Jackie Kowalski stood in front of me, a slight young woman fresh out of U of M Law School, with light brown hair and an inexpensive catalog suit.

I more or less knew-Urban had warned me-what she was going to ask me, but it didn’t make things any easier.

“Detective Pribek-can I call you Ms. Pribek? Since you aren’t involved in this case as an officer of the law.”

“You can.”

“Ms. Pribek, you were at the house shortly after the crime, as you’ve said. And you rode in the ambulance with Miss Brown, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why you and not her mother?”

“Genevieve was being treated for shock at the scene. She was still distraught when they were taking Kamareia away. I felt someone should go with her who wasn’t so upset that it would increase Kamareia’s distress.”

“I see. How did it come about that she identified her assailant? Did you ask her?”

“No, she volunteered the information.”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘It was Shorty. The guy who was always watching me.’ ”

“And you took this to mean Mr. Stewart?”

“Yes. It was his nickname.”

Jackie Kowalski paused. Had we been at trial, before a jury, she most likely would have pursued the matter, trying to poke holes in Kamareia’s tenuous identification-by-nickname. But there was no jury here, only the judge who Kowalski was asking to dismiss the charges. She had a legal point to make, and so she moved on.

“What else did she tell you about the assault?”

“She had gone on to say she should have been more careful, or something to that effect. And I said, ‘It’s okay, you couldn’t have known.’ ”

“Was that the extent of your discussion of the attack?” She knew it was. She’d read the deposition.

“Yes.”

“So you never asked her a question.”

“No.”

“Did you come to the scene as an officer of the law?”