Judge Morrison studied him for a moment. "I'll allow it, but make your point quickly, Mr. Williams."
Marcus opened the folder with deliberate care. "Fifteen arrests, Officer Williams. Fifteen young Black men, all between the ages of sixteen and twenty, all arrested within two blocks of Mr. Davis's store. Is that correct?"
"I patrol that area regularly," Officer Williams said. "It's a high-crime neighborhood."
"And in how many of those fifteen cases did you use identical language in your reports?"
Officer Williams's jaw tightened. "I don't understand the question."
Marcus handed copies of the reports to the clerk and asked that they be distributed to the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, you will see that the suspect descriptions, witness statements, and sequence of events are virtually identical across twelve different cases spanning three years. Entire paragraphs were copied and pasted. Only the names and dates changed."
The jurors compared the pages. Their expressions shifted from curiosity to alarm as they recognized the repeated wording.
Marcus turned back to the witness. "Did you actually investigate these crimes, Officer Williams, or did you fill out a template with a different defendant's name each time?"
"I resent the implication," the officer replied.
"Then explain how twelve different suspects in twelve different robberies all paced nervously outside the store, approached from the east, wore dark clothing, and fled in exactly the same direction."
Officer Williams was sweating now, his uniform collar damp despite the cool courtroom. "Criminals tend to follow patterns."
"So do fraudulent reports," Marcus said.
Richardson objected, but the judge allowed Marcus to continue.
Marcus lifted a new set of documents. "Officer Williams, are you aware that Mr. Davis filed insurance claims totaling forty-seven thousand dollars for merchandise allegedly stolen in these cases?"
"I don't handle insurance matters."
"Are you aware that your police reports supplied the documentation Mr. Davis needed to collect those payments?"
"That's not my responsibility."
Marcus walked to his briefcase and removed the final packet. Officer Williams gripped the arms of the witness chair as soon as he saw it.
"Officer Williams, I would like to enter bank records showing monthly payments of five hundred dollars from Jimmy Davis to your personal checking account over the past three years. The payments total eighteen thousand dollars and are labeled 'security consulting.' What services did you provide for that money?"
The courtroom erupted in shocked voices. Judge Morrison struck his gavel repeatedly while reporters wrote furiously and spectators turned toward one another in disbelief. Richardson rose and objected, but the records had already been displayed and the damage was done.
Officer Williams sat frozen. His mouth opened, then closed. "I—I can't. Those payments were legitimate."
"For what services?" Marcus asked.
"Security advice."
"What advice specifically?"
The silence stretched for nearly half a minute. Finally, Officer Williams lowered his eyes and said, "I want to speak to my attorney."
The courtroom buzzed with tension as Judge Morrison called for order. Officer Williams slumped in the witness chair, his twenty-year career dissolving in front of the jury. At the prosecution table, Richardson shuffled papers as if an answer might be hidden among them.
Marcus stood at the defense table, no longer the frightened teenager who had entered the courtroom days earlier. "Your Honor, I move for immediate dismissal of all charges based on fabricated evidence, witness misconduct, and prosecutorial misconduct."
Judge Morrison removed his glasses and cleaned them slowly, a habit developed over thirty-five years on the bench. When he looked up, the dismissive expression he had worn at the beginning of the case was gone.