Superposition Read Online Free PDF Page A

you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” The officer rattled it off like it was one multisyllable word.
    â€œI do,” Peyton said.
    Haviland advanced. “Officer Peyton, what is your profession?”
    â€œI’m an officer for the Media Police Department.”
    â€œHow many years have you been a police officer?”
    â€œEight years, give or take.”
    Next to me, Terry Sheppard slouched, apparently bored with the witness, and played with the end of his mustache. I figured it was a pose, meant to communicate to the jury a contempt for the witness, but I wasn’t sure. He did this all the time. He might actually be bored.
    â€œDo you remember where you were the evening of December second?” Haviland asked.
    â€œYes, I do. I was cruising the downtown Media area when I got a call from the dispatcher to Woodview Lane, possible armed assault,” Peyton said.
    â€œAnd you went to the scene as ordered?”
    â€œYes, I did.”
    â€œWere you the only one there?”
    â€œNo, my partner, Officer Jimenez, was in the car with me, also Officers Esposito and Ashford arrived on the scene in their car approximately five minutes after we did.”
    â€œAnd what did you find when you got there?”
    â€œWe found Mr. and Mrs. Kelley, the owners of the house, along with their three children. Mr. Kelley claimed Brian Vanderhall had discharged a firearm at his wife.”
    â€œWas there evidence of that?”
    â€œYes, sir. There was a bullet hole in the kitchen wall, and a shattered coffee mug with gunshot residue consistent with a firearm discharge about five feet away.”
    â€œAnd can you identify Mr. Kelley? Is he in the courtroom today?”
    â€œSure.” Peyton pointed at me. A lot of people were doing that today. “That’s him, right there.”
    â€œLet the court records show that the witness identified the defendant, Jacob Kelley,” Haviland said. “Thank you, Officer. How did Mr. Kelley seem to you?”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œHow did he seem to be feeling?” Haviland asked. “Was he happy, sad, angry, annoyed, amused?”
    â€œObjection!” Terry called out. He stressed the first syllable, as if this were the twentieth objection he’d made, and he was growing weary of the prosecutor’s games. “What is the relevance of this line of questioning to the murder?”
    â€œI’m trying to establish motive,” Haviland said. This incident occurred the day before, and is crucial for demonstrating the defendant’s state of mind.”
    â€œOverruled,” Judge Roswell said. “You may answer the question, Officer Peyton.”
    â€œHe was angry,” Peyton said. “Blazing mad. Some guy just took a shot at his wife. I’d be angry, too.”
    â€œAngry enough to kill?” Haviland asked.
    â€œObjection!” Terry said.
    But Haviland waved it away. “I withdraw the question,” he said.
    I was having trouble staying in my seat and listening to all this. My muscles kept clenching and unclenching, just like they used to do when I had to sit and listen to a scientist lie through his teeth about the worthlessness of some competing experiment in an attempt to raise the value of his own research. I felt so powerless: unable to explain, unable to speak up or do anything at all. All my life, I had hated that feeling of helplessness and vulnerability. I wasn’t sure how I was going to stand it for several days of trial.
    â€œWhat time did you come to the house?” Haviland asked.
    â€œAt 8:25 in the evening.”
    â€œHow can you be certain?”
    â€œThe time was recorded in my report of the incident, which I reviewed before coming here today.”
    Haviland reached under the prosecution table and pulled out a giant interactive whiteboard that showed a line with dates and times marked. A rectangle marked