“Ok, Bernard. You know I want to talk to you about the night the Phillips boys and a drug dealer
named Indian were shot, late last summer down in Little Burgundy. It was in an apartment on Carrier
Street. According to the reports of gunfire by the neighbors, the shooting took place at approximately
11:25 p.m. Can you tell me where you were that night?”
Clayton’s tone of voice was flat and disinterested. He sounded like he was reciting a boring
script.
“I was with Brando and Ash at the park in LaSalle, shooting hoops. Brando drove us home
around midnight, so he was nowhere near Little Burgundy when the guys got shot.”
“Fine. Now what makes you say you left the park around midnight?”
Clayton’s expressionless face displayed the slightest hint of confusion.
“What you mean?”
“Well, you said that Brando, Marlon that is, drove you home around midnight. How do you know
what the time was?”
Clayton shrugged. “’Cause that was the time.”
Bratt took a small breath and decided to start again. He knew that for some witnesses certain
facts, such as time and place, were so self-evident that questioning them made the witnesses feel
defensive, as if they thought they were being tricked. Clayton’s new expression of wariness let him
know that such was the case now.
“I’m sure that you’re right about the time. It’s just that in court you may be asked how you knew
what the time was. So, I want you to be ready to answer that question. Now, can you tell me why you
think you left the park around midnight.”
“’Cause it takes me twenty minutes to get home and I got home around twenty after midnight.”
“Excellent. Now, why do you say you got home at twenty past midnight?”
“I know what time I got home.”
“I’m sure you do. I just want to know why you say that it was twenty past midnight.”
“’Cause that was the fuckin’ time, man!”
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