understood them. Then they went
through a series of questions employed at the start of interviews with juveniles. These were designed to elicit his knowledge
of right and wrong. Once that was established, Winslow became fair game.
For his part, Winslow fell victim to ego and the oldest flaw in the human book. He thought he could outsmart them. He thought
he could talk his way out of it and maybe pick up some inside information about their investigation. So he readily agreed
to talk to them—what innocent kid wouldn’t?—and they played him like a three-string bass guitar.
Dum-de-dum-de-dumb.
Getting every implausible explanation and outright lie on record.
I breezed through the first two hundred pages, skipping page after page of Winslow’s denials of knowing anything or seeing
anything pertaining to Denise Babbit’s murder. Then, in very casual conversation, the detectives turned the questions toward
Winslow’s whereabouts on the night in question, obviously trying to get either facts or lies on the record, because either
way they would be helpful to the case—a fact was a marker that could help them navigate through the interview; a lie could
be used like a club on Winslow when revealed.
Winslow told them that he was at home sleeping and his “moms”—Wanda Sessums—could vouch for him. He continually denied any
knowledge of Denise Babbit, repeatedly rejected knowing her or anything about her abduction and murder. He held up like a
rock, but then on page 305 the detectives started lying to him and setting traps.
W ALKER : That’s not going to work, Alonzo. You gotta give us something here. You can’t just sit there and say no, no, no, I don’t
know anything, and expect to walk out of here. We know you know something. I mean, we know it, son.
W INSLOW : You don’t know shit. I ain’t ever seen that girl you been talking about.
W ALKER : Really? Then how come we got you on tape dropping her car in that parking lot by the beach?
W INSLOW : What tape you got?
W ALKER : The one of the parking lot. We got you getting out of that car and nobody else goes near it until they find the body in
it. That puts this whole thing on you, man.
W INSLOW : Nah, it ain’t me. I didn’t do this.
As far as I knew from the discovery documents the defense lawyer had given me, there was no video that showed the victim’s
Mazda being left in the parking lot. But I also knew that the U.S. Supreme Court had upheld the legality of the police’s lying
to a suspect if the lie would reasonably be seen as such by an innocent person. By spinning everything off the one piece of
evidence they did have—Winslow’s fingerprint on the rearview mirror—they were within bounds of this guideline and they were
leading Winslow down the path.
I once wrote a story about an interrogation where the detectives showed the suspect an evidence bag containing the gun used
in the murder. It wasn’t the real murder weapon. It was an exact duplicate. But when the suspect saw it, he copped to the
crime because he figured the police had found all the evidence. A murderer was caught but I didn’t feel too good about it.
It never seemed right or fair to me that the representatives of our government were allowed to employ lies and tricks—just
like the bad guys—with full approval of the Supreme Court.
I read on, skimming another hundred or so pages, until my cell phone rang. I looked at the screen and realized I had read
right through my coffee meeting with Angela.
“Angela? Sorry, I got tied up. I’m coming right down.”
“Please hurry. I need to finish today’s story.”
I hustled down the steps to the first-floor cafeteria and joined her at a table without getting any coffee. I was twenty minutes
late and I saw her cup was empty. On the table next to it was a stack of paper turned print-side down.
“You want another latte?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
I looked around. It was
through a series of questions employed at the start of interviews with juveniles. These were designed to elicit his knowledge
of right and wrong. Once that was established, Winslow became fair game.
For his part, Winslow fell victim to ego and the oldest flaw in the human book. He thought he could outsmart them. He thought
he could talk his way out of it and maybe pick up some inside information about their investigation. So he readily agreed
to talk to them—what innocent kid wouldn’t?—and they played him like a three-string bass guitar.
Dum-de-dum-de-dumb.
Getting every implausible explanation and outright lie on record.
I breezed through the first two hundred pages, skipping page after page of Winslow’s denials of knowing anything or seeing
anything pertaining to Denise Babbit’s murder. Then, in very casual conversation, the detectives turned the questions toward
Winslow’s whereabouts on the night in question, obviously trying to get either facts or lies on the record, because either
way they would be helpful to the case—a fact was a marker that could help them navigate through the interview; a lie could
be used like a club on Winslow when revealed.
Winslow told them that he was at home sleeping and his “moms”—Wanda Sessums—could vouch for him. He continually denied any
knowledge of Denise Babbit, repeatedly rejected knowing her or anything about her abduction and murder. He held up like a
rock, but then on page 305 the detectives started lying to him and setting traps.
W ALKER : That’s not going to work, Alonzo. You gotta give us something here. You can’t just sit there and say no, no, no, I don’t
know anything, and expect to walk out of here. We know you know something. I mean, we know it, son.
W INSLOW : You don’t know shit. I ain’t ever seen that girl you been talking about.
W ALKER : Really? Then how come we got you on tape dropping her car in that parking lot by the beach?
W INSLOW : What tape you got?
W ALKER : The one of the parking lot. We got you getting out of that car and nobody else goes near it until they find the body in
it. That puts this whole thing on you, man.
W INSLOW : Nah, it ain’t me. I didn’t do this.
As far as I knew from the discovery documents the defense lawyer had given me, there was no video that showed the victim’s
Mazda being left in the parking lot. But I also knew that the U.S. Supreme Court had upheld the legality of the police’s lying
to a suspect if the lie would reasonably be seen as such by an innocent person. By spinning everything off the one piece of
evidence they did have—Winslow’s fingerprint on the rearview mirror—they were within bounds of this guideline and they were
leading Winslow down the path.
I once wrote a story about an interrogation where the detectives showed the suspect an evidence bag containing the gun used
in the murder. It wasn’t the real murder weapon. It was an exact duplicate. But when the suspect saw it, he copped to the
crime because he figured the police had found all the evidence. A murderer was caught but I didn’t feel too good about it.
It never seemed right or fair to me that the representatives of our government were allowed to employ lies and tricks—just
like the bad guys—with full approval of the Supreme Court.
I read on, skimming another hundred or so pages, until my cell phone rang. I looked at the screen and realized I had read
right through my coffee meeting with Angela.
“Angela? Sorry, I got tied up. I’m coming right down.”
“Please hurry. I need to finish today’s story.”
I hustled down the steps to the first-floor cafeteria and joined her at a table without getting any coffee. I was twenty minutes
late and I saw her cup was empty. On the table next to it was a stack of paper turned print-side down.
“You want another latte?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
I looked around. It was
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