State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller by R. Barri Flowers

the watch to give to his old lady, when he needed to cover his
ass.
    Manuel made his way up to Broadway and
Eleventh Street. There he ran into his friend Carlos Valenzuela.
They used to hang, till he went solo. Carlos was about his height
and build, but darker in complexion with a thin mustache and
goatee.
    The two shook hands and Manuel gave Carlos a
brief hug.
    “What’s up, man?” asked Carlos.
    “Nothing much,” Manuel shrugged. “Just
hangin’ out with my old lady.”
    Carlos laughed. “Right,” he scoffed.
“Remember, man, you talkin’ to Carlos.”
    Manuel laughed, too. “So maybe I met this
white bitch and we had ourselves a little party.”
    “What kind of party?”
    “The kind where she gives me everything I
want.”
    “And what does she get in return?”
    Manuel laughed again, and grabbed his crotch,
getting turned on in the process. “Complete satisfaction.”
    The two had a good chuckle.
    “You seen our white amigo ‘round, man?”
Carlos asked.
    “Naw,” Manuel muttered, knowing he was
referring to a white drug dealer. “Ain’t seen ‘em. That dude is
crazy.” He didn’t care to elaborate.
    “Yeah,” grinned Carlos. “If you run into the
crazy bastard, tell him we can do some business—”
    Manuel nodded aloofly. “You got anything on
you now, man?” he asked, feeling he needed a quick high.
    Carlos darted eyes both ways, then rubbed his
nose. “How much you want?”
    Manuel took two of the three hundred out of
his pocket and stuffed it in Carlos’s hand. “Two bills’ worth.”
    Carlos stuffed the money in his shirt pocket,
then turned his back to the street and removed a tiny packet of
crack. He passed it to him. “Little something extra in there, man,
cause we’re cool.”
    “Thanks, man.” Manuel put the crack away. “I
gotta run.”
    “Same here,” Carlos said. “Don’t use all that
at once. But if you do, you know where to find me.”
    That he did. Manuel shook his hand again and
they went in opposite directions.
    Once home he got out his pipe and smoked most
of the crack, making him high and horny.
    He thought about the white bitch and what a
good time he had with her. It made him imagine having more good
times ahead with other bitches.
     

CHAPTER TWELVE
     
    Maxine Crawford stood nervously at the window
as the lineup of men stared straight ahead as if they could see
her. But Detective O’Dell and the attorneys from the D.A.’s office,
Grant Nunez and Beverly Mendoza, assured her that they could not
see through the glass.
    Still, Maxine was uncomfortable observing
them, like animals in the zoo. Yet the one who had killed Sheldon
and assaulted her was little more than an animal. He deserved
whatever fate he had coming to him now that the bastard had
shattered her life forever.
    Maxine thought back to the mug shots the
detective had her look at. She had chosen the man who most closely
resembled the one that lived in her deepest nightmares. But how
could she be sure? What if she had chosen the wrong man?
    What if I choose the wrong one now?
    Or a different man from one in the mug shot.
Would that work against her in bringing him to justice?
    Maxine studied the faces, as if her life
depended on recognizing the one who had raped her and killed
Sheldon. And, in many ways, she supposed it did.
    “Take your time,” Beverly said to her, aware
how difficult it must be to have to identify the man you believe
sexually attacked you and shot to death your husband. There would
always be doubts, wouldn’t there? And there was the pressure of
people like her who wanted Maxine to make their job easier by
making a positive identification of the perpetrator. There could be
no room for error.
    She truly believed that the system ultimately
worked, if given the chance.
    At the same time, Beverly knew that cases
were often made or broken at this stage of the process. She
scrutinized the lineup, which included three Hispanic men and two
Caucasian men with dark complexions. All