Jury of One

67

Shelly looked at the videotape. It had a sticker on it that said DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS. She looked back up at Morphew.

“We took it last night,” he said. “They’re not family, Shelly, in case you were going to argue confidentiality. We checked the D.O.C. regs last night. Before we even looked at it. Ronnie Masters isn’t related to your client any more than the prime minister of Japan is.”

She opened the file folder. It was a plea agreement between Ronnie Masters and the county attorney.

“I told the judge about this,” he said. “I told him you’d want to see the tape right away. There’s a VCR back there.”

They went through the same door the judge used, passed his chambers, and went to another room where a television and VCR were assembled. While Morphew worked the machine, Shelly looked through the file. She saw the form signed last night by Ronnie Masters-signed by every visitor to a corrections facility, in fact-acknowledging awareness that the government could record conversations unless the visitor was either the detainee’s counsel or blood relation.

“Nobody really reads these things before they sign them,” she said, hardly even pretending to accept her own argument.

“That dog won’t hunt,” he said. “Here we go.”

He stepped back and the screen came alive. The hidden camera in the detention center was angled so that the person in clearest focus was the detainee, who sat in the same spot every time-the end of the table where the chain from the prisoner’s handcuffs was locked down. Smart. Guaranteed that you’d get the prisoner on tape clearly.

She held her breath as she watched the tape.

Ronnie Masters walked over to Alex with a piece of paper rolled up in his hand. “What the fuck is this?” he asked, slapping the paper down on the table.

“I don’t know,” Alex answered, seated in the chair with his hands in manacles. “What is it?”

Ronnie kept a distance but pointed at it. He couldn’t stand still. “That’s the paper tonight. The Watch, on-line. Look at the fucking headline.”

Alex read it aloud. “‘Defense blames drug dealer in Miroballi trial.’”

Ronnie paced a small area and pointed at it again. “It says Shelly’s not going with self-defense anymore. When the fuck did that happen?”

Alex looked at Ronnie. “Take it easy-”

“I’m not gonna ‘take it easy,’ okay? I’m not gonna be the scapegoat here, got me? I’m not going to jail for you. I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them everything.”

“Ronnie”-Alex came out of his chair, as best he could with his hands shackled. “What the hell are you doing? They can-”

“I don’t care what you or your lawyer says. I’m not-”

“Ronnie, shut up! What the hell are you doing?” He nodded his head upward.

Ronnie looked around the room. He seemed to understand the reminder. He moved closer to Alex and pointed a finger at him. “Do not mess with me,” he warned in a softer, but no less firm voice that came through perfectly clear on the tape.

“What the hell are you-”

“Alex.” He moved away but kept his finger directed at Alex. “Don’t forget what I said. Don’t make me do anything here.”

He left the room. Alex called after him but to no avail.

Shelly fell back in her chair. “That tape isn’t coming in,” she said.

Morphew sat next to her in a chair. He was a gentleman, more or less, and he seemed above outright gloating. But he was awfully pleased. “Who needs the tape?” He pointed at her file. “The tape just explains how we first came upon him. It shows we’re not springing this on you.”

Morphew motioned to the plea agreement he’d given Shelly. “We got him last night and finalized the deal this morning,” he told her.

The plea agreement was signed, only an hour ago, by a public defender representing Ronnie. That answered the question of why Morphew had seemed preoccupied. In exchange for receiving immunity for obstruction of justice charges, Ronnie Masters agreed that he would truthfully testify to the following:

(1) That he was present at the place and time of the shooting of Officer Ray Miroballi, to wit, February 11, 2004, at approximately 8:00 p.m., in an alley intersecting the avenues of Gentry (200 south block) and Donnelly (200 south block);

(2) That the reason for his presence at that place and time was that he was driving to the City Athletic Club, at 155 South Gentry, to pick up the defendant, Alex Gerhard Baniewicz, from a basketball game;

(3) That at the aforesaid place and time, he witnessed the defendant, Alexander Gerhard Baniewicz, discharge a firearm that resulted in the death of Officer Raymond Miroballi;

(4) That at the aforesaid time and place, after witnessing said shooting, he drove his car back to his residence;

(5) That he was aware, after the fact, that the defendant, Alexander Gerhard Baniewicz, had met with Officer Raymond Miroballi but that he was unaware of the reason for these meetings;

(6) That on February 25, 2004, between the hours of 8:00 and 9:00 P.M. at the location of the defendant’s detention, the defendant, Alexander Gerhard Baniewicz, admitted to meeting with Officer Raymond Miroballi on more than one occasion in the past and stated that he had “been playing a dangerous game” with Officer Miroballi;

(7) That he knowingly and deliberately failed to disclose the aforementioned facts to law enforcement despite being asked for any information relating to this matter; and

(8) That he knowingly and deliberately lied to law enforcement about his whereabouts on the night of the shooting.

“Oh, Ronnie,” she mumbled. He had kept himself entirely out of the fray. He didn’t know why Alex was talking to Miroballi, he was going to say. He didn’t participate in a cover-up of the crime. Sure.

She looked up at Morphew.

“Sorry, Counselor,” he said, and she sensed that, on some level, he meant it.

“You’ve been recording everything all along?”

“Actually, no. We really don’t do that as much as we should.” He shrugged. “I got to thinking that somebody must have helped your guy. I mean, we never found the gun. Where could he have put it that we didn’t look? That meant Ronnie. So a few weeks ago, I got the bright idea. Only Ronnie hadn’t been coming around. He stormed in last night and we were ready for him.”

“But he didn’t admit to disposing of the weapon.”

“No, he didn’t.”

She waved the paper in her hand. “Have you given me everything on this kid, Dan? You’re expecting me to believe that this all came about as a hunch?”

“I am. Because it’s true.” He leaned into her. “You think I’m going to withhold evidence from you? That’s not a smart career move.” He straightened again. “We’ve been by the book all along, Shelly, and you know it. C’mon, let’s go talk to Petey.”

They went to the judge. Shelly objected to the “ambush” but she had no chance. The prosecution was entitled to continue their investigation. They had just come upon this tape, and it spawned an interrogation of Ronnie Masters. He waived the right to counsel-Shelly had been provided the waiver as well-and ultimately had secured the services of the public defender to work out a deal.

“I’ll allow a brief continuance, Ms. Trotter,” the judge offered. “After we finish our witnesses today.”

Only twenty minutes ago, she had said the words to Alex-that she would put Todavia in that alley, the gun in his hand. Nobody, besides a homeless man, would say otherwise. It was a good case. And now this.

She got up from the chair in a daze. She felt like she’d been hit over the head with a brick. She had only one thing going for her.

Ronnie had made the decision easier for her.

She was allowed all of five minutes to show this to Alex. “Thank God,” he said, when he learned that Ronnie was off scot-free. “There’s no way Ronnie gets in trouble now?”

“That’s right. Tell me what’s true and what’s not,” she said, referring to the numbered paragraphs that would constitute Ronnie’s principal testimony.

He reread the allegations and looked at Shelly. “Every word of this is true.”

She felt like the floor had collapsed beneath her. She was back at the bottom of the mountain again.

“We still can say self-defense,” Alex offered. “This doesn’t say it wasn’t self-defense.”

“Let’s proceed,” said the judge as the jurors took their seats. “See what we can get in before lunch.”

“The People call Julio Sanchez,” said Morphew.