“Mr. Torrance, in the black community the word ‘nigger’ could mean different things, could it not?”

“ ’Spose.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“The defendant is African-American, correct?”

Torrance laughed.

“Looks like it to me.”

“As are you, correct, sir?”

Torrance started to laugh again.

“Since I was born,” he said.

The judge tapped his gavel once and looked at me.

“Mr. Haller, is this really necessary?”

“I apologize, Your Honor.”

“Please move on.”

“Mr. Torrance, when Mr. Woodson used that word, as you say he did, did it shock you?”

Torrance rubbed his chin as he thought about the question. Then he shook his head.

“Not really.”

“Why weren’t you shocked, Mr. Torrance?”

“I guess it’s ’cause I hear it all a’ time, man.”

“From other black men?”

“That’s right. I heard it from white folks, too.”

“Well, when fellow black men use that word, like you say Mr. Woodson did, who are they talking about?”

Vincent objected, saying that Torrance could not speak for what other men were talking about. Companioni sustained the objection and I took a moment to rework the path to the answer I wanted.

“Okay, Mr. Torrance,” I finally said. “Let’s talk only about you, then, okay? Do you use that word on occasion?”

“I think I have.”

“All right, and when you have used it, who were you refer-ring to?”

Torrance shrugged.

“Other fellas.”

“Other black men?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you ever on occasion referred to white men as niggers?”

Torrance shook his head.

“No.”

“Okay, so then, what did you take the meaning to be when Barnett Woodson described the two men who were dumped in the reservoir as niggers?”

Vincent moved in his seat, going through the body language of making an objection but not verbally following through with it. He must have known it would be useless. I had led Torrance down the path and he was mine.

Torrance answered the question.

“I took it that they were black and he killed ’em both.”

Now Vincent’s body language changed again. He sank a little bit in his seat because he knew his gamble in putting a jailhouse snitch on the witness stand had just come up snake eyes.

I looked up at Judge Companioni. He knew what was coming as well.

“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

“You may,” the judge said.

I walked to the witness stand and put the file down in front of Torrance. It was legal size, well worn and faded orange – a color used by county jailers to denote private legal documents that an inmate is authorized to possess.

“Okay, Mr. Torrance, I have placed before you a file in which Mr. Woodson keeps discovery documents provided to him in jail by his attorneys. I ask you once again if you recognize it.”

“I seen a lotta orange files in high-power. It don’t mean I seen that one.”

“You are saying you never saw Mr. Woodson with his file?”

“I don’t rightly remember.”

“Mr. Torrance, you were with Mr. Woodson in the same module for thirty-two days. You testified he confided in you and confessed to you. Are you saying you never saw him with that file?”

He didn’t answer at first. I had backed him into a no-win corner. I waited. If he continued to claim he had never seen the file, then his claim of a confession from Woodson would be suspect in the eyes of the jury. If he finally conceded that he was familiar with the file, then he opened a big door for me.

“What’m saying is that I seen him with his file but I never looked at what was in it.”

Bang. I had him.

“Then, I’ll ask you to open the file and inspect it.”

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.