In the back row, Silas Grant smiled for the first time all week.
Chapter 17: The Deputy's Notes
Deputy Sheriff Cole Banks took the stand at ten fifteen, and the courtroom seemed to hold its breath.
Banks was a big man with a graying mustache and twenty-two years on the badge. He had arrested Andre Cole at dawn on January fourteenth. Everyone in Laurel Fork knew him; he coached Little League and carried groceries for old women. He was not a villain. That was what made the next hour so hard to watch.
Whitfield's direct was careful and short. Banks described the tip: a caller, voice disguised, saying the QuickStop robber drove a gray Camry and worked at Boone's Auto Repair. He described the photo array, Mrs. Finch's identification, the arrest. He did not look at Jesse. He looked at the jury, hoping they would understand.
"Your witness," Whitfield said.
Jesse rose. He did not pick up a folder. He walked to the lectern empty-handed, and something in that — no papers, no weapon — made Banks sit straighter.
"Deputy Banks," Jesse said, "you are an honest officer."
"Objection," Whitfield said. "Leading—"
"I am allowed to lead on cross, Your Honor," Jesse said gently.
"Overruled," Pruitt said.
"You are an honest officer," Jesse repeated, "and I want the jury to hear honest answers. The tip that started this case — did the caller give a name?"
"No."
"A phone number?"
"No."
"Did you ever learn who it was?"
"No."
"So the investigation of my brother for armed robbery began with a voice on the telephone that nobody ever identified."
Banks was quiet a moment. "Yes."
"The caller said the robber drove a gray Camry and worked at Boone's Auto. Did you go to Boone's Auto that night to check whether Andre Cole was there?"
"No."
"Did you pull his timecards?"
"No."
"Did you speak to his employer?"
Banks's jaw worked. "No."
"Deputy, Andre Cole clocked in at Boone's Auto at seven that morning and clocked out at eleven forty at night. The robbery happened at eleven oh five. Those records existed on the night you arrested him. You never looked at them."
"I did not."
A juror in the second row — a woman with a librarian's glasses — wrote something down without looking at her pad.
Jesse took one step closer. "Instead, at four in the morning, you went to my brother's apartment and took him from his bed."
"That is correct."
"And you questioned him for six hours."
"Yes."
"Six hours, Deputy. Was he given food?"
"He was offered—"
"Was he given water?"
"Yes."
"Was he allowed to call our mother?"
Banks looked down at his hands. "Not during the interview."
"Our mother, Deputy. Lena Cole. She was three miles away, working a night shift in a hospital cafeteria, and her twenty-three-year-old son was in an interrogation room for six hours, and nobody told her."
The courtroom was silent. Lena Cole sat with her back straight, her hands folded, her eyes dry. She had cried all her tears in January.
"Deputy Banks," Jesse said, and his voice was almost kind, "when you finally released him that morning — before the warrant came through — did you drive to Boone's Auto then? Did you check the alibi then?"
"No."
"Did you ever check it? At any point before trial?"
A long pause. "No."
"Did you ever compare the taillight in Mr. Wicks's photograph to the taillights on the Camry you seized?"
"No."
Jesse let the silence stand. Then: "Deputy, you are a good officer. The jury can see that. So I want them to hear it from you. Did you rush this investigation?"
Whitfield stood. "Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative."
Pruitt studied Banks's face. Then he said, quietly, "The witness may answer."
Banks looked at Jesse for the first time. His eyes were wet.
"Yes," he said. "I rushed it. I had a tip and an ID and I thought that was enough. It was not enough. I am sorry."
Nobody moved. Theo had stopped writing. In the back row, Silas Grant closed his eyes.
Jesse nodded once. "Thank you, Deputy. No further questions."
Whitfield's redirect lasted ninety seconds. She got Banks to say he had followed departmental procedure, that the photo array had been administered fairly, that he had acted in good faith. Her voice was tight.
On recross, Jesse asked one question.
"Deputy Banks, if you had driven to Boone's Auto on the night of January thirteenth and looked at the timecards — would my brother be sitting at that table today?"
"Objection!" Whitfield cried. "Calls for speculation!"
"Sustained," Pruitt said.
Jesse did not argue. He simply looked at the jury, then at Banks, and said, "Withdrawn," and sat down.
As Banks stepped down from the stand, he paused beside the defense table. Very quietly, so only Andre could hear, he said, "Son, I hope you can forgive me."