Page 4 of Fish in a Barrel

“So you didn’t call the police because you were afraid of what they’d do?” Ellery asked.

“Yes.”

Ellery pulled a folder from his desk that featured eight-by-ten photos that Jackson had taken when they’d managed to bail Ezekiel out of jail.

“Is this what you were afraid of?” he asked.

Arturo’s voice broke. “Yes.”

Between the time Effie Kleinman had seen Ezekiel sitting on the sidewalk and Arturo had gone to the jail with Jackson and Ellery to post his bail, Ezekiel had been badly beaten. His face was puffy—one eye swollen almost completely shut—and his jaw had been broken as well. He’d lost two teeth, and there were bruises on his neck and shoulders that showed clearly the outline of hard-soled boots.

Not the soft-soled crocs given to prisoners.

“Objection?” Brentwood asked, looking at Arizona Brooks.

“Of course I object to seeing a man badly beaten,” Arizona said smoothly. “And so should you.”

“But the pictures are irrelevant,” Judge Brentwood protested.

“To why the defendant had a legitimate fear of the police?” Arizona responded. “No, sir, I think they speak very clearly as to why the defendant and his caregiver didn’t ask the police for help. It is not your place to object. It’s mine. And I don’t. I think the defense should continue on.”

Brentwood gaped for a moment before looking at Ellery in confusion.

“Mr. Cramer,” he said, gesturing vaguely.

“Thank you, sir,” Ellery said smoothly, but Jackson could see that Ellery was as boggled as he was. Arizona Brooks was a topflight attorney. Much of the testimony, including the damning pictures that spoke to a painful beating at the hands of the authorities, should have been a tooth-and-nail fight to get admitted.

Arizona was doing everything but leaning back and taking a nap. In fact she was going one better. She was actually putting on her hip waders and helping Ellery cut through the bullshit.

Jackson wondered why. He wanted to excuse himself to go make a phone call or two, but he’d promised both Effie and Arturo he’d be there for the two of them. Effie was sitting next to him now, clenching his knee with stress.

Jackson patted her hand until she let go with a sheepish look, and together they watched as Ellery finished with Arturo’s testimony and turned Arturo over to Arizona.

She looked at Arturo reluctantly and continued to give him a very mild cross-examination. Toward the end, she paused and took a deep breath, as though fortifying herself.

“Now, Mr. Cramer showed us pictures of the defendant, and he looked in bad shape. Did you ever, at any time, see one of the officers seated behind me lay a finger on Ezekiel?”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t see it happen.”

“Then why would we assume that the police are responsible for the bruises?”

“Because when I asked Ezekiel what happened, he said it was ‘the bad policemen,’” Arturo said, not backing down.

“But I thought Mr. Halliday couldn’t talk!” Arizona was feigning surprise—and not bothering to hide it.

“It’s difficult to understand him,” Arturo told her. “But not impossible. He knows who to be afraid of.”

Arizona nodded slowly. “Good,” she said. “It’s good somebody does. No more questions for this witness.”

The judge looked at the clock. “It’s getting close to quitting time. Let’s resume testimony tomorrow, 9:00 a.m. sharp.”

“All rise!” intoned the bailiff, and Brentwood exited the courtroom, followed by the jury.

Arizona didn’t look at them as she packed her briefs into her briefcase and turned to speak to the officers who had been ready to be called as witnesses. The conversation didn’t appear to be going well.

The officer in charge, wearing his full blues, hat tucked under his arm, was doing his best to use his six-foot-plus height to loom over Arizona’s five eight or so.

True to the woman Jackson and Ellery knew, she sent him a killing look.