"Yes, ma'am."
Now Davien glanced at Santana. The accused was biting his shadow of a mustache.
"Did you see his face?" the prosecutor asked.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Can you look around the court and see if the person is here?"
Davien did not hesitate.
"Yes, ma'am," Davien said. "He is sitting next to his lawyer in a collared shirt."
"How confident were you that he was the person?"
"One hundred percent."
Not long afterward, Santana's public defender stood. Davien had once imagined himself looking just like that lawyer: a black man standing tall in an elegant suit.
What was the name of your uncle's former gang? the lawyer asked.
Davien frowned. "I don't recall."
"You don't recall what gang?"
The prosecutor objected. The judge overruled her. Davien had to answer the question.
"He was a Crip," Davien said.
Jurors shifted in their seats. Davien feared they were souring on him. They didn't know how hard he had tried to live right.
They think I got shot for a reason.
::
At 3:50 p.m. on Feb. 2, after six hours of deliberation, a buzzer sounded signaling a verdict.
The bailiff brought Santana into the courtroom. His mother bowed her head and grasped the hand of her other son, praying in a whisper of Spanish: "Let it be just."
