August 7, Friday
THE PROSECUTION'S next witness walked in like a man who'd spent a career ducking through doorways built for smaller people.
Detective Jack Terry, Atlanta PD homicide, filled the witness stand.
Broad through the shoulders, a jaw that looked like it had absorbed a few punches over the years, and a gold wedding band that caught the fluorescent light when he raised his hand to be sworn in.
He had the kind of face that made you want to trust him and the kind of eyes—deep-set, faintly bruised beneath—that suggested he'd earned every line in it the hard way. Not handsome in the magazine sense. Handsome in the sense of a man who'd carried things and it showed.
I wondered, absurdly, what his wife was like.
Whether she waited up on nights or whether she'd learned long ago that waiting up didn't change what time he walked through the door.
I wondered if she still reached for him at three a.m. out of habit, or if the marriage had rearranged itself around his absences.
Being married to a cop seemed like its own kind of sequestration—love conducted mostly through the relief of a car pulling safely into the driveway.
Being married to a cop, I realized, required its own kind of bravery.
Lorna McDavid approached him with the brisk familiarity of two professionals who'd worked together before. "Detective Terry, please describe your role in the investigation of Horatio Alvarez's death."
"I was lead detective." His voice was low, unhurried, the voice of a man accustomed to rooms going quiet when he spoke.
"Alvarez was found in his vehicle in a parking structure off Peachtree.
Single gunshot, close range. No signs of forced entry to the vehicle, no signs of struggle, and his wallet was still in his pocket, with cash inside. "
"In your professional opinion, what did that indicate?"
"That whoever did it knew what they were doing. No struggle means the victim likely knew his killer or trusted them enough to be caught off guard. Clean shot, no wasted ammunition. No forensic evidence left behind. It had the hallmarks of a professional hit."
"And in the course of that investigation, did you identify a suspect?"
Terry's gaze moved, briefly and without apparent emotion, to the defense table. "Robert Blackthorne was our prime suspect. Alvarez had testified against an associate of Blackthorne's eighteen months prior. The theory was that Alvarez's death was retaliation."
I watched Blackthorne. He didn't flinch, didn't so much as shift his weight, just watched the detective with the flat patience of a man who'd heard this story told about him before and found it tiresome.
When Bryan Stone rose for cross-examination, he took his time, letting the silence stretch until it turned uncomfortable.
"Detective Terry. You named my client the prime suspect in this murder."
"That's correct."
"Was Mr. Blackthorne ever charged in connection with Mr. Alvarez's death?"
A pause. "No."
"Why not?"
Terry's jaw worked once before he answered. "He had an alibi. He was at a charity dinner in Charlotte the night of the murder. Multiple witnesses placed him there, and it was corroborated by hotel security footage and credit card records."
"So the alibi held up."
"It held up."
"Were there other suspects?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"I can't recall the precise number."
"More than ten?"
"Yes."
"More than twenty?"
A pause. "Yes."
"And no one was charged?"
"That's correct."
"Hm, it seems like pinning the murder on my client has more to do with the APD saving face than finding the right guy."
The prosecutor shot to her feet. "Objection, Your Honor."
"Sustained. The jury will disregard."
I'd heard that phrase so many times in courtroom dramas on TV. But now I realized firsthand how difficult it was to unhear something.
"No further questions," Stone said, then returned to his seat with the satisfaction of a man who'd gotten exactly what he wanted.
Detective Terry stepped down from the stand looking, if anything, more tired than when he'd climbed into it—a man carrying an unsolved case the way he probably carried everything, quietly, and alone.