Chapter 19 - Trial
Trial started fourteen months after shooting.
Tyler was eighteen.
He walked into federal courthouse with two forearm crutches.
Not because he could not take steps without.
Because long distances hurt and stability mattered.
The courthouse where I worked was county, trial in federal district city forty miles away.
Reporters filled steps.
I wore suit.
Not uniform.
Barnes looked smaller without badge.
Still arrogant.
Government case built slow.
Noah.
Video.
Bell.
Howard.
Marjorie.
Rowe.
Traffic camera.
Hardware store camera.
Knife chain.
Database searches.
Phone call recording.
My report.
Door controller.
Donnelly.
Dr. Patel.
Tyler.
When Tyler took stand, room went silent.
He described filming.
Phone.
Hands.
First shot.
Falling.
Barnes approaching.
Words.
Second shot.
Defense asked:
“You were angry at Sheriff Barnes because he demanded phone?”
“No.”
“You refused command.”
“At first I asked why.”
“You did not immediately comply.”
“No.”
“You held phone.”
“Yes.”
“Could Sheriff see your other hand?”
“I think.”
“You think.”
“Yes.”
“You were frightened?”
“Yes.”
“Memory under trauma can be imperfect?”
“Yes.”
Good answer.
“Your father is trained military operator?”
Tyler looked at me.
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you what to remember?”
“No.”
“Did you discuss case?”
“He told me not to.”
That helped.
Then lawyer:
“You hate Sheriff Barnes?”
Tyler paused.
“Yes.”
No lie.
“Want him punished?”
“Yes.”
“Want jury to convict?”
“Yes.”
Prosecutor on redirect:
“Does wanting conviction change whether you had knife?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did you reach for waistband?”
“No.”
“What did you drop?”
“My phone.”
“Before or after first shot?”
“Before.”
“Why remember?”
“Because I watched it hit pavement.”
Then:
“What did Sheriff say before second?”
Tyler’s voice shook.
“This is for report. Tell your janitor father to stop cleaning where he doesn’t belong.”
May you like
Barnes looked away.
First time.
