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photo from an arrest about a year ago, and the guy had been beefier, solid. Ward was living proof that a shot in the gut was a great weight loss program.
    The jurors focused their attention on the witness as he entered the courtroom in his orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of him and chained to his slim waist. He limped across the floor, his shackled feet shuffling along, six inches at a time. What the jurors couldn’t see was that he had a colostomy bag under the jumpsuit, courtesy of the bullet that had ripped through his abdominal cavity. He was lucky to be alive.
    Tracy Ward had been easy to locate for today’s testimony, since he was serving a jail sentence for a probation violation. He was one unlucky bastard. Not only did he get shot, but he was out past his court-ordered curfew when it happened. The curfew violation triggered a probation surrender that landed him back in jail.
    Ward’s attitude was pretty typical for a gang-related shooting victim. He hadn’t been overly cooperative with Connie and Mark Greene during their informal sit-down in one of the interview rooms. Connie was hoping to have more luck getting him to talk once he had him under oath, on the witness stand, in front of the grand jury.
    Connie signaled to Greene that it was okay to leave Ward on the witness stand. The detective stepped out of the room, leaving only Connie, the witness, the twenty-four-person jury and the court reporter—no judge, no defense lawyers, not in the grand jury. Connie stood and approached the witness.
    “Please raise your right hand, sir.”
    Ward reluctantly raised his hand a couple of inches above his waist, as high as he could, his cuffed left hand trailing close behind.
    “Do you swear that your testimony before this grand jury shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
    “There is no God.”
    Great. This was not going to be easy. “Fine, then do you affirm that your testimony shall be the truth and nothing but the truth?”
    Ward nodded.
    “I’m sorry, sir, but I need you to verbalize all your answers so that the stenographer can record your testimony.”
    “Yes.”
    “Thank you. Now, could you state your name for the record, spelling your last name?”
    “Fuck You. Last name is spelled Y-O-U.” Then Ward laughed.
    “That’s very funny, sir. I’m going to ask you one more time, then we’ll be going upstairs to see a judge who will hold you in contempt for not answering my questions. Do you know what will happen if the judge finds you in contempt?”
    “Yeah. Absolutely nothing. What are you going to do, send me back to jail? I’ve been in the hole for two months now. You can’t do shit to me.”
    “Please state your name for the record.”
    “I already did. Fuck Y-O-U.”
    Connie walked over and opened the door. “Detective, can you get him out of here? Just take him back to the interview room. I want to talk with him before we go to see the judge.”
    Ward, looking sickly in his baggy orange jumpsuit, said, “Sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance to your investigation, Mr. DA. I already told you, I ain’t no snitch. But thanks for bringing me to court anyway. It was nice to get out of the hole for the day.” He let out another burst of laughter as the door closed behind him.

CHAPTER 8
    A lves maneuvered through the parking lot pocked with mortar -sized divots, the result of decades of poorly repaired potholes. He went in the rear entrance of the bakery and scanned the shop. Half the crowd had their newspapers held so high he couldn’t make out their faces. He went to the counter and ordered a coffee before walking over to the man at the corner table.
    “Anyone sitting here?” Alves asked.
    “Yeah,” the man said.
    “You sure?”
    “I’m sure.”
    Alves took the seat across from him. “Good morning, Sarge.”
    “Morning, Angel.” Wayne Mooney folded his newspaper and placed it on the table. “To what do I owe this