Bratt stepped closer to the witness and leaned aggressively closer.
“And just what are you selling us?”
“I’m telling it like it went down.”
“And we’re supposed to believe you?”
“It’s how it happened.”
“So you say. Why should we believe you?”
Now Paris looked flustered for the first time.
“I’m telling it like that other guy told you.”
“What other guy? The one who managed to survive your killing spree?”
“He’s got a name,” Bratt said, his voice rising. “Don’t you even know it?”
“They told me, but I forget. Anyway, I know he says it was Brando shot him.”
“So the only reason to believe you is because you’re repeating what Dorrell Phillips said?”
“I never said that’s the only reason.”
“So let me repeat my question: why should we believe you?”
“Why would I lie?”
“Why wouldn’t you lie? You hate Marlon Small and would love to see him dead. Twenty-five
years to life is pretty close to dead, isn’t it?”
Paris didn’t answer, but his constant sneer had begun to waver.
“You’re saving yourself fifteen years in jail,” Bratt continued. “Great for you, too bad for the guy
you hate, isn’t it?”
“I’m just lucky, I guess,” Paris’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
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