Part 34 (1/2)
”Yes.”
”You had seen Mr. Morgan and Mr. Smith within the previous hour, isn't that so?”
”Yes.”
”And you authenticated that report today, didn't you?”
”Yes.”
”That night, you described Mr. Morgan as black, isn't that so?” ”Yes.”
”And you did say he and Mr. Smith were young, didn't you?” ”Yes.”
”And you described what you believed he and Mr. Smith were wearing, isn't that so?”
”Yes.”
”And did you also describe Mr. Morgan as very tall?”
Neil was silent.
”Did you describe him,” I said, ”as merely tall?”
Again Neil didn't answer.
”Did you mention his height or size at all?”
Neil sighed.
I extended my hand with the manila folder. ”Show us in this report, if you will, where you mentioned-on the night of the murder, less than an hour after it happened-that the man whom you saw shoot your father and run away toward the beach was very tall or even tall.”
Neil didn't reach out for the folder.
”Isn't it a fact, Neil, that less than an hour after your father's murder, you didn't describe Darryl Morgan-the man who allegedly shot your father-as tall?”
”I remembered it, but-”
”No,” I interrupted sharply. ”I didn't ask you what you remembered. I asked you how you described him. Yes or no, please-isn't it a fact that an hour after your father's death, when you were asked to describe the man who shot him, you neglected to say he was tall? Yes or no!”
Neil looked to Judge Fleming for help, but none was forthcoming. ”If the police report is accurate,” Neil said, ”it would seem that I omitted that fact.”
I let that go.
”And yet,” I said, ”three months later, in the courtroom at the trial, you described him to me as ''very tall'-isn't that so?”
”Because by then I remembered.”
I waited, but Neil said nothing more. There was no jury to impress. There was only Judge Fleming. ”Quit while you're still ahead” was the best maxim for any cross-examiner-and the hardest one to follow.
So I started to turn away, but then stopped, scratched my head, looked indecisive. Sighed, as if I were tired of the whole business.
” ... There's just one more little thing,” I said. ”I nearly forgot it.” I shuffled through the papers in the folder I still held.
I came up with one page more of Neil's thirteen-year-old testimony in this same courtroom. I handed it to him and asked him to read it silently.
Neil did so. He looked up, a little puzzled.
”What you swore to thirteen years ago,” I said, ”is exactly what you swore to today, isn't it, Neil?”
”Yes, of course,” he replied.
”You heard a noise, something like an urn breaking-is that right?”
”Yes.”
”And your father got up from the backgammon table and went out to the terrace.”
”That's right.”
”Your mother followed him.”
”Yes.”
”You heard three shots.”
”Yes.”
”Not two shots, or four shots, or five shots?”
”No, three ... as best I recall.”
”Do you have any doubt as to the number?”
”Not really.”
”How long did it take, Neil, between the time you heard the shots and the time you reached the terrace and saw your father lying there on the floor?”
”Probably ten seconds.”
”You reached there just in time to see a black man, who we later learned was William Smith, make some movement with his hand toward your mother's face?”
”Yes.”
”No more shots were fired?”
”No.”