The Wrong Man Read Free Page A

“Alicia, you have a relationship with a guy named Bobby Skinner, don’t you?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Bobby is the father of your daughter.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And Bobby, he’s a member of a street gang, right? The African Warlords?”
    “Not no more.”
    “Well, we might disagree on that, but—we
can
agree, at least, that Bobby used to be a Warlord.”
    “Yeah, used to be.”
    “And he still has friends there. He still hangs with them, doesn’t he?”
    “He’s got some friends, yeah.”
    “And my client, Ronaldo Dayton, he runs with the Black Posse. Isn’t that your understanding?”
    “Yeah, Rondo’s with the Posse.”
    “And the Posse and Warlords, as far as you understand it, they don’t get along so well, do they?”
    “No, they don’t get along.”
    “It would be just fine with the Warlords if a member of the Posse went down for this shooting, wouldn’t it?”
    “Objection,” said the prosecutor.
    “Sustained,” said the judge, an attractive woman with long gray hair.
    “Your boyfriend, Bobby, told you to make this story up, didn’t he?”
    “Objection.”
    “The witness can answer.”
    “Bobby didn’t tell me that,” the witness protested.
    This lawyer, Jason Kolarich, seemed to have already moved on, expecting the denial. He nodded and shifted a step to his right. The jury seemed to be paying close attention to him. He had a commanding presence in the courtroom, a quiet confidence that seemed to draw everyone in.
    “You testified that you bought gas at the Mobil station at about a quarter to two in the morning.”
    “Yeah. Yeah, see, ’cause I left my friends and I’s low on gas and I didn’t wanna get gas the next morning before work ’cause I wouldn’t a had time.”
    Kolarich nodded. “The attendant at the gas station—he didn’t see who shot Malik Everson, did he?”
    “Don’t know about that.”
    “You’re the only eyewitness.”
    “Don’t know about
that
, neither.”
    Kolarich smiled amiably enough. “That’s fair. Now, when you first told the police that you witnessed the shooting, you weren’t real clear on where your car was positioned—which row of gas pumps you were using. Correct?”
    “I—I don’t think we talked about it.”
    “Okay, but you didn’t say, ‘I was on the furthest-west row of gas pumps.’ Nothing like that.”
    “Not right away, but they didn’t ask, y’know.”
    “Right. I know.” Kolarich looked over at the prosecution. “It was only
after
you were shown the photograph of that gas truck blocking virtually the entire view of the street that you and the cops came up with a story that your car was on the far-west row of gas pumps.”
    “Objection.”
    “Sustained,” said the judge. “That question is stricken. Mr. Kolarich, we’ve discussed this.”
    “We have, Your Honor. But Alicia, I have the chronology right, don’t I? It was only after you saw that photograph of that huge gas truck blocking the street view that you told the police your car was parked at the
only
gas pump from which you could’ve had a view of the street.”
    The witness shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think maybe that’s right.”
    Kolarich went to the table and lifted a document. “I can have you review the police report chronology if you like.”
    “No, I’ll take your word for it,” the witness said.
    “Good enough.” Kolarich paused, looked at the ceiling, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “And—you said you were driving a 2006 Pontiac Grand Prix. That was the car you filled up at the gas station.”
    “Yeah. I got the receipt from the credit card.”
    “You have a receipt that someone using this card bought gas. That’s all it says. True?”
    “I don’t… I don’t get you.”
    “The receipt doesn’t say what car received the gas, or what person pumped it.”
    The witness still seemed perplexed.
    “Isn’t it true, Alicia, that your Grand Prix was parked
outside your house
at the time of the shooting?”
    This time, the witness