by Andrew Price
“I’ll do it. I deposed witnesses for my uncle when he was busy.” During law school, Corbin worked for his uncle’s law practice.
Beckett nodded his head. “Ok. Hit him with everything in the file, twist him around as much as you can. You need to shake him. I’ll play good cop when the time is right. Don’t worry about the rules of evidence or admissibility, he won’t know the difference, so I’ll let you get away with more than you could at trial.”
Returning to the visitation room, Corbin reviewed his notes as Beckett explained that Corbin would go over the prosecution’s case with Beaumont. Beckett would observe.
“You claim you’ve never been in First Regional Bank?” Corbin began.
“That’s what I said.”
“And you don’t have an account there either?”
“Of course not, I never been there,” Beaumont replied condescendingly.
“The prosecutor has a video that disagrees with you. It shows you in First Regional.”
“Let me see the video.”
“You’ll see the video at trial. I’ve seen it, and there’s no mistaking you,” Corbin lied. He’d only seen a description of the video at this point.
Beaumont glanced at Beckett. “This is all attorney-client shit, right?”
“Yes,” Beckett responded.
“You can’t tell nobody what I say?”
“No one.”
Beaumont folded his arms and returned his attention to Corbin. “I was there with a friend.”
“You’re alone on the video,” Corbin countered.
Beaumont shrugged.
“If you don’t have an account at the bank and you weren’t there with a friend, why were you there?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was it because you have a fake account there in some other name?”
“No.”
“So you just like hanging out at First Regional?” Corbin asked snidely. When Beaumont refused to answer, Corbin continued. “Do you have an account at Penn Bancorp?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember if you have an account there? You know that’s an easy one to look up?”
“I ain’t got no account.”
“Then what were you doing there?”
Beaumont again didn’t respond.
“Why were you at Penn Bancorp on June 14th?” Corbin pressed him.
“I don’t know, I forgot.”
Corbin laughed. “You forgot?”
“Yeah, I don’t remember. I’m not debatin’ wit’ chu.”
“Do you know what the manager says?”
“I don’t know no manager.”
Corbin flipped over several pages in his notepad. “That’s funny, she remembers you. She says you opened an account in the name of Scott Stevens.” Stevens worked with Corbin in the Washington office.
“I don’t know nothin’ about that.”
“Nothing?” Corbin asked with mock surprise.
“No, nothin’.”
“So you can’t refute her statement then.”
“I didn’t say that,” Beaumont blurted out. “You putting words in my mouth!”
“Where did the checkbooks and credit cards come from?”
“The cop planted them—”
“Which cop?” Corbin demanded even before Beaumont finished speaking.
“I don’t know, I didn’t see which cop,” Beaumont answered. He was becoming confused. Corbin had increased the pace of his questions, giving Beaumont less time to think. This was breaking down Beaumont’s prepared story.
“You told us earlier you watched him ‘drop the evidence’ before they hauled you to the cruiser.”
“So what?”
“So which is it? Did you see him ‘drop the evidence’ or did they do it after you left?”
“I saw ’em drop it.”
“Then which cop did it?”
“Man, I don’t know,” Beaumont replied angrily. He wiped the sweat from his brow against the upper part of his sleeve; the shackles kept him from lifting his hands to his head.
“Did they plant the gun as well?”
“Yeah, that ain’t my piece. I don’t own no piece.”
“Have you ever owned a gun?” Corbin increased the pace of his questioning again.
“Naw, man. I don’t need no gun.”
Corbin flipped to another page in his notes, and without missing a beat, asked: “Didn’t you make the same claim two years ago, that the cops planted a gun on you?”
“Yeah, ’cause they did.”
“And you made the same claim the year before that!”
When Beaumont didn’t respond, Beckett interrupted: “Beaumont, at trial, the judge will make you answer these questions.”
Beaumont shot an angry, doubtful look at Beckett. “I don’t got to answer nothin’. I got constitutional rights to remain silent.”
Beckett shook his head. “If you choose to testify, then you need to answer all questions. You can’t pick and choose which ones you want to answer.”
Beaumont visibly recoiled.
Corbin resumed his attack in the same aggressive manner as before. “What do you do for a living, Beaumont?”
“I make do,” Beaumont responded, as he glanced around the room.
“Where do you work?”
“What do you care?!”
“You sell drugs for a living, don’t you.”
“No.”
Corbin’s eyes bore into Beaumont’s. “You were arrested five years ago for selling crack cocaine.”
“Man, they arrested me, but I didn’t do nothing.”
“When they arrested you, they found $4,200 on you.”
“That ain’t no crime.”
“Those dollars were in fact marked, correct?”
“How would I know?”
Corbin reached for the file. “I have in this file, the sworn testimony of two officers, who state the money found in your possession had been marked as part of a drug sales sting.”
“Look, man,” Beaumont said, sitting up straight and trying to point at the file, though his shackles prevented him from raising his hands more than a couple inches from his lap. “I had nothing to do with that! That was some of my boys. They running low on cash. They owed their street tax. So, they sold a little dark idol. Ain’t no crack. They give me some money I was owed, that’s it. The cops try to make me part of some conspiracy, but that ain’t true.”
“‘Dark idol’?” Corbin asked.
“Heroin! Man, where you from?!”
“Do your friends normally give you the proceeds when they sell heroin?”
“Naw, he owed me money. I sold him a car.”
“I thought you said it was ‘street tax.’”
“No, it was a car.”
“What make and model?” Corbin demanded immediately.
“I don’t remember.”
“We can look that up at the DMV,” Corbin said in a tone that told Beaumont he could disprove Beaumont’s lie. “Car sales get registered, unlike guns,” Corbin added, trying to lead Beaumont to his next mistake. Beaumont took the bait.
“That’s what I meant, a gun.”
“I thought you’ve never owned a gun.”
“Fuck, I don’t remember what the money was for. The cops dropped the charges. That means it didn’t happen.”
Corbin shook his head at Beaumont. “What was the name of your friend?”
“Farrouk. . . Farrouk Winslow.”
“Was he the only one?”
Beaumont remained silent.
“I can look up the arrest record if I need to.”
“David Carson. He gave me money too, and they busted him too.”
Corbin flipped through his notes before beginning again. “Do you know a CarrieFey Benz, aka ‘Santa Fey’?”
“What about her?” Beaumont asked suspiciously.
“She called the cops on you, didn’t she? She told them you sold crack to her son. He was twelve at the
time.”
“Shit, she’s the crackhead.”
“And when the son didn’t pay, you beat him with a lead pipe while two of your friends held him down.”
Once again, Beaumont remained silent.
“So why does a big man like you need help to hold down a twelve year old kid?”
“I don’t need nobody to hold down no twelve year old!” Beaumont blurted out before catching himself. He turned to Beckett. “Look, that never happened,” he explained to Beckett, ignoring Corbin’s stare. “If I would’a beat a twelve year old kid with a lead pipe, he’d be dead. That woman, she used to deal, but she did her own product. When she did it, she did a lot. That’s why they call her Santa Fey? Cause Fey make it snow like Christmas.”
“If she was the dealer, why did she call the cops on you?” Corbin countered.
Beaumont turned to face Corbin again. “’Cause she got in trouble with child services. That woman was in serious need of a exorcism. She smacked her kid around, and they want to take the kid away. So she blamed me.”
“And the bruises on the child—”
“Was caused by her.”
“She vanished without a trace after calling the cops,” Corbin said in a calmer tone that implied less doubt about Beaumont’s tale.
“She disappear when her old man come looking for her. Left the kids and everything.” Beaumont matched Corbin’s calmer tone.
“Who is the old man?” Corbin asked, continuing to soften his tone.
“Don’t know, she used to call him Methadone Man, said he had an occasional girlfriend called Crystal, and that made him crazy.”
“He was on methadone or crystal meth?” Beckett interrupted.
“He done both.”
“She never gave you a real name for Methadone Man?” Corbin asked.
“Said his name was Roy, that’s all I know.”
“Do you know where we can find Roy?”
Beaumont smirked. “Roy got sentenced by Judge Colt and his jury of six. Shame too, right after he busted his paper.”
“Busted his—?”
“Finished his parole. Then the fool got hisself shot,” Beaumont explained.
“Who killed him?”
“I don’t know, we weren’t that close.”
“Do you know where he was killed?” Corbin asked.
“I ain’t got no idea. I never heard nothin’ about it.”
“Did they ever arrest anyone for it?”
“I said, I don’t know.”
“Where is David Carson today?” Corbin asked.
Beaumont froze for a second. “I don’t know.”
“Isn’t he in prison in Tennessee?” Corbin asked, pulling a court record from Tennessee from the file. It indicated that David Carson was convicted of the murder of Roy Jackson and an unidentified woman during, what Carson claimed, was a drug deal gone wrong.
“How would I know?!” he blurted out, stumbling over the words. He looked shocked.
“You said he was your friend.”
“No, I said he owed me money!”
“Do you know the name of the child services agent?”
“The what?!” Beaumont asked, completely surprised.
“What was the name of the child services agent who investigated CarrieFey?” Corbin sharpened his tone.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s easy enough to find out.” Corbin wrote something on his legal pad.
Beaumont’s face flushed. “They ain’t gonna remember,” he stammered.
“Child services keeps a record of all investigations,” Corbin said matter-of-factly, as he nonchalantly flipped through his notes.
“She might’a been lying.”
Corbin looked up. “Excuse me?!”
“When she said she was being investigated, she could’a been lying.”
“Let’s move on,” Corbin said, frowning and shaking his head. He paused to look at his notes, letting Beaumont sweat. It took about five seconds for Beaumont to break.
“Hold on, hold on! If that bitch lie to me, I don’t want you thinkin’ I did nothin’.”
“Are you telling me you want to change your story?” Corbin feigned surprise.
Beaumont looked around nervously, but remained silent. He bit his lip. Corbin took advantage of Beaumont’s nervousness to press harder.
“Tell me about Letricia Gittner.”
“What about her?”
“Oh, I don’t know. . . tell me why you raped her and killed her?”
Beaumont almost jumped out of his chair, but the shackles yanked him back down. “I ain’t never raped nobody, and I didn’t kill her!”
“Then I take it you didn’t shoot your girlfriend Mona Hampton either?”
“I ain’t never shot or raped nobody!”
Corbin laughed. “Do you know your accent changes when you get angry?”
“Fuck you, man!”
Beckett started to interrupt, but Corbin cut him off. “Ok, you didn’t kill her. Tell me what happened?”
“What do you want to know?!” Beaumont barked.
“Do you deny being at the scene?”
“No.”
“Then tell us what happened. It’s a simple question.” Corbin stared unwaveringly into Beaumont’s eyes.
Beaumont breathed heavily. Sweat visibly soaked his shirt. His eyes shifted around the room. “I got a text. It was Letricia. Me and her been going at it behind my girl Mona’s back. Letricia tells me, she wants $10,000 or she’s gonna tell Mona. I agreed to meet her.” Beaumont paused, waiting to see if Corbin would interrupt; he didn’t. “When I get there, she tells me she don’t care about the money, she just wants me.”
“Was Mona present?” Beckett asked.
“No. Not at first.” Beaumont eased back into his chair and relaxed his shoulders. “I start thinking, I can keep a good thin’ going. So I start talkin’ to her like we still lovers. Soon we’re gettin’ down.”
“Where did you do it?” Corbin asked.
“Right there on the floor.”
“Not on the bed?”
“Naw, she’s freaky like that.” Beaumont glanced at Beckett before continuing. “When I’m getting dressed, Mona shows up. She’s pissed. She read the text and she followed me. She’s got a gun. . . big fuckin’ cannon. She starts rantin’ and shit. Next thing I know, she puts the gun to Letricia’s head and pulls the trigger. Bam! I’m across the room, but I get covered in blood and shit. I’m thinking, ‘Fuck, this bitch gonna do me next,’ so I doved behind the television.” He glanced at Beckett again.
“And?” Corbin prodded him.
“Next thing I know she starts screamin’ and cryin’. I look up and see her blow her own brains out.”
“Mona shot Letricia and then turned the gun on herself?” Corbin repeated skeptically.
“It’s true man.”
“And what did you do next?”
“I ran like a motherfucker. Man, I know the cops. They were gonna pin this on me, so I took off.”
“Where did you run?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did the police find you?”
“At home.”
“So you went straight home?”
“I don’t remember, it was all a blur.”
“Was Letricia sitting or standing when she was shot?”
“I don’t remember.”
Corbin took a deep breath. He pursed his lips and visibly ran his tongue over his teeth. He wanted Beaumont to know he didn’t believe Beaumont’s story. “A moment ago, you remembered every detail of everything that happened vividly. Now you’re telling me you don’t remember basic details from the critical moment, the moment that should be eternally seared into your brain?”
“Standing!” Beaumont blurted out. “She was standing. I was sittin’ on the couch behind her.”
“Other than the shooting, was there any fighting?”
“No, nobody touched nobody.”
“Did you ever touch the gun?�
�
“No.”
“Did you ever touch Mona?”
“No, man.”
Corbin closed his file and stared directly into Beaumont’s eyes. “Your index finger print was found on the trigger guard. Tell me how it got there.”
“I think we’ve gone far enough today,” Beckett suddenly interjected.
Corbin and Beaumont both looked at Beckett with surprise.
Beckett started collecting papers from the table. “We’re going to investigate what you’ve told us. Do you have any questions?”
Beaumont looked at Beckett suspiciously, then he looked at Corbin who still stared at Beckett. “No man, I don’t got no questions. When you comin’ back?”
“We’ll be back in about a week. We’ll talk about preparing a defense then.” Beckett shoved the last of the papers into the file folder. He rose. “Hang tight Beaumont, we’ll be in touch.”
Outside at the bus stop, a safe distance from the jail, Corbin spoke for the first time. “What the hell was that? Five more minutes and—”
“. . . and you would have proven he killed two women. I know. But as an attorney, I can’t let him lie. So the less I know the better. That’s why I had to stop you. Plus, you did what you had to.”
“I could have broken him.”
“You did break him, he just doesn’t know it yet. Let the memory of what happened in there sink in. He’ll be in a panic by the end of the week. It’s better to let this eat at him, than it is to break him on the spot and let him have the week to save his pride. Fear is strongest as a motivator before you know how things are going to turn out. It diminishes once the deed is done and all you have to do is suffer to consequences. Let him sweat.”
Corbin sat in the hotel chair with his feet resting on the bed and his cell phone against his ear. The room was cold and dark. He was tired from the long day, but Alvarez insisted on going over the entire day in detail.
“This guy sounds like a real turd,” opined Alvarez.
“He is.” Corbin rubbed his eyes.
“I can’t believe Beckett is willing to go down to save him. I mean, maybe I could understand if he was just some guy, but this guy deserves whatever he gets.”