glanced to the jury with her eyebrows raised.
“Yes. With half the logo and the color of the hat, I was able to determine that it was Cincinnati Reds.” I paused. “Ricky was a fan of the team and often wore their merchandise, so I was familiar with the logo.”
“So you only saw half the shooter’s face?”
“I initially saw him in profile, yes. But then—”
Kovač cut me off. “You saw only half his face. From the side many people look alike. Could you be mistaken on who it was you saw holding the gun?”
“No, I am not mistaken.”
“How can you be certain, having only seen half the shooter’s face, that it was, in fact, my client you saw and not someone else?”
“Because I saw him. When he shot Jake, he closed his eyes and turned his face away—and I saw his face, Dustin Adams’s face, covered in blood spatter.” I almost stood up to confront Kovač but managed to stay in my seat. “I saw his face.”
October 7th
“WE LOST,” I said, balancing my cell phone between my shoulder and my head, hands occupied by typing furiously away at a write-up for psychology due the next morning. I was angry at having not been there to hear the outcome of the hearing, angry that it hadn’t been in our favor, angry that on top of it all I had homework to do. I’d only been home for an hour, but already I felt the pressure of being the prosecution’s star witness. What if I messed it up?
All I heard on Brandon’s end was a sigh of discontent. “Hello, Corey,” he said brightly after a short pause. “Please tell me you’re not writing a scathing e-mail to the judge telling him what a moron he is for believing that crackpot story.”
The idea was appealing once he’d planted it in my head, but I pushed it aside. Writing scathing e-mails had never been my strong suit. I did much better face-to-face, taking people down a peg when they were wrong. It was the reason Ricky had wanted me to join debate club for so long, why she begged and begged each year around competition time that I come on as their fourth. They always got along without me, found someone else to fill the spot. I didn’t like confrontation. I was good at it, as long as I didn’t start crying, but I didn’t like it.
“I’m not writing any scathing e-mails, I’m just doing homework.” I reluctantly moved my hands away from my keyboard, knowing that if I continued slamming the keys down at the breakneck pace I’d started, I’d break a key before I finished a paragraph. “Well, trying to, anyway. It’s hard to think about Freud when all I want to do is strangle the defense attorney.”
Brandon laughed, but it sounded forced. “Don’t do that, unless you plan on pissing all over the court system by saying you were coerced into confessing.” He sighed again. “Fuck, Corey, don’t we ever talk about anything but murder anymore?”
I closed my laptop and moved it off my lap. “What else should we talk about?” I asked. “It seems like our lives are pretty consumed by this court stuff right now. I can hardly think about anything else.”
Brandon had gotten out. He was going to school in Pennsylvania, of all places. He had a roommate, a dorm room, a new start. He wasn’t going to be “that guy whose girlfriend was murdered” anymore. He had escaped it, at least temporarily.
“I don’t know! But we used to be friends.”
“We are friends.” And we were. It’s hard not to be friends with the only person in the world who knows what you’re going through. “But you’re right. We should talk about other stuff. How’s school? What’s your roommate like?”
“He’s a bore, but that’s fine with me,” Brandon said. “Everyone else wants to party all the time—even though no one’s legal—but Joshua, that’s his name, he just sits in the room and studies. I don’t mind the company. It means when I stay home, I don’t feel like I’m wallowing, or being antisocial.” He paused. “It’s hard to make
“Yes. With half the logo and the color of the hat, I was able to determine that it was Cincinnati Reds.” I paused. “Ricky was a fan of the team and often wore their merchandise, so I was familiar with the logo.”
“So you only saw half the shooter’s face?”
“I initially saw him in profile, yes. But then—”
Kovač cut me off. “You saw only half his face. From the side many people look alike. Could you be mistaken on who it was you saw holding the gun?”
“No, I am not mistaken.”
“How can you be certain, having only seen half the shooter’s face, that it was, in fact, my client you saw and not someone else?”
“Because I saw him. When he shot Jake, he closed his eyes and turned his face away—and I saw his face, Dustin Adams’s face, covered in blood spatter.” I almost stood up to confront Kovač but managed to stay in my seat. “I saw his face.”
October 7th
“WE LOST,” I said, balancing my cell phone between my shoulder and my head, hands occupied by typing furiously away at a write-up for psychology due the next morning. I was angry at having not been there to hear the outcome of the hearing, angry that it hadn’t been in our favor, angry that on top of it all I had homework to do. I’d only been home for an hour, but already I felt the pressure of being the prosecution’s star witness. What if I messed it up?
All I heard on Brandon’s end was a sigh of discontent. “Hello, Corey,” he said brightly after a short pause. “Please tell me you’re not writing a scathing e-mail to the judge telling him what a moron he is for believing that crackpot story.”
The idea was appealing once he’d planted it in my head, but I pushed it aside. Writing scathing e-mails had never been my strong suit. I did much better face-to-face, taking people down a peg when they were wrong. It was the reason Ricky had wanted me to join debate club for so long, why she begged and begged each year around competition time that I come on as their fourth. They always got along without me, found someone else to fill the spot. I didn’t like confrontation. I was good at it, as long as I didn’t start crying, but I didn’t like it.
“I’m not writing any scathing e-mails, I’m just doing homework.” I reluctantly moved my hands away from my keyboard, knowing that if I continued slamming the keys down at the breakneck pace I’d started, I’d break a key before I finished a paragraph. “Well, trying to, anyway. It’s hard to think about Freud when all I want to do is strangle the defense attorney.”
Brandon laughed, but it sounded forced. “Don’t do that, unless you plan on pissing all over the court system by saying you were coerced into confessing.” He sighed again. “Fuck, Corey, don’t we ever talk about anything but murder anymore?”
I closed my laptop and moved it off my lap. “What else should we talk about?” I asked. “It seems like our lives are pretty consumed by this court stuff right now. I can hardly think about anything else.”
Brandon had gotten out. He was going to school in Pennsylvania, of all places. He had a roommate, a dorm room, a new start. He wasn’t going to be “that guy whose girlfriend was murdered” anymore. He had escaped it, at least temporarily.
“I don’t know! But we used to be friends.”
“We are friends.” And we were. It’s hard not to be friends with the only person in the world who knows what you’re going through. “But you’re right. We should talk about other stuff. How’s school? What’s your roommate like?”
“He’s a bore, but that’s fine with me,” Brandon said. “Everyone else wants to party all the time—even though no one’s legal—but Joshua, that’s his name, he just sits in the room and studies. I don’t mind the company. It means when I stay home, I don’t feel like I’m wallowing, or being antisocial.” He paused. “It’s hard to make
Similar Books
