ain’t seen the picture before, just what he tell me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Something like these I wouldn’t forget.”
“You’ve told us Mr. Woodson confessed to killing two black men, but he is on trial for killing two white men. Wouldn’t you agree that it appears that he didn’t confess to you at all?”
“No, he confessed. He told me he killed those two.”
I looked up at the judge.
“Your Honor, the defense asks that the file in front of Mr. Torrance be admitted into evidence as defense exhibit one.”
Vincent made a lack-of-foundation objection but Companioni overruled.
“It will be admitted and we’ll let the jury decide whether Mr. Torrance has or hasn’t seen the photographs and contents of the file.”
I was on a roll and decided to go all in.
“Thank you,” I said. “Your Honor, now might also be a good time for the prosecutor to reacquaint his witness with the penalties for perjury.”
It was a dramatic move made for the benefit of the jury. I was expecting I would have to continue with Torrance and eviscerate him with the blade of his own lie. But Vincent stood and asked the judge to recess the trial while he conferred with opposing counsel.
This told me I had just saved Barnett Woodson’s life.
“The defense has no objection,” I told the judge.
BONUS PREVIEW
Order The Drop today.
Following is an excerpt from the opening pages of The Drop.
One
Christmas came once a month in the Open-Unsolved Unit. That was when the lieutenant made her way around the squad room like Santa Claus, parceling out the assignments like presents to the squad’s six detective teams. The cold hits were the lifeblood of the unit. The teams didn’t wait for callouts and fresh kills in Open-Unsolved. They waited for cold hits.
The Open-Unsolved Unit investigated unsolved murders going back fifty years in Los Angeles. There were twelve detectives, a secretary, a squad room supervisor, known as the whip, and the lieutenant. And there were ten thousand cases. The first five detective teams