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time did you get that call?”
    â€œIt was one twenty a.m.”
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œWhen I arrived at the address, the suspect came to the door covered in blood and pointing a gun at me. I had my gun pointed at him and told him to drop his weapon. Instead he rushed me, causing my gun to discharge. He hit me in the head with his gun, and I passed out. When I regained consciousness, I was on the bed with my hands tied to the bedposts. He was not in the room so I started trying to loosen the ties. When he came back, he climbed on the bed and unzipped his pants and said he intended to mess me up like the victim. I freed a hand and punched him. Luckily, I caught him off guard. He fell off the bed, hit his head on the nightstand, and knocked himself out. I finished freeing my hands, handcuffed him to some wall pipes, and called for backup.”
    â€œDid he rape you?”
    â€œNo.” The answer echoed in my ears.
    â€œTell the jury when and where you found Ms. Hodges.”
    â€œI looked around the house while I waited for backup. There was blood on the floor near the basement door off the kitchen. When I went into the basement, I found Candace Hodges’s body on the floor.”
    Gasps erupted from the audience into a continuous murmur. Again the judge slammed the gavel, this time threatening to clear the room if the audience did not remain quiet.
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œI checked her breathing . . .” I stumbled on my words for a moment. Images of Candace Hodges’s broken body flashed through my brain, before I forced myself back, readjusted, and continued. “She was cut up pretty badly. Her face was black and blue. She was naked. Her breasts were severed, and cuts went from her navel to her vaginal area.” I swallowed, trying to moisten my throat and mouth. “She’d also been shot in the head. Defensive wounds on her wrists and hands indicated she fought back hard.”
    â€œOfficer Mabley, do you usually go out to shootings without your partner?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhere was your partner the night in question?”
    â€œMy partner, Officer Laughton, was in Washington, D.C., on assignment.”
    â€œDo you know who it was that called you to the defendant’s address?”
    â€œNo. Like I said, I thought it was Officer Parker.”
    â€œWas it?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œCould it have been the defendant?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œDo you have any history with the defendant, Ms. Mabley?”
    â€œNo.” The answer flew from my lips. Maybe too fast. I had worked undercover in the Black Mafia when I first started on the force. Now I wondered why I had not met Jesse Boone then.
    Jesse Boone shifted in his seat, his eyes, bits of black onyx, drilled down on me.
    â€œThank you, Officer. I turn the witness over to the defense.”
    Boone’s attorney swaggered up to the witness box and stopped in front of me. My hands sweated. I wiped them on my skirt. I noticed Laughton sitting behind and to the left of the attorney table where Boone sat. A slight nod, and the upturn of the left side of his mouth, allowed me a resurgence of confidence. I readjusted.
    â€œOfficer Mabley, isn’t it true there are no universally accepted ‘quality assurance’ standards for firearms examination? That there are no objective criteria to govern what points of similarity or difference may be disregarded when evaluating whether a bullet or cartridge case came from a particular weapon? That my client is being held to your subjective judgment in making a match between the bullets that killed the victim and the gun found in my client’s home?”
    â€œObjection, Your Honor—” the DA asserted. A loud murmur from the audience challenged the judge’s gavel.
    Now my hands shook, though no one could see them. The witness box provided a veil of protection. I hated that Jesse Boone had me shaking as though I were a victim