Juror #3(64)

“You have not. Ask the witness a question, Ms. Bozarth.”

“Doctor, was ejaculate found in the deceased’s body?” I raised my brow, as if I didn’t know the answer.

“It was not.” His hands squeezed his knees. “That’s not dispositive, you know. If a man wears a condom.”

I cut him off. “Thank you, sir. And from your extensive review of police reports in this case, you are no doubt aware that no one observed the defendant engage in a sex act with the deceased. Correct?”

“Objection. Hearsay,” Keet was saying, but the doctor talked over him, saying, “I observed tears around the anal opening of the deceased.”

Now it was time to walk over to the jury box and lean on the railing. “Can you clinically tie those tears on the body of the deceased to my client, Mr. Lee Greene?”

“No. No, ma’am, I can’t.”

“Doctor, are you aware that professional call girls often entertain multiple clients over the course of an evening?”

Keet sprang from his chair, objecting that my question was outside the scope of testimony. He was right; it was. But I’d made my point.

With a triumphant nod, I picked up my papers. “No further questions.”

Lee’s eyes were approving as I slid into my seat. “Progress,” he whispered.

I didn’t have a moment to gloat. The DA had called his next witness, the Vicksburg police officer who had collected evidence at the scene of the crime.

Keet walked him through the crime scene. The officer described my client and the dead woman, naked in bed; the collection of hair from the hotel sheets, matching that of Lee Greene; the strewn clothing, his and hers, that was bagged and tagged; and Monae Prince’s purse and the contents thereof.

Keet offered the various exhibits into evidence: clothes, bedding, hair samples, purse, contents.

“No objection,” I said.

Keet’s brows raised, and he gave me a look of mild surprise. “Your witness.”

I walked over to Keet’s counsel table and picked through the exhibits until I found what I was looking for: a Mississippi driver’s license with a picture of the deceased. Strolling to the witness stand with a hint of a swagger, I handed the license to the witness.

“Officer Lake, I’m handing you State’s Exhibit Twenty-two. Can you identify it, sir?”

He glanced down. “It’s Monae Prince’s driver’s license.”

“And where was her license found?”

“In her wallet, inside her purse.” He pointed at Keet’s table. “It’s the brown handbag over there, with that fringe on it, I think you ladies call it.”

Sexist. But I kept my voice polite. “And this is the license upon which you based your determination of her identity?”

A shade of confusion crossed his face. “Yes, ma’am, her license.” He turned to the jury and said, “We never could locate next of kin.”

“May I?” I extended my hand, and he returned the exhibit. I studied it and said, “Monae Prince, date of birth: September 6, 2000.”

He shrugged, “If that’s what it says. I didn’t commit it to memory.”

“So Monae was seventeen years old at the time of her death.”

“Yes, ma’am, that much I know for certain. She was only seventeen.”

I walked back to my table, where Lee held out a piece of paper. I took it from him and made a show of reading it, shaking my head.

My star witness, the Vicksburg vice cop, was dead. But he’d left a little treasure in my possession before he died.

I gave the paper to the court reporter, keeping my game face intact as she placed a sticker on it.

“Officer Lake, I hand you what has been marked for identification as Defendant’s Exhibit One. Could you tell the jury what it is?”

“It’s a printed copy of the license. Monae Prince’s Mississippi driver’s license. But the original was in her purse.”

He attempted to return the sheet of paper. I took a step away from him.

“Is it identical to the state’s exhibit?”

He looked at the paper again. “Monae Prince. Same photo.”

“And the date of birth?”

As he bent over my exhibit, I saw a wave of color wash up his neck. “The date of birth is different. Well, date’s the same, but the year says 1994.” He glanced up. “But it’s just a printed copy.”

“That’s true.” In my hand, I held the plastic license, the state’s exhibit; I returned it to him. “How long have you served in law enforcement?”

“Fourteen years.”

“That’s a long time.” I shot the DA a look, and was tickled to see that he was poised on the edge of his seat. “I’ll bet you can tell the difference between a real license and a fake ID. Tell the jury, Officer Lake: in your expert opinion, which license looks legitimate to you?”

He spent long moments studying the two exhibits. A muscle twitched in his cheek. I was gambling that he wouldn’t lie under oath.

And I was right. With an apologetic glance at Keet, the officer said, “The state’s exhibit appears to be fake.”

I snatched up the plastic driver’s license and held it high for the jury’s benefit. “This one is fake?”