Jury of One

17

Jerod Romero had a series of routine matters in court this morning. For some of the cases, prisoners in orange jumpsuits were shuffled in, joined by their defense counsel. Romero was all business, no humor, even when the judge was not on the bench.

He finished about noon and saw Shelly as he was gathering his papers. “Ms. Trotter,” he said in his formal courtroom voice.

“I need to know you’re protecting Alex.”

“We are.” Romero looked at her with curiosity. “Why do you mention it?”

Shelly had thought about it over the nine hours that had passed since the two men ambushed her in her apartment. She’d run to Alex to ensure his safety-only to be broad-sided by his revelation-then to work, to do a final run-through for the depositions that would begin today in the deaf-ed case-and then to the federal courthouse, where she had found Jerod Romero.

With the constant shift in focus, she felt punch-drunk, delirious, driven only by adrenaline. She could only imagine the impression she was making on the prosecutor.

She had decided she would not reveal what had happened. Not yet. She couldn’t prove anything and she could only make matters worse. There was always time to do it. Ways to do it.

“Something happened,” said Romero.

“Just make sure Alex is okay. I’m putting you on notice.”

“You have to tell me if someone threatened him,” he said. “Or you.”

“No, I don’t. But if you don’t give me assurances, right now, that Alex is safe, I’m going to the press. I’m going to the judge. I’m going to tell everyone in town about your operation.”

The prosecutor raised his hand, looked around the emptying courtroom as if he were afraid Shelly might divulge the confidential information right now. From Romero’s perspective, Shelly held a real card here. She had every right to change Alex’s plea to self-defense and to explain in detail the facts of that defense. The federal prosecutor, with all his powers, could not stop her. The U.S. Attorney’s office could not prevent Shelly from revealing the sting operation.

And that was not only important to the U.S. Attorney’s office as a whole, but in particular to this Assistant U.S. Attorney standing before her. This would be a major case, perhaps a career-maker, for Jerod Romero, depending on how many cops were snared in the operation.

“He’s safe,” he told Shelly. “You have my word.”

She was too exhausted to sufficiently read the prosecutor. She took him at his word, mostly because she had no choice. She didn’t want to expose the drug sting, either, and more to the point, she didn’t want to hurt Alex’s chances for a negotiated deal with the county attorney on the murder charge.

Romero motioned for them to sit at one of the rows of spectator seats, which resembled pews in a church. He seemed to appraise her outward appearance more than consider strategy. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I can’t make you tell me. But if someone’s getting nervous about Alex-I need to know that, Shelly. I can help you. And I need to know.”

She refused to elaborate. Romero could fill in the blanks, anyway. A covert visit from one of the city’s finest, threatening her and/or Alex. Perhaps Romero would consider tailing Shelly now-not so much to protect her but to catch a nervous cop looking to harass her. But more important, he would be watching Alex, hopefully more closely than ever. Surely the federal government had ways, even in a county-run facility. She certainly hoped so, because she had few options. She needed to keep it a secret as much as he did.

Romero ran a tongue against his cheek, folded his hands. He lingered in that position as if he had something to say but wasn’t sure. Finally, he looked at her and said, “Sixty years.”

Shelly stared at the floor, her breath whisked from her lungs. “Sixty,” she repeated. “The county attorney agreed to sixty years?”

“State time is one-for-one,” he said. “With good behavior he’s out in thirty.”

She ran her fingers through her hair. Her vision was spotty. She felt herself swooning.

“Sixty years is a godsend, Ms. Trotter.” The prosecutor’s tone held a rebuke. She was supposed to be grateful.

She should be grateful. Sixty years-really only thirty-for shooting a cop in the face? So why wasn’t she thrilled? What had changed? Nothing should. Whether she was Alex’s mother or defense attorney, her interests were the same. Weren’t they? Alex’s best interests.

Was it easier when they were looking at the death penalty, or life in prison? Did it make the solution easier? Fight it out. All or nothing. Now, with a compromise, she was looking at giving him willingly to the state.

Giving him up. Again.

“Where?” she heard the lawyer in her ask.

“Where-does he serve his time, you mean? Downstate, I assume.”

“Federal prison,” she said. “Has to be.”

“I can’t do that. For shooting a-”

“Do it,” she said. “And I’ll discuss it with my client.”

“Ms. Trotter-Shelly.” The prosecutor opened his hands. “I hope you’ll tell him he’d be crazy not to take this deal.”

“We’ll have to discuss it,” she managed, getting to her feet. She walked down the aisle and gently pushed against the swinging door.

“Maybe I can get a federal correctional center,” Romero called out. “Would that do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Shelly. Thirty years, easy time.”

“Mr. Romero,” she said as she hiked her bag over her shoulder, “there’s nothing easy about thirty years.”