Michael Connelly: The Brass Verdict

“And these alleged crimes took place during the riots, is that correct?”

With the anti-police climate permeating the city’s minority communities since even before the riots, I had fought during jury selection to get as many blacks and browns on the panel as I could. But here was a chance to work on the five white jurors the prosecution had been able to get by me. I wanted them to know that the man the prosecution was hanging so much of its case on was one of those responsible for the images they saw on their television sets back in May.

“Yeah, I was out there like everybody else,” Torrance answered. “Cops get away with too much in this town, you ask me.”

I nodded like I agreed.

“And your response to the injustice of the verdicts in the Rodney King beating case was to go out and rob a sixty-two-year-old woman and knock her unconscious with a steel trash can? Is that correct, sir?”

Torrance looked over at the prosecution table and then past Vincent to his own lawyer, sitting in the first row of the gallery. Whether or not they had earlier rehearsed a response to this question, his legal team couldn’t help Torrance now. He was on his own.

“I didn’t do that,” he finally said.

“You’re innocent of the crime you are charged with?”

“That’s right.”

“What about looting? You committed no crimes during the riots?”

After a pause and another glance at his attorney, Torrance said, “I take the fifth on that.”

As expected. I then took Torrance through a series of questions designed so that he had no choice but to incriminate himself or refuse to answer under the protections of the Fifth Amendment. Finally, after he took the nickel six times, the judge grew weary of the point being made over and over and prodded me back to the case at hand. I reluctantly complied.

“All right, enough about you, Mr. Torrance,” I said. “Let’s get back to you and Mr. Woodson. You knew the details of this double-murder case before you even met Mr. Woodson in lockup?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure? It got a lot of attention.”

“I been in jail, man.”

“They don’t have television or newspapers in jail?”

“I don’t read no papers and the module’s TV been broke since I got there. We made a fuss and they said they’d fix it but they ain’t fixed shit.”

The judge admonished Torrance to check his language and the witness apologized. I moved on.

“According to the jail’s records, Mr. Woodson arrived in the high-power module on the fifth of September and, according to the state’s discovery material, you contacted the prosecution on October second to report his alleged confession. Does that sound right to you?”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

“Well, not to me, Mr. Torrance. You are telling this jury that a man accused of a double murder and facing the possible death penalty confessed to a man he had known for less than four weeks?”

Torrance shrugged before answering.

“That’s what happened.”

“So you say. What will you get from the prosecution if Mr. Woodson is convicted of these crimes?”

“I don’t know. Nobody has promised me nothing.”

“With your prior record and the charges you currently face, you are looking at more than fifteen years in prison if you’re convicted, correct?”

“I don’t know about any of that.”

“You don’t?”

“No, sir. I let my lawyer handle all that.”

“He hasn’t told you that if you don’t do something about this, you might go to prison for a long, long time?”

“He hasn’t told me none of that.”

“I see. What have you asked the prosecutor for in exchange for your testimony?”

“Nothing. I don’t want nothing.”

“So then, you are testifying here because you believe it is your duty as a citizen, is that correct?”

The sarcasm in my voice was unmistakable.

“That’s right,” Torrance responded indignantly.

I held the thick file up over the lectern so he could see it.

“Do you recognize this file, Mr. Torrance?”

“No. Not that I recall, I don’t.”

“You sure you don’t remember seeing it in Mr. Woodson’s cell?”

“Never been in his cell.”

“Are you sure that you didn’t sneak in there and look through his discovery file while Mr. Woodson was in the dayroom or in the shower or maybe in court sometime?”

“No, I did not.”

“My client had many of the investigative documents relating to his prosecution in his cell. These contained several of the details you testified to this morning. You don’t think that is suspicious?”

Torrance shook his head.

“No. All I know is that he sat there at the table and told me what he’d done. He was feeling poorly about it and opened up to me. It ain’t my fault people open up to me.”

I nodded as if sympathetic to the burden Torrance carried as a man others confided in – especially when it came to double murders.

“Of course not, Mr. Torrance. Now, can you tell the jury exactly what he said to you? And don’t use the shorthand you used when Mr. Vincent was asking the questions. I want to hear exactly what my client told you. Give us his words, please.”

Torrance paused as if to probe his memory and compose his thoughts.

“Well,” he finally said, “we were sittin’ there, the both of us by ourselves, and he just started talkin’ about feelin’ bad about what he’d done. I asked him, ‘What’d you do?’ and he told me about that night he killed the two fellas and how he felt pretty rough about it.”

The truth is short. Lies are long. I wanted to get Torrance talking in long form, something Vincent had successfully avoided. Jailhouse snitches have something in common with all con men and professional liars. They seek to hide the con in misdirection and banter. They wrap cotton around their lies. But in all of that fluff you often find the key to revealing the big lie.

Vincent objected again, saying the witness had already answered the questions I was asking and I was simply badgering him at this point.

“Your Honor,” I responded, “this witness is putting a confession in my client’s mouth. As far as the defense is concerned, this is the case right here. The court would be remiss if it did not allow me to fully explore the content and context of such damaging testimony.”

Judge Companioni was nodding in agreement before I finished the last sentence. He overruled Vincent’s objection and told me to proceed. I turned my attention back to the witness and spoke with impatience in my voice.

“Mr. Torrance, you are still summarizing. You claim Mr. Woodson confessed to the murders. So then, tell the jury what he said to you. What were the exact words he said to you when he confessed to this crime?”

Torrance nodded as if he were just then realizing what I was asking for.

“The first thing he said to me was ‘Man, I feel bad.’ And I said, ‘For what, my brother?’ He said he kept thinking about those two guys. I didn’t know what he was talking about ’cause, like I said, I hadn’t heard nothin’ about the case, you know? So I said, ‘What two guys?’ and he said, ‘The two niggers I dumped in the reservoir.’ I asked what it was all about and he told me about blasting them both with a shorty and wrappin’ them up in chicken wire and such. He said, ‘I made one bad mistake’ and I asked him what it was. He said, ‘I shoulda taken a knife and opened up their bellies so they wouldn’t end up floatin’ to the top the way they did.’ And that was what he told me.”

In my peripheral vision I had seen Vincent flinch in the middle of Torrance’s long answer. And I knew why. I carefully moved in with the blade.