The Brass Verdict

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?”

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.

Three

After the jury filed out of the box, I returned to the defense table as the courtroom deputy was moving in to cuff my client and take him back to the courtroom holding cell.

“That guy’s a lying sack of shit,” Woodson whispered to me. “I didn’t kill two black guys. They were white.”

My hope was that the deputy hadn’t heard that.

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up?” I whispered right back. “And next time you see that lying sack of shit in lockup, you ought to shake his hand. Because of his lies the prosecutor’s about to come off of the death penalty and float a deal. I’ll be back there to tell you about it as soon as I get it.”

Woodson shook his head dramatically.

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want no deal now. They put a goddamn liar on the stand, man. This whole case should go down the toilet. We can win this motherfucker, Haller. Don’t take no deal.”