I gave the paper to the court reporter, keeping my game face intact as she placed a sticker on it.
“Officer Lake, I hand you what has been marked for identification as Defendant’s Exhibit One. Could you tell the jury what it is?”
“It’s a printed copy of the license. Monae Prince’s Mississippi driver’s license. But the original was in her purse.”
He attempted to return the sheet of paper. I took a step away from him.
“Is it identical to the state’s exhibit?”
He looked at the paper again. “Monae Prince. Same photo.”
“And the date of birth?”
As he bent over my exhibit, I saw a wave of color wash up his neck. “The date of birth is different. Well, date’s the same, but the year says 1994.” He glanced up. “But it’s just a printed copy.”
“That’s true.” In my hand, I held the plastic license, the state’s exhibit; I returned it to him. “How long have you served in law enforcement?”
“Fourteen years.”
“That’s a long time.” I shot the DA a look, and was tickled to see that he was poised on the edge of his seat. “I’ll bet you can tell the difference between a real license and a fake ID. Tell the jury, Officer Lake: in your expert opinion, which license looks legitimate to you?”
He spent long moments studying the two exhibits. A muscle twitched in his cheek. I was gambling that he wouldn’t lie under oath.
And I was right. With an apologetic glance at Keet, the officer said, “The state’s exhibit appears to be fake.”
I snatched up the plastic driver’s license and held it high for the jury’s benefit. “This one is fake?”
“Possibly.” With a sheepish look, he corrected himself. “Probably.”
“And defendant’s exhibit?”
“It looks legit. I mean, it’s a paper copy. But it looks like the real deal.”
I faced the jury. “Then in your opinion, what was Monae Prince’s age at the time of her death, Officer?”
He took a second to calculate. “Twenty-three.”
I was on a roll. “Officer Lake, the state contends that an overdose of Rohypnol was in the deceased’s system at the time of her death.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What is the street name for the drug, sir?”
“Roofie.”
“And isn’t it true that roofies are commonly known as a date rape drug?”
“True.”
“So they’re used for drugging people into having sex without their consent? Right?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s generally the use on the street.”
I leaned against the jury box and cocked my head. “Officer, in your career in law enforcement, have you ever encountered a situation in which a prostitute was roofied by a client?”
“I’ve never seen it.”
Score. I turned toward the counsel table, prepared to take my victory walk. But before I could say “No further questions,” the officer spoke again.
“But whether she was a hooker or was seventeen or seventy, the girl is dead. And somebody killed her.”
Chapter 58
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS later, and the game was the same. I was still slugging it out with the DA and his witnesses.
I had to get my hands around the challenge: to create a reasonable doubt that would render the jury unable to return a guilty verdict against Lee. But to achieve it, I desperately needed the information my dead Vicksburg detective would have provided at trial. I was trying my best to establish those points through attacks on the state’s witnesses, but my efforts were hit-and-miss. One step forward, two steps back.
During sleepless hours the night before, I’d decided I needed to visit the sheriff. My dead witness might have had a hard file or electronic file with him at the time of his death.
So when Judge Ashley declared a lunch break on Thursday, I sent Lee and his parents to Shorty’s, along with Suzanne. And I headed for the Williams County sheriff’s department.
As I walked around the town square, I rehearsed my pitch. The sheriff would be reluctant to part with evidence in a pending investigation. But if I knew it existed, I’d issue a subpoena duces tecum for the information and he’d have to bring it to court. It could be the shot in the arm my defense required.
I marched up to the uniformed woman at the reception counter. “Ruby Bozarth to see the sheriff, please.”
The woman glanced at Sheriff Stark’s office. The door was firmly shut. “He’s tied up.”
I gave her a brittle smile. “Thanks.” I bypassed her, strode up to Stark’s door, and walked on in without knocking.
Sheriff Stark sat behind his desk, which was littered with the remains of his lunch: chicken wings and fries. Deputy Potts sat on a folding chair at the sheriff’s right hand, sucking on a chicken bone.
“Hey, Sheriff.” I shut the door behind me. “Need to talk to you. In private.”
Stark picked up a paper napkin and wiped sauce from his fingers. “Ruby Bozarth, you must’ve been brought up in a barn. Anyone ever teach you to knock?’
“Brought up in a barn. That’s funny. Also true.”
He wadded the orange-stained napkin and tossed it onto his desk. “Ruby, you’ve got one minute to say your piece before I have Deputy Potts escort you out of here.”
It was an empty threat—probably. The sheriff and I had enjoyed a civil relationship since the outcome of the Jewel Shaw murder trial. But Potts dropped his chicken bone and scooted back his chair with a screech of metal. So I talked fast.
“Sheriff, I need information about the detective who was found dead on Monday night. He was coming to testify for the defense. What did he have in his possession? I need to subpoena it for trial.”
The sheriff gave Potts a hooded glance, then said to me: “Not sure what you mean.”
“In his car, on his person. Files, paperwork, computers, phone.”
Sheriff Stark cleared his throat. “Can’t say I’m happy to have a defense attorney meddling in an ongoing investigation of the murder of a lawman. It don’t sit right. There’s a brotherhood, Ruby.”
“Blue brotherhood,” Potts echoed.
I ignored Potts. Snoop Doggy Dogg, I thought again, wishing I could shove him outside like I’d done yesterday morning.
But my bad-girl persona wasn’t getting the job done. With a sugary voice, I said: “Lord, Sheriff, I’d hate to do it, but if you won’t share the information with me voluntarily, I’ll have to get a court order. You know I’ll do it. I’m a real pain.”
I smiled like a contestant for the title of Miss Mississippi.
The sheriff bundled up the remains of his lunch and pitched it into the trash can. Maybe I’d ruined his appetite.
He said, “We’ll cut to the chase—save you and the judge some time. The car was clean. Nothing in it but a suitcase.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Impossible.”
“It’s true.”
“What about a phone?” In my dismay, I turned to Potts to support my position. “Everyone carries a phone.”
Potts shrugged. “Everybody except him, I reckon.”
Sheriff Stark said, “I thought it was peculiar, myself. But that Vicksburg detective had nothing on him. Potts, you was there when we searched. What did we turn up?”
“Nothing.” Potts had resumed eating. “Just the body and the gun. Suitcase in his trunk.” He dunked a wing in a plastic container of sauce.
The sheriff rose to his feet, a clear sign that the discussion was over. As he walked around his desk, he said, “Who knows what he was thinking. Those vice cops, they got a different procedure than men in uniform.” To Potts, he said, “Did you know that dude, Potts? You worked patrol in Vicksburg.”
Potts swallowed and said, “Not me.”
I stepped out, deflated. The woman at the counter cut me a frosty glare that made me lift my chin and stand up straight.
As I headed out of the building, a thought nagged at me. About Deputy Potts.
He claimed to be a loyal comrade of young Deputy Brockes.
But was he rooting for Brockes? Or rooting around for the sheriff?
Chapter 59