Poetic Justice. Andrea J. Johnson
that awareness sobered me into submission.
I looked up to discover Stevenson had left his podium and struck a meditative pose in front of the jury box. He leaned one hand on the delicate oak rail, the other rested in the pocket of his slacks while he addressed his next set of questions into the ether.
“What happened then, Corporal?”
“I returned to the station to file a report and submit the materials to the evidence sergeant. He entered them into Troop Eleven’s log. The drug envelope would have stayed in our evidence locker to await pick up by the Controlled Substance Lab, but I got clearance to hand-deliver that item for testing.”
“You personally dropped off the drug evidence at the lab that same day?”
“Yes, sir. I was lucky enough to get there within four hours of arrest.”
“Was the envelope still sealed when you dropped it off?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did that evidence envelope ever leave your sight prior to arriving at the lab?”
“No, sir. The drug envelope stayed in my possession.”
For a moment, I struggled with the word “possession.” I couldn’t remember the brief. Was it POGS or POEGS? Not wanting to waste another nanosecond on debate, I wrote it out phonetically. I depressed the keys in three quick strokes, one chord of letters for each syllable. The movement gave me three lines of text, POE/SES/SOGS. I perked up my ears. The extra strokes had caused me to fall behind.
“Your Honor, I believe we’ve established chain of custody. I’d like to enter the drug envelope for identification.” Stevenson’s mouth spread into an obsequious smile meant to reassure the jury, but they looked as bored as I felt.
“Any objection, Mr. Harriston?” Ms. Freddie asked defense counsel.
My gaze followed her voice over to Beau Harriston, Trident County’s finest criminal defense attorney in private practice. He was sitting at counsel’s table with his shoes off and his eyes closed, hands pressed to his mouth as if in silent prayer. He responded with a loud grunt that caused his jowls to shake and waved a hand in the airspace above his receding hairline as if to say—get on with it.
I gritted my teeth. Harriston’s inconsiderate gesture and its implied meaning weren’t things I could officially capture with my steno machine. I fell even further behind while I debated the accuracy of writing “no objection,” as his reply, versus “shaking head in the negative” as a parenthetical for the unspoken implication. My dislike of the old defense attorney rose with every keystroke.
Mr. Stevenson handed the trial clerk a tan catalog envelope covered with writing on the front, lined along the left side with white masking tape, and sealed at the flap with neon blue tape. The clerk placed a thumbprint-sized sticker on the lower right-hand corner of the envelope and passed it back to the prosecutor.
Everyone leaned forward as the attorney placed the evidence in front of Corporal North, who thoroughly examined the package.
“Is this the envelope transported on the day of arrest?”
“Yes, sir. This bears my signature on the blue evidence tape, which is still intact. The case information is clearly visible and matches my notes. The only difference is this white tape, which I know from experience and can see from the words printed here…” the corporal pointed to the left edge of each envelope. “That’s the tape used by the Controlled Substance Lab to reseal the evidence after the chemist runs a test. Otherwise, the envelope is identical to the one I dropped at the lab.”
“To be clear, what did you put in that envelope on the day of the arrest?”
“A brick of cocaine weighing two point two five pounds.” Corporal North held up the envelope.
“Did you receive a copy of the chemist’s report confirming cocaine in the quantity noted?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And is this that report?” Stevenson handed the corporal three pages.
While the witness perused the document, I glanced at the computer-aided transcription program open on my laptop—otherwise known as CAT—to see if my usage of the steno machine’s numbering system had translated. I always used the number bar across the top of the steno keyboard during drug trials due to the constant references to milligrams, ounces, pounds, and dollars. My earlier use of 5/THOU/-DZ translated beautifully as $5,000. All the other numbers were garbage. Good thing I’d turned on my AudioSync microphone to catch inconsistencies.
As my attention drifted back to the trial, I caught Corporal North setting down the lab report with a nod of his head. Nothing more annoying than a witness who failed to speak up.
“Please respond verbally for the record.” My words slipped out as a murmur. A quiet moment of confidence between the two of us, carefully constructed to convey no emotion, but I couldn’t help but return the embarrassed grin he gave in response.
He was quickly becoming my favorite person in the courtroom.
“Yes, sir.” He peeked at me for approval. “This is a copy of the report from the Controlled Substance Lab confirming my observations.”
“And with the exception of the state chemist’s white tape,” said Stevenson, “has this item been tampered with in any way?”
“No, sir.”
“Your Honor, I ask the envelope be admitted as a numbered exhibit.” The prosecutor handed the package to the trial clerk.
“Any objection?” Ms. Freddie’s plump face peered over the bench at Harriston.
The arrogant defense attorney gave a noncommittal shrug, and she let out a slight growl. I could tell she wanted to admonish him for failing to respect the court.
“Admitted as State’s Exhibit One,” she bellowed. “Madam Clerk, mark the evidence and give it to Corporal North. You may expose the item for the jury.”
Once Corporal North received the envelope, he tugged at the blue tape and ripped it open. As his hands worked to remove the contents, I scanned his fingers for a wedding ring.
Desperate much? Stay focused.
I pried my attention away from the witness stand and fixated on the letters filling the steno machine’s view screen.
STKPWHR/SKPS/THAT/KOE/KAEUPB/-U/SAOEZ/-D/OPBT/DAEUT/-F/ARS
STPHO-FRPBLGTS/T-S/TPHOT
The word gage on the left showed 43,378 and counting. A green meter on the right, representing the machine’s battery life, flickered and faded to yellow—a clear sign we’d been in trial for about three hours.
Time for a break.
I tapped the touch screen so the view changed from shorthand to English with the hour illuminated underneath. My gaze sought Ms. Freddie’s. She’d told me to call out the time the moment I needed a break. I opened my mouth to do so but stopped short at the wide-eyed astonishment etched on her ebony skin.
Had I done something wrong? My breath grew shallow, and I dropped my attention back to the trusty steno screen, a source of strength when I needed to gather my wits, and reread the last Q&A my hands had transcribed without really hearing.
MR. STEVENSON: And is that the cocaine you seized on the date of arrest?
CORPORAL NORTH: No, sir, it is not.
Monday, November 2 – 11:08 a.m.
The whole courtroom had gone dead silent.
CHAPTER 2
The jurors’ jaws hung open. Maggie the clerk stood up from her desk at the front of the bench and craned her neck toward the witness. Stevenson, who’d been pacing, froze midstride so he looked like the silhouette on a crosswalk sign. Even Grace the bailiff dropped her guard, head