Jury of One

73

Dan Morphew walked into the office within the judge’s chambers, a room typically reserved for the clerks and interns who worked in the state courts. Shelly was seated on a couch, her elbows on her knees.

He handed her a glass of water. “Drink,” he said.

She accepted it from him and he was right, it did help somewhat, the cool water in her mouth.

It was early in the afternoon. Several hours had passed since Ronnie had testified in open court. Shelly had been taken into the judge’s chambers after fainting, where she rested for over an hour. Finally, when she had regained some measure of strength, the judge had summoned Ronnie Masters and his lawyer into his chambers, along with Morphew and Shelly.

Ronnie’s public defender had freely offered a blood test for his client to confirm that he was linked by DNA to Ray Miroballi. Nobody in the room seemed to doubt this fact, but Ronnie submitted to a blood test nonetheless. Shelly also agreed to do so tomorrow. And the state had plenty of Ray Miroballi’s blood for a comparison.

Dan Morphew looked like he had gone fifteen rounds with a heavyweight. Shelly probably looked like a zombie. And the judge, who on some level probably appreciated the courtroom theater, nonetheless did not enjoy spectacles during the most prestigious case he had handled in his short tenure as a judge. He told the lawyers that they had tomorrow off. The obvious explanation for this would be concern for Shelly’s health. A lawyer who passed out during trial was probably dehydrated, malnourished, and sleep-deprived to the point of exhaustion. But Shelly figured the judge wanted the parties to have the chance to talk, to perhaps make this case go away.

Morphew took a seat at a desk near the couch where Shelly was sitting. It was just the two of them now. The judge was in his chambers. He had dismissed the jury for today and tomorrow.

“You feeling better?” he asked.

She took another sip of the water, made an equivocal noise as she drank.

“You didn’t know any of that, did you, Shelly?”

She set the cold glass against her forehead briefly, then down on the floor.

“I found out about two weeks ago that Ronnie was my son,” she said. “And I talked to Alex about it. But that is the only piece of information that I knew.”

“I need a beer.” Morphew had his tie yanked down, his sleeves rolled. He was enjoying the refuge of the judge’s chambers as much as Shelly. A carnivorous media awaited the lawyers just outside the courtroom doors, and neither of them was anxious to venture through the crowd. Morphew looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Well, Counselor, whatever happens here, I can say this much. I’m sorry that happened to you when you were a kid, and I’m even sorrier that you had to have this on public display.”

“Thanks.” She looked at her watch. “Where’s Ronnie?”

“Back in lockup,” he said, which made sense. Ronnie’s testimony was not completed, so he was still being held as a material witness.

“Your client is downstairs in holding,” he added.

She got up tentatively and stretched her arms. “What are we going to do here, Dan?”

Morphew chewed on his lip a moment, shaking his head slowly. “Miroballi was trying to cover up a dirty secret? Christ, I don’t know. Sounds like neither one of us got it right.”

“Let’s end this now, Dan. This isn’t a drug case. This isn’t about a cop. This is about a man trying to bury his past.”

“Aren’t we all.” Morphew lifted himself from the chair, wincing with the bad back. “Listen, Shelly, I’m sympathetic. But you can’t expect me to drop this.”

“I can. I do.”

“Then you’re not thinking this through.”

Morphew’s estimate was probably right. If Elliot Raycroft simply dropped the charges at this point, the media would assume that Governor Trotter had intervened. That would be no help to Lang Trotter in his race for reelection, nor would it be something that Raycroft would want the voters remembering two years from now when he re-upped. Under these circumstances, the county attorney actually would have to take a tougher stand than he otherwise might. That was the irony of having a powerful father. Special treatment, perhaps, but not always more favorable.

“A cop still died,” he added.

“A cop who committed rape. You get those blood tests back, it’s absolute proof. You have indisputable evidence of statutory rape. And Miroballi knew that, Dan. That’s why this happened. You can sell this.”

Morphew stared off in the distance as she spoke. “Your client was carrying a weapon. And he was probably extorting Miroballi.”

“And he’s a juvenile. Those things won’t transfer.”

“I know, Shelly. I know. Let me see what can be done. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.” He reached the door and turned back to her. “You really kicked Todavia in the gut?”

“I sure did.”

Morphew thought about that for a moment, chuckled to himself, and left the room.