The state called Deputy First Class Nolan Frye at nine o'clock on a morning so cold the courthouse radiators clanged like a junkyard band.
Jesse had been waiting for Frye. The young man rose from counsel table in his father's charcoal suit — the cuffs still a quarter inch past his wrists, the shoulders still swallowing him — and set two manila folders on the lectern with the care of a boy handling dynamite.
Whitfield's direct was brisk. Frye had worked the impound detail. On the morning of January fourteenth, at six forty, he had seized a gray 2012 Toyota Camry from Andre Cole's apartment parking lot on Mill Street. He had photographed it, tested its lights, and driven it to the county lot. The sedan matched the general description of the getaway car: gray, four-door, midsize.
"Thank you, Deputy," Whitfield said. "Your witness, counselor."
In the gallery, Theo uncapped his pen.
Jesse buttoned his father's jacket. "Deputy Frye, before you seized that Camry, had anyone in the sheriff's office received a photograph of the actual getaway car?"
Frye blinked. "Sir?"
"A photograph. Taken by a bystander. On the night of the robbery."
"I believe Deputy Banks got one, yes. From a man fueling across the highway."
"Harlan Wicks," Jesse said.
"Objection," Whitfield said, half rising. "The witness has no personal knowledge—"
"Your Honor," Jesse said, "Deputy Frye has testified he is familiar with the case file. I am asking what the file contains."
Pruitt peered over his glasses. "He may answer whether he has seen the photograph."
"I've seen it," Frye said.
Jesse opened the first folder. "I offer Defense Exhibit Twenty-One. A photograph received by the Redstone County Sheriff's Office on the night of January thirteenth, sent by Harlan Wicks from the fuel island across Highway 41 from the QuickStop."
Whitfield was on her feet. "Objection, Your Honor. No foundation, no authentication. This witness neither took the photograph nor received it, and whatever Mr. Wicks said when he sent it is hearsay."
The courtroom went still. Lena Cole folded her hands in her lap. In the back row, Silas Grant did not move, but his eyes rested on Jesse the way a teacher's eyes rest on a student at a recital.
Jesse did not raise his voice. "Your Honor, the photograph is not hearsay — it depicts; it asserts nothing. Deputy Frye can authenticate it as the image preserved in the sheriff's file as the photograph received from Mr. Wicks that night, and the defense will call Mr. Wicks himself if the Court requires it."
Pruitt looked at Whitfield. "Ms. Whitfield, do you dispute that this image came from Mr. Wicks?"
Whitfield hesitated. "The State does not dispute the image's origin, Your Honor. We dispute—"
"Then the foundation objection is overruled," Pruitt said. "The exhibit is admitted. Mr. Cole, proceed."
Theo wrote fast in his notebook.
On the courtroom's display screen, the jury saw a grainy phone image: a gray sedan pulling onto Highway 41, its right taillight a red smear — its left taillight dark.
"Deputy Frye, please describe the left rear of that vehicle."
"The left taillight is out. Dark."
"Thank you." Jesse opened the second folder. "Now, Deputy — your own photographs, taken at six forty that morning, when you seized my brother's Camry."
"I offer Defense Exhibit Twenty-Two," Jesse said. "Photographs taken by this witness."
"Objection," Whitfield said. "Relevance. The condition of the vehicle the next morning proves nothing about the night before. A taillight bulb can be changed in four minutes with a screwdriver."
"Ms. Whitfield," Pruitt said, "that is argument for the jury, not a ground for exclusion. Overruled."
The screen changed: a gray Camry in dawn light, then the rear of the car, both taillights burning bright red.
"You tested the lights at the scene, Deputy. Did both taillights work?"
"Yes."
"At six forty — nine hours after the robbery."
"Yes."
"And the Camry stayed under police control until these photographs were logged?"
"Yes."
"So no one could have changed a bulb between your test and this photograph."
"No."
Jesse let the image stay on the screen. "The State's theory is that Andre Cole drove the getaway sedan. The only photograph of the getaway sedan shows its left taillight out — and the State's own photographs show Andre Cole's Camry with both taillights burning nine hours later."
"Objection—" Whitfield began.
"Withdrawn," Jesse said mildly, and the jury laughed — one short, surprised breath. Even Pruitt's mouth twitched.
Deputy Frye, one last question. Did your report note anything about the Camry's taillights being recently replaced — new bulbs, tool marks, anything at all?
Frye shook his head. "No. There was nothing like that."
"No further questions."
As Jesse sat, Andre leaned close, his voice rough. "You just beat her with her own deputy's camera."
Theo's pen scratched across the page: a taillight killed the car theory.