Jury of One

63

The afternoon moved quickly. Morphew put Eddie Todavia back on the stand for redirect and basically asked him the same questions. He made sure that the jury understood that Alex really, really said that he “had to get rid of that cop.” He emphasized that, while Todavia had allowed for the possibility that Alex was joking, Alex did not smile, smirk, or laugh when he made that comment, nor any of the other comments.

Shelly saw no utility in an extended recross. She asked Todavia if he had ever heard of the word sarcasm. She asked him if he had ever made a joke without smiling. “You heard the one about the rabbi, the priest, and the elephant with three legs?” she asked with the most serious expression she could muster. The witness stared at her, and she back at him. One of the jurors picked up on it, and pretty soon several of them were smiling.

She didn’t know what it was with her and comedy all of a sudden. She was usually accused of lacking an appropriate sense of humor. She had stumbled upon it, though, and it seemed to be working to her favor with the jury. She considered working on a monologue for tomorrow.

A forensic specialist with the County Attorney Technical Unit next testified that the bullet that penetrated Ray Miroballi’s brain had traveled approximately five to six feet. Shelly did not quibble with the estimate. There was nothing of a technical nature with which Shelly could quibble, so she did the next best thing with an expert of this kind-asked the witness questions she could not answer that helped Shelly’s case:

“This forensic analysis you performed doesn’t tell you whether the slain officer had his gun drawn, does it?”

“It doesn’t tell you whether the slain officer had intended to shoot the person who shot him?”

“You were not able to look at the weapon used to shoot the officer, were you?”

Of course, the witness could not speak to any of those issues, which allowed Shelly to make a closing argument in her questions.

The judge recessed the proceedings at four o’clock. Shelly sat in her office after five o’clock and reviewed her notes. A Monday evening, the place was buzzing. She much preferred this place on Thursday through Sunday evenings, when even a high-powered firm’s lawyers tended to be around less.

It was possible that there could be as many as four witnesses tomorrow-Officer Sanchez, the other two eyewitnesses, and the county medical examiner. That was probably optimistic, but she had to be ready. She had been over the reports and the evidence a number of times, but she had made a point of not reviewing them over the weekend. She wanted a fresh look at the stuff the night before. She had prepared her cross-examinations of these witnesses weeks ago but was prepared to make adjustments. Then, of course, she would have to make more adjustments on the spot, after the witnesses actually testified. Things always changed once the trial got going; strategies were modified and, of course, witnesses’ testimony could never be predicted with complete accuracy. It was clear from Morphew’s opening statement, for example, that the homeless man was going to say that Alex had two guns and had tricked Officer Miroballi into believing he was unarmed when he threw down the first gun.

She became vaguely aware of someone in her peripheral vision. Paul Riley was wearing a white dress shirt and beautifully patterned tie of powder blue. Matched his eyes. He looked tired. He had been on trial himself until a week ago. But he loved it here, she could see, lived off the energy of the toiling attorneys around him. That could owe to the fact that part of every hour that these attorneys worked went into his pocket. But that wasn’t it with this guy. This wasn’t just a job to him, like with many lawyers. He loved the law. He cherished the competition and high stakes and his rather coveted place in the legal community.

There had been a subtle change in their relationship since their “attorney-client” conversation a few weeks back. Was it because she had confided in him that she had a son? No. Paul had a daughter. He wasn’t a twenty-year-old afraid of commitment. It was the other topic of conversation that day. She had told him that she had some reason to suspect Ronnie. He had strongly urged her to come clean with Alex, of course, and she had done so. But she sensed that he had the same feeling she did-not simply that pointing the finger at Ronnie was a better course of action, but that Shelly had not necessarily done the best job of trying to convince Alex of this. Maybe, she conceded, Paul disapproved of her conduct here, and he was trying to put some distance between himself and Shelly, at least on an intimacy level.

He hadn’t said any of this, which seemed to be his trademark. He spent many an hour with people accused of wrongdoing, often justifiably so, and he had grown comfortable with keeping his judgments to himself. He had spent much of the weekend helping Shelly prepare for the cross-examination of many of the witnesses without offering a word of advice on the best theory of defense. He had never even mentioned Ronnie.

They talked about the day’s events. Morphew’s description of how the shooting transpired. Eddie Todavia’s testimony. Most of Paul’s questions were about the jury. How did they like Morphew? How did they like Shelly? Did they believe Todavia?

They discussed a couple of evidentiary issues. This, more than anything, was where Paul had been most valuable. Shelly had been on trial dozens of times, but the vast majority were in juvenile court, where they never heard of the hearsay rule and most rules of evidence were relaxed; or in civil court, where witnesses rarely took the Fifth and there was scant talk of things like coconspirators.

She slid her chair back from her desk. Her stomach ached badly. She never ate well during a trial but she was usually spared indigestion. She had never felt such stress, and it was only during down moments like this that she noticed its effect on her. She had seen it in her father, as well, the last four years as the state’s chief executive. Each of them had probably aged prematurely from stress, and yet each seemed to want, more than anything else, to remain in these positions that placed such burdens on them.

“And how are you, Ms. Trotter?” Paul asked. “Other than stressed and sleep-deprived.”

“Shows that much, huh?”

He smiled. “You’re the type, if you aren’t working past midnight and skipping meals, you think you’re not working hard enough.”

She allowed for that. That was a major difference between Paul and her.

“You feeling okay about things?” he asked.

A vague question. “The trial? I think so.”

He cocked his head. “Not really what I meant.”

“Ah. Our privileged conversation.”

“Those rules are more important than the case,” he said. “I know that must seem hard to swallow. But it’s true. And when a case becomes more important than those rules-well, that’s when you know that maybe you shouldn’t be working the case.”

“I’m being lectured now.”

He wagged a finger and gave a soft smile. “Reminded. It gives me comfort, Shelly, to think about that. I get invested in my clients’ welfare just like anybody else. But then I think of the rules that govern my role, and it reminds me that I just have a role. I don’t have this person’s life. I do everything within my power to play my role as best I can, but that’s all I do.”

Her head rocked back. She stared at the ceiling.

“I realize your circumstances aren’t quite the same,” he acknowledged. “But the principle is. Do the best you can, and realize that’s all you can do.”

“Okay.” Easier said than done.

“And get some food tonight,” he said as he left the office.

Her smile widened as he walked out. She realized that he really hadn’t been lecturing. He was trying to put her at ease, in his way.

She picked up the folders and began reading over reports and notes. She couldn’t help but think of the mystery that was Ronnie. So many questions about this boy. Could he really be working with a street gang? A kid with a scholarship, a hardworking, ambitious boy? A caring young man who showed such a willingness to take care of a baby that wasn’t his? And why exactly was it that he had sent Alex to see her that first time at the legal clinic? Why send Alex to do his dirty work-

Her heart skipped a beat. Something within her stirred. She was missing something. Better put, she was looking for something and couldn’t find it. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. When you’re searching for something, it’s easier to look at everything than to look for that one particular thing. So she let the images come to her and absorbed them as best she could, using all of her senses. Alex in the park with Ray Miroballi on two separate occasions. A boy leaving the City Athletic Club in a long coat and cap. Ronnie and Alex in the photos with Angela. The view from the south of the crime scene, the nineteenth floor looking down on bodies and tops of heads. The surveillance photos of Ronnie with Eddie Todavia. The basketball in Ronnie’s room, that she had tripped over. Alex’s words to Shelly about Ronnie, a year ago. He saved my life once. Ronnie had come to Alex’s rescue after Alex and his drunken freshmen buddies had hot-wired the wrong guy’s car. What had Ronnie done to help Alex? Taken a beating for him? Killed the bad guy? It didn’t matter. The point was, Alex felt he owed Ronnie his life.

She opened the folders. She read over the police report and Joel’s notes of their conversations with the eyewitnesses, Monica Stoddard and Joseph Slattery. She tapped her own memory about her conversations with Sanchez and the others.

She leapt to her feet. She closed her eyes and worked it through. Yes.

Yes?

They hadn’t switched jackets that night, after all.

She dialed Joel’s cell phone before she could stop herself.

They had switched identities.

“Joel, it’s Shelly. Remember when you went to the City Athletic Club on open gym night? You showed Alex’s photo around?”

“Yeah. What’s today-Tuesday? You want me to go back tomorrow night?”

“Yes,” she said. “But show them Ronnie’s photo.”