The motion for discovery was four pages long, typed on the library's public computer and printed for fifteen cents a page. Jesse had drafted it at midnight, cross-checking every citation against the Alabama Rules of Criminal Procedure, Rule 16. He folded it into his father's old leather portfolio and walked into the courthouse at eight the next morning, Theo trailing with the notebook.
Dana Whitfield met him in the corridor outside her office with a smile that had been sharpened for years in courtrooms.
"Well," she said. "The library lawyer. What can I do for you, young man?"
"I've filed a motion for discovery, Ms. Whitfield," Jesse said, offering the papers. "Pursuant to Rule 16. I'm requesting the photo array shown to Mrs. Finch, the DVR footage and its chain-of-custody log, the report on the ski mask recovered near the scene, the arrest report, and any exculpatory material under Brady."
She took the motion between two fingers like it might stain her. "You're not counsel of record yet, Jesse. Judge Pruitt granted you a hearing, not a license. I don't turn over my file to spectators."
"The motion is filed with the court," Jesse said evenly. "The hearing on my status is Thursday. Rule 16 doesn't require the state's permission. It requires the court's order, which I'm requesting."
"How precious," Whitfield said. "You memorized the rule numbers. Do you know what prosecutorial discretion is? It's me deciding that a high school senior doesn't get to rifle through a felony file because he read some books." She handed the motion back. "File whatever you like. I'll respond in my own time."
She walked away, heels clicking on the marble. Theo exhaled. "She's terrifying."
"She's stalling," Jesse said. "Write that down."
Theo wrote it, underlining it twice.
At the clerk's window, Miriam Poole was stamping filings with the rhythm of a woman who had done it for twenty years and still cared. She looked up, and her face softened.
"Jesse Cole. I heard about the arraignment. Half the courthouse is still talking about it."
"Mrs. Poole, I filed a discovery motion. Ms. Whitfield says she'll respond in her own time."
Miriam's stamp paused mid-air. "Mm." She glanced down the corridor, then slid a thin pamphlet across the counter. "Alabama pro se and next-friend filing guide. Page nine lists the response windows — the state gets fourteen days on a discovery motion unless the court shortens it. And page twelve has the form for a motion to compel, in case somebody's 'own time' runs a little long."
"Thank you," Jesse said.
"And Jesse —" She lowered her voice. "File your motions before ten in the morning. Judge Pruitt reads the morning stack himself. After ten, his law clerk triages, and things get... slower."
He filed the motion to shorten the response window at 9:40 a.m. By Thursday, Pruitt had ordered the state to produce discovery within seven days.
The file arrived the following Wednesday in a manila envelope that smelled of copier toner, sealed with evidence tape that Jesse slit with his house key. Jesse carried it to the library like it was made of glass and spread the contents across his usual table in the law section.
Six photographs, numbered, paper-clipped together. Andre's picture was third. Jesse studied the array for a long time. Five of the men were clean-shaven, light-skinned, smiling faintly. Andre's was a booking-style photo, unsmiling, darker than the rest — the only one who fit the description "dark-skinned male, early twenties." He wrote in his notebook: suggestive array — only photo matching description.
Next, the DVR footage log. Two pages. The robbery footage bore a timestamp: 10:18 p.m. Jesse frowned — Mrs. Finch had told police 11:52. Andre's time card showed him clocked in at Boone's until 11:40 p.m. If the stamp was right, Andre was under a car. If Finch was right, he had twelve minutes to cross town, rob a store, and vanish. Tight — but not impossible. Something about that timestamp didn't sit right. He kept reading.
The mask report was one page, and it made his pulse quicken. A black ski mask, recovered from a drainage ditch approximately two hundred yards from the QuickStop, the morning after the robbery. Collected by Deputy Banks. And at the bottom, under "Forensic Testing Requested," a single word: None.
Jesse sat back. No DNA test. On the single piece of physical evidence that could have touched the robber's skin, nobody had ordered a test.
Theo leaned over his shoulder. "That's good for us, right?"
"It's better than good," Jesse said quietly. "It's the whole case, waiting to fall over." He closed the notebook. "But first I need to see that footage with my own eyes. Something about that timestamp doesn't sit right."
Outside, the November wind rattled the library windows. Inside, the boy in the oversized suit was already three moves ahead.
Chapter 8: The Forty-Seven Minutes