Due Process (Joe Dillard #9)(62)

“How much did Mr. Dillard pay you for that recording?” he said.

I started to object, but I knew the answer so I kept my mouth shut.

“He didn’t pay me anything. The young woman over there, Miss Story, she was the one who found me and asked if I’d taped anything at the party. I showed it to her and she asked if they could make a copy.”

“Has the tape we’ve just seen been altered in any way from the copy you gave Miss Story?”

“No, sir. It’s exactly the same.”

“Are you positive?”

“Objection,” I said. “Argumentative. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Armstrong.”

“How long after you recorded this did you leave the party?” Armstrong said.

“About five minutes. It got pretty rowdy in the front yard for a few minutes and I was afraid the police would come. So my boyfriend and I left.”

“So you have no way of knowing whether Miss Self, the dancer, returned later on, do you?”

“Objection,” I said. “There’s no foundation for the question. Their entire narrative has been that she was raped at the party and now he’s trying to say she may have returned and been raped later? She was in a police car an hour later and then went to the hospital. That’s all documented. I object.”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

“That’s all I have,” Armstrong said, and he sat down.

“Next witness, Mr. Dillard,” Judge Neese said.

“We call Bret Marshall,” I said.

Marshall, who was Bo Riddle’s partner at the Johnson City Police Department for a very short time, walked into court wearing a brown suit over a white button-down shirt. He was just a kid, maybe twenty-five, with light brown hair cut very short, clean shaven, and green eyes. “State your name, please,” I said.

“Bret David Marshall.”

“Mr. Marshall, you were an investigator with the Johnson City Police Department when my client was initially interviewed there, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“But you don’t work there anymore, do you?”

“No, I resigned about a month after your client was interviewed.”

“And why did you resign?”

“Because I knew I was going to break what is called the Blue Wall of Silence, and once I did that, I knew I’d be ostracized within the department. I’d eventually be forced out, and I wouldn’t be able to find work at another police agency.”

“Would you explain the Blue Wall of Silence you just mentioned?”

“It’s an unwritten code among police officers—an understanding—that you do not rat out another officer even if he’s done something illegal.”

“And do you plan to testify that you witnessed illegal behavior on the part of another officer?”

“I do.”

“Which officer is that, Mr. Marshall?”

“Investigator Bo Riddle.”

“And what did Investigator Riddle do that was illegal?”

“He assaulted your client, for starters, by kneeing him in the testicles, and then he brought the alleged victim in and conducted a totally ridiculous photo lineup with her. He coached her into picking the three players who have been charged.”

“Did you witness this lineup?”

“In a manner of speaking. I set up a pinhole camera, microphone and transmitter in the interview room where I knew he was going to conduct the lineup. I watched it on my phone in my car while it was going on. Once I saw what he’d done, that’s when I knew I’d have to quit.”

“And where is this recording you made now?”

“I believe you have a copy. I have a copy.”

“Did you provide one to the chief of police or the district attorney?”

“I did not.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t say anything to the chief because I knew I was leaving and I didn’t want to put him in the middle. He’s a good man. I didn’t provide anything to the district attorney because I knew he wouldn’t want it. He’d already made up his mind he was prosecuting this case no matter what. I’d heard conversations between him and Investigator Riddle.”

“Objection!” Armstrong said. “How can he know what was in my mind?”

“Sustained,” Judge Neese said.

“So instead of blowing the whistle, you just quit the police force.”

“I did both. I quit the force and gave a copy of the tape to your representative.”

“Right, and we’re about to play it.”

“I object to this,” Armstrong said. “I haven’t had a chance to see it.”

“Again, a copy of the tape was in the material I provided to Mr. Armstrong when I filed this motion,” I said. “And again, he obviously didn’t watch it.”

“Overruled,” Judge Neese said. “Let’s see what you have, Mr. Dillard.”

For the next several minutes, everyone in the courtroom sat in stunned silence while the oversized monitor on the wall broadcasted the photo lineup in which Investigator Riddle pointed out which players he wanted Shelia Self to choose and then coached her into saying she was one hundred percent certain that the players she’d chosen from the lineup were the same players who dragged her into a bathroom and raped her. I looked over at Armstrong when the tape was almost finished. His face had taken on an odd shade of pink, and a drop of sweat had formed at his right temple.