Brunelle took a moment to steal a peek at the jury. A few of them looked genuinely moved. It was working.
“So what did you do?” Brunelle continued.
Jackson shrugged and turned again to the jurors. “I really only had two choices. The first was to book him for drug possession. But I knew that wasn’t going to solve anything. He’d do some time, but not much, and go right back on the street again, right back to the heroin. The other choice was to offer to help him. But he’d have to help me too.”
A little ominous, Brunelle thought. He needed to soften it up a bit. “Help you how?”
“By helping me catch some of the dealers in the area,” Jackson explained. “I can arrest drug users all day and it won’t stop the problem. But if I can put some of the dealers away, well, it’s a start.”
“And did you have a particular dealer in mind that you wanted Derrick to help you get?” Brunelle asked.
But Jackson just shrugged again. “No, not really. I didn’t know who his supplier was. I didn’t care either. I just wanted to get him, whoever it was.”
Brunelle frowned slightly. “Was Mr. Hernandez a specific target for Derrick?” Brunelle half-asked, half-reminded the detective.
But Jackson shook his head after a moment’s thought. “No. I mean, I was aware of Mr. Hernandez’s criminal activities, but I don’t think I knew Derrick was buying his dope from Hernandez.”
Before Brunelle could figure out how to follow up that unexpected answer with another question, Jacobsen stood up. Thank God.
“I’m afraid I must object at this point, Your Honor,” Jacobsen said. “The witness should not be allowed to testify to just general alleged criminal activities by my client, or anyone else for that matter. This case involves the alleged murder of Derrick Shanborn. The witness’s testimony was that he was unaware of any specific criminal activity involving my client and Mr. Shanborn. That should be the end of the inquiry.”
The judge looked at Brunelle. “Any response, Mr. Brunelle?
But Brunelle could only shrug. Hernandez was on trial for murder, not drug dealing. What mattered was the connection to Shanborn. Apparently, Jackson wasn’t going to give him any more on that issue.
However, before the judge could rule on the objection, Jackson spoke up. “If I may, Your Honor, I think I remember now that Derrick mentioned Mr. Hernandez as one of the people he bought heroine from.”
“Objection!” Jacobsen nearly spat. “The witness needs to wait for a question before saying anything.”
Quinn didn’t wait for any input from Brunelle. “Detective Jackson,” she instructed, “you are only to respond to questions, not volunteer information. Is that understood?”
Jackson nodded contritely. “Yes, Your Honor.”
Judge Quinn frowned as she considered the state of affairs. “I will sustain the objection,” she began. “Anything not related to both Mr. Shanborn and Mr. Hernandez is irrelevant.” She sighed slightly and threw an irritated glance at Jackson before turning back to Brunelle. “That being said, you may ask another question, Mr. Brunelle.”
Brunelle nodded. He knew what question to ask. Everyone in the courtroom did. “Do you recall now, detective, whether Derrick mentioned buying drugs from Mr. Hernandez.”
Jackson nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “I remember now that Derrick said he bought drugs from several different dealers. One of those was Mr. Hernandez.”
Okay. Brunelle exhaled. He’d gotten what he needed. But he was uncomfortable with how he’d gotten there. Ideally, they should go through the formal arrangement between Shanborn and Jackson, exactly what information he’d provided, what benefit he’d been provided or promised. But Brunelle wasn’t confident he knew what Jackson would say. And there was that old lawyer’s axiom: never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to. He’d connected Shanborn and Hernandez. That was enough.
“No further questions,” Brunelle announced, and quickly returned to his seat.
Carlisle gave him a quizzical glance, but he ignored it. Or rather he deflected it. “I’ll explain later,” he whispered.
Quinn took a moment to realize the direct exam was over. She looked at Jacobsen. “Cross examination, counsel?”
Jacobsen smiled as he stood up. “Why yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”
He sidled up to the witness. “So there was no particular emphasis on my client, is that correct?”
Jackson thought for a moment. “Not really, no.”
“Just turn in anyone who might be dealing drugs?”
“Well, not turn in, exactly,” Jackson corrected. “Just give information.”
“So you didn’t direct Mr. Shanborn to inform on Mr. Hernandez specifically?” Jacobsen led the detective.
“No, sir. Just any information he had about anyone involved in the trade.”
“Did he provide other names?” Jacobsen inquired.
“I’m sure he did,” Jackson replied. “In addition to Mr. Hernandez’s name.”
“Who were those other names?” A legitimate question, Brunelle had to agree.
But Jackson shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?” Jacobsen repeated, exaggerating his astonishment. “Did you keep any notes?”
“No, sir,” Jackson replied. “I don’t keep notes about my interactions with informants.”
Jacobsen raised an accusatory eyebrow. “So you’re hiding things.”
“No, sir,” Jackson replied quickly. “I’m protecting people. Protect and serve, that’s what I swore to do. It wouldn’t be safe for them if I wrote everything down.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer if you knew who they were interacting with?” Jacobsen asked.
“No, sir,” Jackson repeated. “Criminals have gotten very sophisticated. Our department gets hundreds of public record requests every year from prisoners in the Department of Corrections. They ask for our home addresses, our dependents’ information, and the names of anyone who’s cooperated with law enforcement. I don’t want to risk that kind of information getting out to a man like Elmer Hernandez.”
Brunelle suppressed a grin. He wasn’t sure he agreed with Jackson’s policy, but he admired how the detective brought it back around to Hernandez.
Jacobsen, not so much.
“A man like Mr. Hernandez,” Jacobsen mimicked. “Did he ever send you any sort of public records request like that?”
“No, sir,” Jackson answered. “He murdered Derrick Shanborn.”
Yeah, Brunelle thought, don’t ask a question you don’t know the answer to. And don’t give the witness an opportunity to answer a question you didn’t even ask.
“You don’t know that,” Jacobsen challenged.
“I deduced it,” Jackson countered.
“Even though you have absolutely no evidence that Mr. Shanborn ever actually informed on Mr. Hernandez?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘no evidence,’” Jackson answered. “I remember it.”
Jacobsen sneered. “But nothing in writing?”
“No, sir,” Jackson admitted.
The sneer deepened. “No further questions.”
Brunelle imagined Jacobsen probably did have quite a few more questions planned, but he was smart enough to realize each such question would be an opportunity for Jackson to rogue again.
Edwards was next.
“You’re a detective?” she started when she’d reached the bar.
“Yes, ma’am,’ Jackson answered.
“But not a homicide detective?”
“No, ma’am. Narcotics.”
“And you weren’t the lead detective on this case, were you?” Edwards continued.
“No, ma’am.”
“In fact,” Edwards said, “you weren’t even a formal assistant detective on this case because you’re not a homicide detective, isn’t that correct?”
Jackson thought for a moment, chewing his cheek and shifting his weight back and forth in thought. “I don’t know if I’d say that exactly. I
assisted with some interviews. Detective Chen came to me.”
“Because you were working the victim, Derrick Shanborn?” Edwards clarified.
“Right.”
“But you didn’t attend the autopsy?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Or send the ballistics off to the crime lab?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Or process the crime scene?”
Again, “No, ma’am.”
“You just knew the victim, and helped with some interviews?”
Jackson considered for a moment, then answered, “Yes, ma’am.”
Edwards nodded. “Thank you, detective. No further questions.”
Then Robyn stood up. She asked her questions from behind counsel table.
“Mr. Shanborn gave you information about Mr. Hernandez, is that your testimony?”
Yes, ma’am,” Jackson nodded.
“But he never once said he bought drugs from Ms. Keller, did he?”
Brunelle’s eyebrows knitted together. That was a dangerous question. What if Jackson said he had given information on Samantha Keller? Anything was possible with no notes and a convenient memory.
Jackson considered for several moments. Finally, he answered slowly, “No, ma’am. I don’t believe he ever did.”
Robyn smiled slightly. “I thought you’d say that. No further questions.”
When she sat down, Quinn looked to Lannigan. “Any questions, counsel?”
Lannigan stood up and thanked the judge. Then he took that same awkward spot in the middle of everything.
“Detective Jackson,” he asked, “did you see Lindsey Fuller shoot Derrick Shanborn?”
Jackson shook his head. “No, sir.”
Lannigan nodded. “Thank you. No further questions.” And he returned to his seat.
Judge Quinn then looked back to Brunelle. “Any redirect examination?”
No way in hell, Brunelle thought. And he knew Quinn knew he was thinking that. “No, thank you, Your Honor.”
Quinn turned to Jackson and excused him, then she looked at the clock. As Jackson walked by the prosecution table, Brunelle kept his attention focused on the judge.
“We’re approaching the end of the court day, ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Quinn explained. “I’m going to adjourn us for the day. We will reconvene tomorrow morning for more witnesses from the state’s case.”
She then dismissed the jurors to the jury room and the lawyers from the courtroom. Brunelle was glad to have survived the day. They’d have a break of sorts as they next called a series of forensics and patrol officers who didn’t have anything controversial to say. Direct would be simple; cross would be limited. And then they’d hit their real test. Derrick Shanborn wasn’t the only snitch in the story.
Chapter 38
“The state calls Amanda Ashford to the stand,” Carlisle announced to the courtroom several days later.
In the spirit of partnership, Brunelle and Carlisle had split up the two ‘cooperating codefendants,’ i.e., snitches. Carlisle would do Ashford while Brunelle did Rittenberger. It wasn’t a girl-girl, boy-boy thing. It was that Rittenberger had more information and was more likely to go sideways, and Brunelle was still the lead attorney. The greater among equals. Or at least the one who would be blamed if things went wrong.
Brunelle fetched Ashford from the hallway as Carlisle set up her materials on the bar. She was a transcripts and binders kind of lawyer. Brunelle was more of the ‘I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere in one of the reports’ kind of lawyer. But he had presence, so that made up for a lot.
They’d told Ashford to dress conservatively. Apparently that meant a tiny white sweater over her skin-tight tank top and miniskirt. Welles was with her—he was getting paid, after all—and the two of them walked in together, but Welles took a seat in the front row of the gallery while Ashford stepped forward to be sworn in by the judge. When Brunelle looked back momentarily at Welles to make sure everything was okay, Welles gave him a far too obvious wink and nod. Brunelle ignored it, save a grimace the jury couldn’t see with his back to them. He faced forward again and gave his full attention to the Carlisle and Ashford show.
“Could you state your name for the record?” The usual beginning.
“Amanda Ashford,” came the reply. Her voice wasn’t quite too high, or too whispered, but it was close.
“How old are you?” Standard second question.
“Twenty.”
Brunelle nodded. Yeah, that seemed about right. He stifled the urge to glare at Hernandez.
“And how are you employed?” And a typical third question. Let the jury get to know the witness a little bit.
“Uh,” Ashford hesitated. “I’m not, really. Not exactly. I mean…” she looked around a bit nervously. “I waitress sometimes, but I get paid under the table.”
Brunelle nodded to himself. Always good to start off testimony with an admission of tax fraud. But in a strange way, it actually bolstered her credibility. They needed the jury to believe she was the type of person who would be in a drug dealer’s house when a snitch got murdered. Sunday school teachers and hospice nurses need not apply.
“Okay,” Carlisle responded. “And do you know any of the people in the courtroom today?”
Ashford nodded. “Yes.”
Carlisle was going to have to pull teeth, apparently. “And who would that be?”
Ashford listed the names, but didn’t look at any of them. “Lindsey and Nate,” she started. “And Sammy.”
“Anyone else?” Carlisle prodded.
Brunelle hoped she didn’t say, ‘My lawyer, Mr. Welles.’
“And Bur—uh, Elmer,” Ashford finished. “Mr. Hernandez.”
Understandable that she wouldn’t want to call him by his street name. And she never called him ‘Elmer,’ but knowing where this was going, the ‘Mr. Hernandez’ gave it a definite pedophile vibe.
“All right,” Carlisle interrupted before she did identify her lawyer, or Brunelle, or anyone else from the court system she’d encountered since the murder. That wasn’t what the jury was interested in. At least, it wasn’t what the prosecution was interested in. But there needed to be some additional identification beyond just first names and ‘Mr. Hernandez.’
“What’s Lindsey’s last name?” Carlisle asked. “And how do you know her?”
Ashford again didn’t look over at the defense tables. “Lindsey Fuller. I knew her and her boyfriend, Josh. We would hang out sometimes, I guess. At… Mr. Hernandez’s.”
Carlisle nodded. “And Nate? What’s his last name and how do you know him?”
“I think it’s Williams, or something like that.”
Close, Brunelle thought with a slight frown.
“Or Wilson. I don’t know. But he was a friend of Mr. Hernandez.”
“Okay,” Carlisle didn’t try to fix the name. One, it would have been impermissible leading of the witness to ask, ‘Wilkins, right?’ And two, it didn’t matter if she knew his exact name, just so long as the jury believed she was talking about the same Nate that was sitting in the courtroom. “What about Sammy? Do you know her full name?”
This is where it would start to get interesting. You might not know the name of the friend of the guy you’re sleeping with, but you’re gonna know the name of his long-time girlfriend.
“Yeah,” Ashford sneered. She didn’t even try to hide her disdain. “Sammy Keller. Samantha, I guess.”
“And how do you know her?”
Brunelle eagerly awaited the response. How do you describe the girlfriend of the man you’re fucking? That probably wasn’t covered in the typical etiquette handbook.
“She was…” Ashford started. Then she cast a disparaging glance at Samantha Keller. “She used to be Mr. Hernandez’s girlfriend. She lived with him, I guess.”
‘Used to be.’ Nice, Brunelle thought. Maybe even accurate since they were now housed in different parts of the King County Jail. But probably more like wishful thinking on Ash
ford’s part.
Carlisle hesitated, either as she processed the previous answer, or prepared for the next question. “And what about Mr. Hernandez? How did you know him?”
Ashford looked at Hernandez too, and smiled slightly. Brunelle didn’t turn to look, but he supposed Hernandez probably didn’t smile back. Ashford’s grin faded quickly and she looked down. “I dated him.”
“Dated?” Carlisle repeated. “Could you expand on that a little?”
‘Date’ was one of those words that could mean a lot of different things. Any more, people could regularly meet for sex but deny they were in a dating relationship. On the other hand, prostitutes and johns called their 20-minute encounters ‘dates.’ So, it was a good idea to clarify exactly what she meant by that.
“You want me to explain it?” Ashford asked. She narrowed her eyes at Hernandez, then at Keller. Then back to Carlisle. “He gave me drugs and I gave him sex.”
How romantic, Brunelle thought. Maybe Amanda could be the next Disney Princess. Crack-whore-ella.
Carlisle let the response sink in for a moment, then made sure the jury got it. “So he would supply you with drugs and in exchange you would perform sex acts on him?”
Ashford frowned. “I don’t know about ‘sex acts.’” She made air quotes with her hands. “But we would do it. And then he’d make sure I got what I needed.”
“And what did you need?” Carlisle followed up quickly.
“Heroin, mostly.” Ashford shrugged. “Maybe some crack, if that’s what he had. But I’m clean now,” she added hastily. “Eighteen days clean.”
Brunelle tried to be happy for her, but eighteen days was barely enough time to detox. Staying sober was going to be a monumental struggle. And it also meant she’d been using basically the entire time since she and Welles first met with him.
Carlisle nodded for a few moments. Enough with the defendants. There was one more person who wasn’t there, but still was. “And did you know Derrick Shanborn?”
Ashford raised an eyebrow, somehow making that gesture express indifference. “Derrick? Yeah, I guess I knew him too.”
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