Jury of One

47

While she waited to see Alex, Shelly opened the small package delivered from the prosecution. The prosecution had to go first and disclose its witnesses. Shelly had two days thereafter to disclose hers. Neither party was required to accurately predict whom they would call as the trial evolved, but each party had to identify potential witnesses or risk having the judge exclude their testimony. So the rule was, throw in everyone who could even conceivably touch upon the case; leave out witnesses at your peril.

The prosecution would call Officer Julio Sanchez, Miro’s partner, as a witness to the crime. The two eyewitnesses, Monica Stoddard and Joseph Slattery, were listed. The prosecution listed Dr. Mitra Agarwal, the county’s chief deputy medical examiner, to testify as to cause of death and the distance between Miroballi and Alex at the time of the shooting. Detective Alberto Montes, with whom Shelly had spoken at the police station that night, would testify about the investigation and about some of the testing performed on the suspect. Other than that, Morphew would only call people to testify as to chain of custody to show that various pieces of evidence were properly handled and preserved.

It would be a straightforward prosecution, which was exactly how Assistant County Attorney Dan Morphew wanted it. Nothing fancy or complicated. No doubt that Alex was there, no doubt that Alex was the shooter. Morphew would have the opportunity to supplement this list once she disclosed her witnesses, because Shelly was pleading an affirmative defense, but he probably could do all he needed to do with Officer Sanchez.

What would happen, she wondered, when the F.B.I. closed in on the dirty cops, when the sting became public? Morphew would be caught flat-footed. Or did he have some inkling now? Had he discussed things with the federal prosecutors? Is that what prompted his offer of seventy years?

That was a possibility. And not one that the F.B.I. would confirm, even if she bothered to ask.

Shelly also would identify Officer Sanchez. She would disclose Officer Brian O’Sullivan, the officer who first arrived on the scene after Miroballi was shot and who had canvassed the crime scene. She disclosed Ronnie Masters but kept the description of his testimony deliberately vague, which she found interesting about herself, because she realized that Ronnie would probably say just about anything to help Alex. She might consider naming the man who supplied drugs to Alex, Edward Todavia, but the jury was still out on that one; by doing that, Morphew would go to Todavia immediately, read his sheet, and figure out that he was probably connected to the cocaine that Alex had that night. She did the boilerplate as well, identifying any and all witnesses mentioned in any of the materials produced by the prosecution or before the grand jury.

And for the heck of it, she would throw in the names of Ray Miroballi’s brothers, Tony and Reggie.

She wished she could trade sides with Dan Morphew. He had cops, good eyewitnesses, an accomplished forensic pathologist. She had a hostile cop, a kid who was obviously biased (and probably wouldn’t testify, anyway), and down the road, perhaps, federal prosecutors and special agents who were not exactly friendly to her cause, who in fact had told her informally that she would never be able to prove that Miroballi was forcing Alex to work for him.

Alex was brought in. He needed a haircut, she realized, which made her think of his appearance at trial. He would need a couple of suits, or at least sport coats, and clean shirts and at least two ties.

The guard locked Alex’s wrists down to the table and patted his shoulder. “Thanks, Joe,” said Alex. It was the same old story now with Alex. She was beginning to forget the Alex she had first known, the sunny disposition and wry sense of humor. This was Alex now. One part scared, two parts hardened, bracing himself for every day that he spent inside and preparing for a long stay. She couldn’t even fathom the erosion to one’s psyche from being confined, from wearing shackles whenever one consorted with outsiders. He would never be the same, she realized with a pang of regret. No matter what happened next. He would never get this time back, and he would never get this time completely out of his system.

“How’s your knee?” she asked.

“My knee?”

“I didn’t know you had tripped, Alex. When you were running from Miroballi that night.”

“Oh. Well, yeah. I guess it didn’t seem too important.”

“Oh, it probably isn’t,” she said. “But you shouldn’t be making those judgments. You have to tell me everything. This might not be such a big deal, but it makes me wonder what else you have left out.”

“I haven’t left anything out.” He played with his fingers. “So tell me how things are going.”

Shelly had always been honest to a fault with her clients. She remembered feeling, as a child, that she wasn’t given enough credit by adults. So she gave Alex her best assessment of the self-defense case and the “innocence” case. Alex seemed distressed as he listened, and Shelly thought that maybe he could use a dose of that emotion. He needed to hear her say, in a coherent presentation, how weak his case looked.

“The problem with arguing you didn’t shoot Miroballi,” she told him, “is that we have to show that someone else did. And I need your help with that.”

She was giving him yet another chance to add information. She made a point of emphasizing that the case for Alex being the shooter was largely circumstantial. Other than the word of a homeless man, it simply came to down to the fact that Alex ran into the alley, Miroballi chased him, and Miroballi ended up with a bullet in his head. Yes, sure, Alex was the obvious suspect, but if they could put someone else in that alley, too, the prosecution could do little to show it wasn’t true. She was practically begging him to put a third person in that alley.

But he wouldn’t. Maybe it was because this third person was a gang member, and Alex was afraid of naming names lest his family be harmed. Or maybe there was no third person, and Alex refused to make up a story. Maybe he was still that nice young boy she saw the first day, dressed in his Sunday best, his long black coat folded in his lap, an honest boy who had made some mistakes but refused to compromise his principles by making up a story just to beat the rap.

Or maybe-

She bounced out of her chair, almost tripping over herself in the process.

“What’s wrong with you?” Alex asked.

“I–I just thought of something I’m supposed to be doing.” She gathered herself. “I’m sorry, Alex, I just realized I’m supposed to be somewhere.” She looked at her watch for good measure. “I have to go but I’ll be back.”

She was not entirely sure of her destination, but she felt, for the first time in a long time, that she knew the direction.