Jury of One

76

Shelly fought through reporters that had gathered around the county jail, and jumped into a cab. A taxi to her house from downtown could set her back as much as twenty dollars and was typically unheard of for her, but she couldn’t fathom the thought of dozens of reporters following her to the bus stop. Safely in the taxi, she dialed the number Mari Rodriguez had left her.

“Mari, it’s Shelly.”

“Shelly-God, I’ve been calling you all day.”

“I take it the news has reached you.”

“You could say that. He wants to see you, Shelly. He’s been in a budget meeting all day but he told me to pull him out when I got hold of you.”

“I’m heading home.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“This news isn’t-” She wasn’t going to apologize. No. There was nothing for which she needed to say she was sorry.

“Mari,” she said, “I didn’t want this. I had no idea who this cop was.”

“I understand.”

“This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”

A pause. Mari was a good sort.

“You could say that,” she said.

Shelly clicked off the phone and dropped her head back on the carseat. She thought of the headlines for her father. She tried to rationalize each piece of information. A private adoption was not a crime. His grandson’s involvement, in some way, in a cop shooting. His loose-cannon daughter. It was the collective whole. Messy, is what it was.

Her phone rang again.

“Shelly, it’s Joel. Jesus Christ!”

“Hi, Joel.”

“I’m reading this on-line. The Watch. Ronnie’s your son? Miroballi-”

“All true,” she said.

“‘A grandson who’s never been acknowledged by the Trotter family.’ ‘A daughter, outcast from the family-’”

“It says that?” She came forward in the seat, felt a wave of nausea.

“‘Did the governor involve himself in the prosecution?’ ‘Did his daughter know this all along?’”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“It’s not pretty, Shel. Did you really faint?”

She moaned.

“And I got some news for you, Counselor.”

“Tell me it’s good, Joel. I can’t take anything else right now.”

“Depends on your perspective. Guess which west-side drug dealer woke up this morning without any arms?”

“No.”

“Mr. Edward Todavia, one and the same.”

She did a quick calculation. Ronnie Masters was in the county lockup last night. She immediately scolded herself for even considering it.

“That’s the Cans for you. He got notorious. They don’t like publicity.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” she said.

“Not in my cab, lady,” the driver called back.

“That’s one less scumbag on the street,” Joel said. “Don’t lose sleep over that guy.”

“It’s up here on the left,” she told the cab driver.

“You got plenty else to lose sleep over, I’m afraid,” Joel added.