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I needed a working theory. Something that would convince the jury of another plausible suspect. The problem was that Emmanuel’s neighborhood was notoriously anti-police, and nobody who had any real information was actually talking. All I could do was ensure Emmanuel was prepared for trial.
I shuffled through my paperwork and got down to business. “We need to go over the questions again. I need your honest answers. Can you do that?”
He nodded.
“How well did you know Ariana Sanders?”
Emmanuel rubbed a hand over his face. “I already told you, I didn’t know her. She lived on my street, but we had never talked before that night. I just saw her drop her groceries, and I offered to help. That was it.”
“Tell me in your own words what happened that day.”
His eyes rolled up toward the ceiling as he recounted his story. “I picked up the bag and waited for her to open the door. I wasn’t going to go inside, but she told me it was cool. I walked into the kitchen, set the bag on the counter, and tried to leave. She thanked me and offered me a glass of water. It was hot out, and I was thirsty, so I took it. We talked for a couple of minutes and I left. That was it, I’m telling you.”
“So this twenty-three-year-old woman who lived alone and didn’t know you invited you into her apartment without any apparent concern?”
“Yes, man.” Emmanuel ground his teeth together. “We’ve been through this. Why are you asking me the same questions over and over?”
“Because that’s exactly what the prosecution will do, Emmanuel,” I answered. “And I will continue to ask them until I’m blue in the face if it means that your story never changes. That’s what they want. They are looking for ammunition. They want to nail you to the cross, and if you give them an opening to do that by losing your cool on the stand, they will prove their point. When you come off as having an easily provoked temper, they win.”
He was quiet while he digested my words. His eyes were heavy, and he looked remorseful for his behavior, but he couldn’t know just how much I got it. If he didn’t come out of this place having mental issues, then I would be worried.
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I just can’t believe this is really happening. I can’t believe I’m in here for murder.”
“I know. But you have to stay focused. I need one hundred percent of your attention on this trial. If you get bogged down in other possibilities, then we don’t stand a chance.”
“Okay,” he answered solemnly. “I get it. I’ll do whatever you say.”
I returned my attention to the questions I’d written, and for the next hour, we went over them in detail. Emmanuel answered them all to my satisfaction except for the one that mattered most. Who could he think of that might be responsible for Ariana’s murder?
I knew from his history that he wasn’t affiliated with any gangs or criminal organizations, but I suspected on some level he was too afraid to point fingers at anyone else. Not for himself but for his family who still lived on the street.
I stuffed my paperwork back into the briefcase and stood. Another visit to his mother’s house was on the agenda even though she refused to see me the last time. “Did you have a letter for your mom?”
He blinked and shook his head. “No, not yet. I’ve been trying to write it, but…”
“The words will come,” I assured him. “Give it time.”
He jerked his chin. “Thanks, Mr. West. I appreciate it.”
I half expected the office to be burned to the ground by the time I returned, but instead, I found Gypsy at Jessica’s desk, painting her nails.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
She snapped her bubblegum and gave me a bored expression. “Isn’t it obvious? Since I haven’t been able to get a manicure, I had no choice.”
“You’re supposed to be working.”
She shrugged. “This place is boring.”
“Welcome to having a job,” I told her. “Do I have any messages?”
She blew on her fingers. “I dunno.”
“You haven’t answered the phone?”
“What the hell am I supposed to say?” She glared. “I have no idea what I’m doing here.”
This was clearly something we needed to work on. Whenever Gypsy was out of her comfort zone, she resorted to acting like a self-indulgent brat. I needed to figure out that disconnect, but first, I had to address the issue of her punishment.
I walked around the desk and threw her nail polish into the trash, followed by the can of soda beside it.
“What are you doing?” she screeched. “I wasn’t finished.”
“In case I didn’t make it clear, this office is for work.” I grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge and set it on the desk in front of her.
