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Tina shook her head. “I dunno.”
Realizing that this dance could go on forever, I dropped the subject for the time being.
“You ever do drugs, Tina?”
“Naw,” she said, her head bowed.
“Ever drink?”
She shook her head, eyes glued to her lap.
“Look at me,” I said, putting some steel in my voice. “I get the distinct feeling you’re not being straight with me. If I’m going to be your lawyer, you gotta be straight with me.”
“That ain’t the way I heard it.”
“Then you heard wrong. When I ask you a question, I want to hear the truth. If it’s the ugly truth, so be it. But if you lie to me and I’m blindsided because of it, you’re not doing either of us any favors.” I paused to take a breath and looked at Tina, who still wouldn’t look back. “Now, gang or no gang, were you and your friends drinking or doing any drugs that night?”
“Ah-ight. We was getting a little high, yeah. But we just did some weed is all. Really.”
If that were true—and that was a big if—I could believe she hadn’t killed anyone that night. Unlike a drinker, a pot smoker was far more likely to steal a bag of Cheetos from a 7-Eleven than beat someone to death.
“And did anyone other than the girls and Rochelle’s mom see you there?”
She fidgeted in her chair. “Naw. They the only ones know where I was.”
“How about Rochelle’s neighbors? Did any of them see you or stop by while you were there?”
“I dunno. I don’t think so.”
Splendid. My client’s alibi could be backed by some friends, one of whom was the reputed head of a girl gang, and all of whom were stoned at the time and might have any number of reasons to lie for her. I made a mental note to verify Tina’s story with Rochelle’s mother. Tina had already lied to me about being at school and smoking pot. I figured on talking to Shanae’s neighbors, too, in case anyone saw or heard anything that night.
“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt to your mother?”
“I dunno.” She shrugged.
“Did she have any boyfriends?”
Tina’s mouth twisted into an ironic grin. “Little D weren’t exactly a boyfriend. He just a friend, but he’d come by a lot to see her.”
“What’s his name?”
“Little D.”
“Do you know his full name?”
“All I know is, Little D. He drive a sparkly green car with fancy wheels.”
“So . . . do you want to tell me anything else about that night before I go?”
“Naw,” she said, her eyes downcast.
“You never saw your mother that night?”
“No.” Her voice was firm, unequivocal. “I was keeping clear of her. I swear.”
“And you definitely didn’t kill her?” Even though she’d already answered, I had to ask again.
“No! I did not kill my own moms.” Her voice was harsh with indignation. Tears welled. She was either giving me an Oscar-worthy performance or she was just a confused and upset 13-year-old, being wrongfully held for the murder of her own mother.
