Judge Pruitt cleared his throat. "The defense may call its next witness."
Jesse stood, and his voice did not shake at all. "The defense calls Harlan Boone."
Chapter 23: Boone's Auto at Midnight
Harlan Boone filled the witness stand the way he filled a room, a big man in his sixties with a clean work shirt buttoned to the throat and hands like split oak resting on the rail. He had the look of a man who had never hurried for anyone and did not intend to start in a courtroom. He nodded once to Andre as he passed the defense table, the smallest of greetings, and Andre sat a little straighter.
"Please state your name," Jesse said.
"Harlan Boone."
"Mr. Boone, what do you do?"
"Own Boone's Auto Repair, out on Mill Road. Thirty-one years."
"Do you know the defendant, Andre Cole?"
"I do. He works for me."
"How long has he worked for you?"
"Five years. Hired him to sweep the floors when he was eighteen. Now he does my transmissions."
Jesse walked to the defense table and picked up a single sheet of paper, creased from folding. "Mr. Boone, I'm showing you what's been marked as a defense exhibit. Do you recognize it?"
Boone held it at arm's length and squinted. "That's my work order. From the shop."
"From which night?"
"That Friday night in January. The night of the robbery."
"What job does it describe?"
"Transmission rebuild. Customer's pickup. Andre stayed late to finish it."
Jesse offered the paper to the court. "Your Honor, the defense offers the work order."
"No objection," Whitfield said quietly.
"Admitted," Pruitt said.
"What time is stamped on that work order, Mr. Boone?"
"Eleven-forty p.m."
"And whose signature is beneath the stamp?"
"Mine." Boone looked at the jury. "I signed it myself. He finished the job, I checked it, I signed it. Eleven-forty."
Jesse watched the forewoman write the time down. Eleven-forty. He had underlined it in his notes three times that morning, and now it was in her handwriting too.
Jesse picked up a second document. "Mr. Boone, the shop keeps a security log, does it not?"
"Alarm log. Every arm and disarm, time-stamped automatic."
"What does the log show for that night?"
"Shop armed at eleven forty-seven. I armed it myself, after the boy left."
"Mr. Boone, how long does it take to drive from your shop on Mill Road to the QuickStop on Highway 41?"
"Twenty minutes if the lights favor you," Boone said. "Twenty-five if they don't."
"The robbery occurred at eleven oh five."
"Then he couldn't have done it." Boone said it flatly, like a torque specification. "He was with me till eleven-forty — under my lift, where I could see him. He was there when it happened. That's the whole of it."
A couple of jurors smiled despite themselves. Even Pruitt's mouth twitched, though he covered it with his hand."
Jesse let the silence do its work. Then, gently: "Mr. Boone, why did you come here today?"
The big man shifted in the chair. For the first time, something moved behind the gruffness.
"Because that boy's got honest hands," Boone said. "Five years he's worked for me. Never shorted a customer a nickel. Never late when work was promised. Never lied to me, not once." He looked straight at Andre. "Somebody had to say it. So I said it."
In the gallery, Lena wept openly now, the tissue forgotten. In the jury box, the forewoman pressed her lips together and nodded, once, the way people nod at funerals.
Dana Whitfield rose. She looked tired, Jesse thought, in a way she had not looked tired before.
"Mr. Boone," she said. "You think a great deal of that boy."
"I do, ma'am."
"You'd do a great deal for him."
"I'd do a lot for him." Boone met her eyes. "Lying ain't one of those things. I don't lie for nobody, ma'am. That's why my word counts for something in this town."
Whitfield held his gaze a moment longer, and then she inclined her head, almost a bow. "No further questions."
She returned to her table and sat very still, her pen motionless beside her legal pad.
"Nothing further, Your Honor," Jesse said.
Boone stepped down from the stand and walked past the defense table, and as he passed Andre he cuffed the young man's shoulder with one heavy hand, the way a father does, and kept walking without looking back.
Jesse felt the alibi lock into place like a bolt sliding home. Twelve minutes. Twenty minutes. It was arithmetic now, and arithmetic does not lie.
Judge Pruitt looked at Jesse over his glasses. "Mr. Cole, does the defense rest?"