Free Motor City Shakedown by D. E. Johnson Page B

district attorney would end his case with a small detail, rather than with the eyewitness.
    Preston scurried up the aisle, nervously smoothing his pencil-thin mustache and his greased-back ginger-colored hair. He wore a tight black suit, a little too tight, with a white shirt, a winged collar, and a black tie. His puffy face was a little puffier than usual. That, and the dark rings under his eyes, indicated another night of hard drinking.
    The bailiff swore him in, and Higgins got right down to business. “Mr. Preston, how do you know the defendant?”
    Preston brushed something off the front of his jacket and looked up at Higgins. “We—my wife and I, that is—moved into the apartment across the hall from Mr. Anderson in June 1911. We saw him a few times in the hall, and he invited us over for dinner on August sixth of last year.”
    â€œWhen, that night, did you last see Mr. Anderson?”
    â€œWe had dinner and a couple of drinks. We left at nine thirty-two.” He turned to the judge. “I looked at the clock when we went back to our apartment. We have a large wall clock in the foyer. It was my grandmother’s. She—”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Preston,” Higgins said. “When did you next see Mr. Anderson?”
    â€œThe next morning. I was going to work early.”
    The next morning? I sat up, startled. I hadn’t seen Preston again until the night the police caught me. How could he have seen me?
    Preston looked at Judge Morton again. “I’m the Detroit Salt Mining Company’s head accountant. My department is busiest at the beginning of the month, so I make sure everyone is in the office by six A.M. I get there earlier, being the boss and all. Have to set the example, you know.”
    My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would explode.
    Higgins leaned against the rail, took a deep breath, and let it out while looking toward the window, seeming to savor the moment. After a few seconds, he turned to Preston again. “What time did you see him?”
    â€œIt was five thirteen A.M. I had just looked at my watch.”
    Higgins nodded and smiled. “And where did you see him?”
    â€œHe was entering his apartment via the fire escape.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    We resumed on Monday, this time with Mr. Sutton taking the offensive. For more than two weeks, he hammered away at the prosecution’s case. The albino man and the auburn-haired woman sat in the back of the gallery every day. I asked Mr. Sutton if he had any idea who the albino was. He didn’t, and I didn’t bother him about it given that he had a larger concern, namely keeping me out of prison. He worked methodically, recalling all the prosecution’s witnesses, including Maria Cansalvo. By the time he finished with her, I don’t think even she was sure she had seen me.
    Arthur Preston was another matter. His time fixation and the certainty with which he spoke made his testimony unshakable. The net impact was to verify every bit of the State’s evidence, because if Preston was right, the testimony of every other State’s witness made perfect sense.
    Sutton’s badgering had no effect on the jury other than to make them angry. They were clearly convinced I had murdered Moretti. By the time Sutton rested his case, I was as certain as I could be that I would spend the rest of my life in prison.
    Judge Morton pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “Gentlemen, I think we’ve had enough for today. We’ll listen to closing statements tomorrow morning.” He banged his gavel. “Court is adjourned.”
    When the judge left through a door in the front of the courtroom, I turned to speak with my father, but my eyes first rested on the albino, who was standing by the door, staring at me behind his little dark glasses. A broad grin was plastered across his face, teeth yellow against the pallor of his skin.
    *   *   *
    The judge