Free Sweet Violet and a Time for Love by Leslie J. Sherrod Page B

evidence you have, Ms. Deen, but I am being one hundred percent honest in saying that I did not know any of the victims. I spoke to Ms. Marta during a routine call related to a hospital matter. I called the women’s shelter in an effort to assist a patient I was charged with that night.”
    Even from several benches away, I could see Leon’s eyes flutter in agitation. He didn’t want me to say anything further. No purpose would be served other than to stir up confusion. The killer, who had piles of evidence against him, was already on trial. No need to throw in a monkey wrench on a case the prosecution fully expected to win.
    Last year my gut feelings had helped me uncover a terrorist who wasn’t even on the government’s radar. I swallowed over the large, heavy lump in my throat.
    That was a different situation. My gut was pretty certain. What I felt now was more of a question, and not firm enough of a question to bring up that dancing old woman and my unfounded suspicions about her.
    Leon and I had an anniversary trip to take before our baby was born. Today needed to be my last day of testimony so that the case could move forward and I could board our plane to Florida.
    â€œCan you share more about the conversation you had with Ms. Marta? What exactly was said?”
    â€œObjection.” Those words sounded sweet coming from Alisa Billy. She was already on her feet at the prosecution desk. “This line of questioning has nothing to do with anything. Our witness, Ms. St. James, is not the one on trial. Delmon Frank is. Whether or not Ms. St. James had any interactions with the victims is irrelevant.”
    The judge and the jury and the cameras turned back to the defense team.
    â€œYour Honor,” Shanay Deen spoke slowly, and with a smile, “if I can establish that Ms. St. James is not fully and/or accurately disclosing her relationship to any of the victims, then all of her testimony, whether as an expert witness or an eyewitness, will need to be questioned. And if questioned, then, I would argue, her testimony would need to be thrown out.”
    â€œYour Honor,” Alisa was not done, “Ms. St. James is a social worker. Within the normal realm of her tasks and duties, it is very possible that she could have interacted with the victims in the past. All of them have connections to the issues and matters Ms. St. James addresses within her profession.”
    I felt like I was watching a Ping-Pong match, and was happy to see the lively back and forth between attorneys, until I realized that the ball was now back in my corner.
    Seemed like the whole world was looking at me again. Had I missed something?
    â€œMs. St. James Sienna,” Shanay Deen was asking me, “to be clear for the record, is it your testimony that you do not want to disclose whether you may have had any interaction with any of the victims, in or outside of your professional tasks and role?”
    â€œI did not personally know any of the victims.” It wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t known any of them personally, though I had some form of interaction with two of them just before their deaths.
    The second victim’s face flashed in my memory and I winced. The pain, the desperation, the wild look in her eyes; I owed it to all three murder victims to share whatever information I had to the court, but to offer any testimony about Sweet Violet, a woman whose identity I wasn’t fully sure of and whose whereabouts remained continually unknown, would only add confusion. She really may have had nothing to do with the three deaths. To bring her up would be disastrous.
    Delmon Frank stared at me from the defense’s table.
    Past life lessons had taught me not to bring up a matter unless and until I had enough details to keep a story standing.
    And I had no details except the broken recollections of a woman who roamed the streets. Oh, and that pocket watch I would later discover.
    â€œI did not know