Jury of One

19

The funeral for Officer Raymond Mitchell Miroballi, which had taken place two weeks ago, had been covered extensively in the television and print media. At the time, Shelly couldn’t stomach reading or hearing about it. Instead, she had held on to the papers and now, for the first time, pored over news accounts.

The photograph of Raymond Miroballi in the paper was from the neck up. Miroballi was in uniform and cap, probably from several years ago when he became a cop. He had full, high cheeks, small eyes, a powerful neck.

The Miroballi boys were all cops. Ray was the baby at age thirty-eight, the youngest of three brothers, the other two also members of the city police force-Detective Second Grade Reginald Miroballi, forty-two, and Lieutenant Anthony Miroballi, forty-four. Ray Miroballi was the father of three children, ages ten, eight, and seven. He was married to Sophia Miroballi for twelve years and lived on the city’s south side, only a block away from where he grew up.

There were no pictures of Ray Miroballi’s brothers in the articles. She wouldn’t be able to provide identification anyway, given the ski masks they wore. Was that it? Had it been Ray’s brothers who had paid her a visit last night? She knew they were cops-they made a point of letting her know that-but they could have been other cops working with Ray Miroballi in their drug scheme. The only thing she knew with certainty was that anyone smart enough to concoct that scheme to break into her apartment had brains enough to craft an alibi as well.

She read again about the life of Ray Miroballi and his children. The paper listed facts. The details, Shelly Trotter would never know. His sense of humor. The things he did with his kids. Was he tyrannical? Did he spoil the children? A devoted husband? Happily married? How would his kids grow up now, having lost their father?

This was why she didn’t relish being a criminal defense attorney. She believed in the system with all her heart but didn’t want to be part of it, couldn’t be a part of it. What was the saying? A liberal was a conservative who had never been a victim of a crime. Well, she was probably considered a flaming liberal by most conventional standards, but not when it came to the rights of the accused. Who had protected her when she needed it?

Maybe her views had softened over time, but she made a distinction in any event with children. For them, the presumption of innocence was a multilayered concept. Kids who had turned down a wrong path at a young age could not be fully blamed for their actions. At such a young age, could the connection between their upbringing, their influences, be so casually severed from their actions? They shared fault, of course, but so often only their share was addressed by the justice system. Defending them was not so much seeking absolution for their acts but giving them another chance at an age when they still had so many options. Locking kids away in a delinquency home was rarely the answer. Kicking them out of school was never the answer, yet it had become, increasingly, the chosen course for school systems. Burdened with shrinking budgets and depleted resources, a school board simply found it easier to say to hell with some problem kid. That was just not acceptable to Shelly. Every kid deserved a shot at a good life.

She found herself reading and rereading paragraphs, her eyes passing over words as her thoughts were consumed by Alex. Alex, her client. Alex, her son. How was she supposed to react to that news? Neither she nor Alex seemed to know. Maybe in a normal setting, they could slowly move toward a relationship that was appropriate to the situation. But they were already friends, and now she was defending him from a capital murder charge and wondering what he wasn’t telling her. She had always loved her child, from the moment she gave him up, not even knowing it was a “him” as opposed to a “her.” But now, seeing this boy in the flesh, was she supposed to flip a switch and feel maternal love?

She shook her head harshly. If she couldn’t get Alex off these charges, there wouldn’t be much of a point to any of this talk of mother and son. She had to be his lawyer first. She looked up and saw Rena Schroeder standing in the threshold of her door. She had been there, Shelly sensed, for a lengthy moment. Shelly blinked out of her trance.

Rena was wearing an oversized sweater and a skirt. Her earrings hung down to her shoulders, below her cropped dark hair. Her arms were crossed; she leaned against the doorframe. Her eyebrows arched in concern. This was something to see with Rena. Fifteen years representing children in an enormous city, she had seen it all, wore a weathered, seasoned expression that, to an outside observer, resembled indifference. Shelly sensed it was a defense mechanism.

So why the frown?

“The dean got a call from the I.R.S.,” she told Shelly.

Shelly cocked her head.

“They want to investigate our 501(c) status,” she continued. The Children’s Advocacy Project, though affiliated with the school, was technically its own nonprofit entity. A nonprofit entity was allowed tax benefits so long as it maintained its mission, which in this case meant work for children in education, housing, and juvenile court proceedings.

“Shit,” Shelly said. She scolded herself for not thinking of it. Defending Alex Baniewicz for an adult crime fell outside CAP’s charter. A nonprofit had to be damn careful about exceeding the scope of its mission. The I.R.S. could pull the tax-exempt status in a heartbeat, with financially crippling results. The project would be shut down.

“Have you done anything from this office?” Rena asked. “Filed any motions?”

“Yeah. Nothing major.” She chewed on her lip. “But yes.” She softly pounded her desk and looked up at her boss. “Did they mention the case by name?”

“No.”

“No,” Shelly repeated to herself. “Of course not. God, it didn’t take them long.”

“What does that mean?”

It meant Jerod Romero, the federal prosecutor, looking for some leverage against Shelly and Alex in his bid to keep his snitch in line. A quick phone call to a sister federal agency.

“Shelly-”

“I know, Rena. God, I understand.” Defending Alex from the offices of CAP could wipe out the entire project.

“A lot of people could handle this case,” Rena offered. “You always said you didn’t like handling criminal stuff, anyway.”

Shelly nodded agreeably, but she had only one option here, and there was no point in delaying the inevitable. “I have to represent him, Rena.”

“Shelly, we don’t have a choice. It’s not like we can ask the I.R.S., ‘pretty please.’”

She looked at her desk. “I would never ask CAP to be a part of this. Not now.”

She looked up at her colleague, who was getting the picture. “No,” Rena said.

Shelly shrugged.

“Shelly, this is crazy. You’re going to-to quit? So you can be this kid’s lawyer?”

What could Shelly say? Certainly not the truth.

“Oh, God, you’re really considering this.” Rena came over to Shelly, sat on her desk. “We need you here. This is-this is what you were meant to do.”

“I feel like this is something I have to do.” Shelly reached for Rena’s arm. “I know it sounds crazy. But he trusts me. He needs me.”

Nine years working for the rights of children. Nine years working with law students helping disabled and emotionally disturbed kids, finding ways to keep troubled children in schools when no one else cared. Nine years and it was over.

Rena continued her protests, refusing to accept Shelly’s position. But the more Shelly thought about it, the more her conviction grew. Who else but Alex’s mother would be willing to go to the wall for him? Passion, Paul Riley had said, and he was never more right than now.

“I’ll be gone by the end of the day,” Shelly said.