Mistaken Identity

54

The Criminal Justice Center was built as a replacement courthouse for City Hall because the City of Brotherly Love had so many criminals, City Hall couldn’t try them all. A slim column of blond sandstone with modern art deco touches, the new Criminal Justice Center stood like the pretty younger sister across the street from the Victorian dowager that was City Hall. Courtroom 306 was the largest courtroom in the Justice Center, and the only secured one. A wall of clear plastic, bulletproof and soundproof, spanned its width and divided the bar of court from the gallery, which was packed with reporters and spectators. A trio of sketch artists sat together in the front row, one armed with tiny brass binoculars.

Bennie waited at counsel table for trial to begin, hating that the lawyers, judge, and court personnel were behind glass. It made her feel uncomfortably as if she were on television and the gallery were a studio audience; not that she could point a finger, considering her trial strategy of the “twin defense.” Since the other night, however, Bennie had discarded any plan of looking like Connolly at trial. She wore her hair unstyled this morning, had on no makeup, and her suit was the navy one she always wore to court. Except for the haircut, she looked almost like her breezy, confident self again, though she didn’t feel that way inside.

Her mother’s death was a pain that Bennie felt more acutely, like a wound that grows more sensitive to the touch. She had never been so aware of her aloneness in the world, and it made her vulnerable, shaky. The thought would cross her mind to call her mother’s doctor, a reminder sent for so many years from the tickler file in the back of her brain, and each time Bennie got the message, she recalled anew that it was a phone call she no longer had to make.

Her gaze fell on the blank legal pad in front of her, refocusing her on the task at hand: Try this case and win. Bennie had come to believe that Connolly, though hardly innocent, hadn’t committed the murder for which she stood trial. Somebody else had, and that person was getting away with murder. It was wrong, and that Connolly deserved to be punished didn’t make it right, because the next defendant wouldn’t. For Bennie, justice was always about the next defendant. And in this case, it could also be about saving her mother’s other daughter, as loathsome as she was.

“Let’s get started, ladies and gentlemen,” said Judge Guthrie, taking a quick sip of water from a tall glass. The judge wore a bow tie of Stewart plaid with his robes and slipped off his tortoiseshell reading glasses. His sharp eyes focused on the courtroom deputy, and if he recalled his meeting with Bennie at all, it didn’t show. “Please bring in the defendant, Mr. Deputy.”

The deputy hurried to a door on the side of the modern courtroom, which was concealed behind a mahogany panel. The judge looked expectantly at the closed door, and the spectators turned their heads as one. The district attorney, Dorsey Hilliard, sneaked a glance, and Bennie arranged her face into a professional mask. The paneled door opened and a cop in a black windbreaker entered the courtroom, followed by Alice Connolly.

Bennie almost gasped at the sight.

Connolly had performed a makeover in reverse, to look like Bennie. She had dyed her hair a pale blond color that matched Bennie’s and it hung as unstyled as Bennie’s. She wore no makeup, uncharacteristically; and her royal-blue suit and white shirt complemented Bennie’s own navy suit and white silk shirt. No wonder Connolly had opted not to be present for jury selection; she had wanted to preserve her surprise. Connolly must have realized that after the prison murders, Bennie would lose heart for the twin defense, and had evidently decided to stage it herself, with a vengeance. When Connolly crossed the courtroom, it was as if Bennie were watching her reflection in a true mirror, seeing herself walk in her own direction.

She felt blindsided, suddenly thrown off-balance. The defendant had become the lawyer; the twins had traded places. It was as if Connolly were trying to steal her position, her reputation, her very self. Bennie had created a monster and it was her. Looked like her. Walked like her. Then the monster sat in a seat next to her at counsel table, faced the front of the courtroom, and awaited the beginning of the trial like a seasoned litigator.

Bennie looked quickly around. At the prosecution table, Hilliard was reading papers, undoubtedly hoping not to draw attention to the similarity, but everyone in the courtroom had eyes. The deputy nudged an already surprised court reporter. Judy and Mary, sitting at the bar of court behind counsel table, were exchanging looks. Judge Guthrie peered over his glasses at Connolly and Bennie, then frowned deeply at the gallery.

Crack! Crack! Crack! “Order, ladies and gentlemen,” the judge said into a black stem of a microphone, which would carry his warning through hidden speakers to the gallery. “There must be order in this courtroom throughout these proceedings. We may not be able to hear you through the glass, but the same rules of decorum still apply. Anyone who doesn’t abide by them will be ousted.” Crack! Judge Guthrie banged the gavel. “Kindly escort the jury in, Mr. Deputy, and let’s begin.”

Bennie forced herself to relax, preparing for the only opinion that mattered: the jury’s. The twelve people who would have Connolly’s miserable life in their hands. She recrossed her legs, then noticed that Connolly was recrossing her legs the same way. Bennie would have said something, but the jurors began filing in, shuffling through the door. She watched them with a stony face, waiting for their reaction. Jurors always looked cowed when they entered a courtroom for the first time and this jury was no exception. They walked into the jury box with their heads down and found their seats as self-consciously as late theatergoers.

Bennie pushed herself back into her chair. She knew the jurors would steal glances at defense table and absorb the visual impact of her sitting next to Connolly, like bookends. She wished she could hold up a sign that said, THIS WAS ALL HER DOING, but then realized that it wouldn’t be true. It was Bennie’s doing. She had devised the twin defense and set it in motion. She was locked in a prison of her own making. And the murderer was on the outside, with the key.

Bennie felt like apologizing to every juror. They were a smart jury, with a higher education level than most. She and Hilliard had picked them in record time for a death-qualified jury, because Judge Guthrie had presided over voir dire and permitted only the most routine questions. It wasn’t her favorite way to pick a jury, but Bennie had relied on her instincts, biases, and judgment to wind up with a good, fair crew.

Crack! “This is Commonwealth v. Connolly, Docket Number 82634,” Judge Guthrie said. “Good morning, ladies and gentleman of the jury. We met earlier during voir dire and now it’s time to begin our work in earnest. Mr. Hilliard, are you ready for your opening argument?” His graceful tone sounded more like a question than an order, and Hilliard reached for his crutches, placed them expertly under his elbows, and rose from his seat.

“I am, Your Honor.” The district attorney nodded curtly in his dark, pinstriped suit, sharply tailored around his large, muscular frame. The jurors eyed him as he walked to the podium, grunting slightly from the effort of movements they all took for granted. Bennie watched their gaze lingering on the contradiction of a huge, strong body that couldn’t power itself even a single step forward. Well-meaning people, the jurors’ faces showed a sympathy they couldn’t help but feel. It was an open secret that Hilliard’s disability gave him a politically correct edge with them, though it clearly wasn’t intended. His disability was a nonissue for him.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “my name is Dorsey Hilliard and I represent the people of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania against Alice Connolly. The defendant has been charged with the crime of murder for the death of her lover, Detective Anthony Della Porta. I do not believe in lengthy arguments. I let my witnesses do my talking for me. So I will keep this brief.”

Hilliard raised his voice, his bass tones resonant and his cadence no-nonsense. “The Commonwealth will prove that on the night of the murder, the lovers argued, as they did with increasing frequency. After the argument, the defendant shot Detective Anthony Della Porta point-blank in the head with a handgun. The Commonwealth will prove that the defendant did intentionally, and in a premeditated manner, murder Detective Della Porta, one of the most respected and decorated detectives in the Philadelphia Police Department.”

Bennie shifted in her chair, thinking of the money she’d found under the floorboards. How the hell would she get it in?

“The evidence will show that neighbors heard the lethal gunshot and saw the defendant fleeing the scene of the crime. Police arrived at the scene and also saw her fleeing, holding a plastic bag. They saw her run into an alley to escape them. They were able to arrest her only by chasing her and finally tackling her to the ground. Even then, the defendant fought to escape, and what she told them when they arrested her will not only shock you, it will prove to you beyond any doubt that she is guilty of this crime.”

Back at defense table, Bennie tried not to squirm. She could only imagine what the cops would make up. At her shoulder, Connolly was shifting in her seat, though Bennie couldn’t tell if it was artifice or nerves.

After a pause, Hilliard continued. “Once the defendant was in custody, police conducted a complete search of Trose Street, including the alley that the defendant had run into. You will hear evidence that there was a Dumpster in the alley, and in the Dumpster, authorities found that plastic bag, which contained clothes belonging to the defendant. Experts will tell you that the clothes were soaked with the still-warm blood of Detective Della Porta.” Hilliard paused again, as if for a moment of silence. “By the last witness for the Commonwealth, each of you will be absolutely certain that the defendant killed Anthony Della Porta and is guilty of murder. Thank you for your attention, for your service to the Commonwealth, and to our country.” Hilliard eased into his crutches and returned to his seat.

“Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie said, “we’re ready for your opening argument.” He moved some papers on the dais, without looking up. The black marble backdrop behind the dais glistened darkly and the ersatz gold disk of the Commonwealth shone like a tarnished sun.

Bennie rose to her feet, her expression only apparently confident. She walked straight to the jury, bypassing the podium. She always delivered her arguments standing directly in front of the jury, talking to them eye-to-eye. Usually Bennie knew exactly what she’d say.

Not today.

55

Bennie slipped her hands in her skirt pockets and stood silent for a minute, head down, trying to compose herself. She thought of her mother, and Connolly. Then the black TransAm, for which she looked every trip to and from the courthouse, and the murdered inmates. The rarest thing in a courtroom was a lawyer not talking, and Bennie felt, more than heard, the courtroom fall quiet and the jury waiting, their eyes on her. She looked up, cleared her mind, and did another remarkable thing. She decided to tell them everything, and all of it the truth.

“My name is Bennie Rosato, and I represent Alice Connolly, who is accused of murder in this case. I remember selecting you for this jury, and you were an intelligent group, so I will address you as such. You have undoubtedly noticed that Alice Connolly and I look alike. We look like identical twins, in fact.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, pushing himself out of his seat with two solid arms. “Ms. Rosato’s familial relationships are absolutely irrelevant to this case.”

Judge Guthrie slipped his glasses from his nose. “Please approach the bench, counsel.”

“Yes, sir.” Bennie swallowed hard and strode to the dais, where Hilliard met her, standing next to a court reporter.

Judge Guthrie leaned forward. “What is going on here, Ms. Rosato?”

“I’m making my opening statement, Your Honor. I want to deal up front with a matter the jury has to be wondering about, as you must be.”

“Your personal relationships have nothing to do with the guilt or innocence of this defendant.” Judge Guthrie shifted unhappily and the rich folds of his black robing caught the overhead light. “Your twinship is a collateral issue at best.”

“Of course it’s collateral,” Hilliard agreed, his tone angry even at a whisper. “It’s more than collateral, in fact. It’s completely irrelevant and prejudicial.”

Bennie held up a slightly shaking palm. “That’s precisely my point. It is collateral, but it has the power to distract the jury so much they can’t focus on the evidence. If I don’t deal with this issue at the outset, the whole trial they’ll be thinking-are they twins or aren’t they?”

Hilliard’s shaved head snapped toward the judge. “Your Honor, does defense counsel really expect us to believe that she didn’t dress her client for court today? That she didn’t hide her for jury selection? Ms. Rosato wants the jury to make the connection between her and her client. Their hair and their clothes are the same. She’s managed to personally vouch for the defendant without saying a word.”

Bennie grasped the dais more urgently than she wanted to acknowledge. “I’m trying to defuse this situation, Your Honor, by putting it on the table. Ms. Connolly is on trial for her life, and as defense counsel, it’s an error not to afford me the latitude to dispose of any issue that will obviate her ability to get a fair trial. I have every right to finish my opening, Your Honor. I… have no choice.”

Judge Guthrie frowned. “I’m going to overrule the objection for the present time. However, Ms. Rosato, rest assured that if there is case law that governs this type of trickery, my law clerks will find it. In addition, any attempts the defense makes to personally vouch for the defendant’s innocence will subject you to contempt. You may continue, Ms. Rosato, but proceed with the utmost caution.”

“Thank you,” Bennie said, though she felt as if she’d been mugged. Hilliard walked back to counsel table, and she returned to the jury, eye-to-eye with an older black woman who sat front and center. Belle Highwater, age sixty-two, librarian; Bennie remembered from the jury sheets. The librarian’s straightened hair was graying and frizzy at the temples and her brow was divided by a furrow Bennie hoped she hadn’t caused.

“What I was about to tell you,” she continued, “is that there is an issue we have to deal with right now, before it gets in the way of this trial. It’s obvious to all of us, it’s staring us right in the face. Take a good, long look at my client, Alice Connolly. Go ahead, ladies and gentlemen, don’t be shy. Look now and take her in. Look at Alice Connolly’s face, body, clothes, and makeup, or lack thereof. Notice even the way she sits.”

The jurors’ heads turned obediently, and Connolly stiffened in her seat at the unexpected scrutiny. Bennie enjoyed her discomfort. Exposing Connolly’s stratagem to the jury would rob it of its power. Bennie was regaining control of the case. She couldn’t have planned it better. She hadn’t.

Bennie cleared her throat to get the jury’s attention. “Now, if you would, look at me. Compare my face, body, and clothes with my client’s.” Her arms rested at her sides as fourteen pairs of curious eyes swept her form. “Notice anything? It’s obvious, isn’t it? Alice Connolly looks like me, even dresses like me, doesn’t she?” Bennie paused, and the black librarian nodded. “When she walked in this morning, I was amazed at how much we look like twins. She even sits like me and will probably use some of the same gestures I use at counsel table. But the truth is, I have no idea if Ms. Connolly is my twin or not. I didn’t meet her until this case, so it’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

A juror in the front row, a young white man with a goatee and tiny Ben Franklin glasses, edged forward on his seat, intrigued. Bennie remembered him from the jury sheets, too: William Desmoines, age twenty-six, Temple grad, videographer.

“I am raising the issue only to answer as honestly as I can a question you must have. I cannot change the way I look, and I cannot change the way Alice Connolly looks. I cannot help that we look alike, nor will I hide it from you. All I can do is ask you not to focus on the similarity between me and Ms. Connolly, but concentrate only on the evidence and the testimony in this case.”

Hilliard’s eyes narrowed. At the bar of court, Judy stirred restlessly, hiding her confusion. Either it was the coolest opening argument she had ever heard or Bennie had lost it completely. Next to Judy, Mary prayed the rosary in her head. Pray for us lawyers, now and at our last billable hour. Amen.

Bennie walked to the corner of the jury box. “The prosecutor and I agree on only one fact: this is a court of law, and your job is to find the truth. You must determine whether Alice Connolly is guilty or innocent of the murder with which she has been charged. The prosecutor can parade witnesses at you, but at the end of the day, remember this: all they have is a bare, circumstantial case. No one saw Alice Connolly commit this crime, no one could have. By the end of this trial you will be convinced that not only can the Commonwealth not prove its case against Alice Connolly beyond a reasonable doubt, but that Alice Connolly is completely innocent of the murder of Anthony Della Porta. Thank you.”

Bennie walked to her chair and sat down, avoiding Connolly’s eye. She had no idea how she’d prove what she said. She just knew that it was true and she was the one meant to prove it. Here and now.

56

Wind sent discarded newspapers rolling along the grimy city curb. It was a blustery, gray morning, teetering on the edge of a summer thunderstorm. If the weather couldn’t make up its mind, neither could Lou Jacobs. He stood on the stoop of the rowhouse and hesitated before he knocked. His fist hung in the air, hovering clenched before the front door. He felt damn uncomfortable helping get a cop killer off. Then again, he felt damn uncomfortable that the cop may have been dirty. Lou had spent the past few days asking everybody he knew about the black TransAm. Nobody knew the car. Lou had even cruised around, trying to pick up the TransAm on a tail, but no soap.

Lou stood at the front door like a sophomore on his first date. He was starting to think the TransAm meant zip. As for the money under the floorboards, that was touchy to bring up with his friends, and Lou would never slam another cop without proof. That money could have come from anywhere. The lottery. The slots. Savings. Anywhere. Then he thought again. Yeah, right. Half a mil? Goddamn Sam!

Lou knocked on the door but no one answered. He had to finish the job he’d started, canvassing the neighbors. It was the only way he knew to do a job. Slow and steady wins the race. The address of the rowhouse was 3010 Winchester Street, the street in back of Trose; it was the first house where the alley came out and where McShea and Reston had collared Connolly. Lou had to believe he’d find something on Winchester if he just took it methodical.

Half a mil.

Lou thought about knocking again, then lowered his arm and stood there like a stupid ass. Couldn’t even decide whether to knock. Half of him wanted to know what was going on; the other half would just as soon let it lie. The neighbors had IDed Connolly running down Trose, then Winchester. They all said the same thing. Lou could feel it to his marrow: Connolly was the doer. Whatever Della Porta had been into, she was into deeper, and he was the one who got dead in the end. Lou didn’t like helping her walk.

Hell with it. Screw her. He turned from the door and climbed back down the stoop, buttoning his blazer around his waist so it wouldn’t fly around. He strode down the street, trying not to think about the money. He woulda loved to have even five thousand in the bank for a cushion, but he didn’t, not with his alimony payments. The economy was through the roof and his ex-wife was the only one who couldn’t find a job. She was a welfare queen, and he was the Democrats.

Lou put his head to the wind. He’d never taken a bribe as a cop, not a nickel, though he had plenty of opportunities, all small-time. If Della Porta was dirty, he was a sack of shit, and shame on him. Now that he was dead, his shame should die with him.

Lou reached his brown Honda and dug in his pants pocket for his keys. He didn’t need this aggravation. It wasn’t what he signed up for when he went with Rosato. This kind of shit was up to Internal Affairs, not to him. He was just a beat cop, retired, and though he had always done careful police work, he’d realized a long time ago that he wouldn’t be one of the great ones. Didn’t have the head for it, or the taste. The killer instinct some of them had or that politician’s touch.

Lou got inside his car and was about to turn on the ignition when the guilt got to him. He always thought of himself as a man of his word. He had given Rosato his word and he couldn’t let her down, especially not now, with her mother gone. He could see it broke her up, more than she let on. Maybe more than she knew. Lou understood, he was like that when his mother passed. Besides, he always kept his word as a cop, even though he wasn’t a higher-up. He was proud of the integrity he brought to the badge.

With a sigh, he switched off the ignition, got out of the car, and went back to 3010 Winchester Street.

57

On the witness stand, Officer Sean McShea wore a navy-blue uniform that strained at its double seams to accommodate his girth, and his peaked cap rested next to a worn Bible with red-edged pages. He spoke into the microphone with authority and warmth in equal measure. “How long have I been with my partner, Art Reston?” McShea asked, reiterating the prosecutor’s question. “Seven years. Not as long as my wife, but she’s a better cook.”

The jury laughed, but Bennie simmered at counsel table. She hadn’t been at all surprised to hear that McShea played Santa Claus at Children’s Hospital, a fact he managed to slip into his early testimony. McShea was everybody’s favorite neighborhood cop and the perfect choice for the Commonwealth’s first witness, like a legal warm-up act.

Hilliard was smiling, leaning on his crutches at the podium. “Now, Officer McShea, let’s turn to the events of the night in question, May nineteenth of last year. Did there come a time when you and Officer Art Reston received a radio report about a gunshot fired at 3006 Trose Street?”

“Yes. The report came over the radio when we were a block away, traveling north on Tenth Street. We happened to be in the area when we heard the report. Since we were so close, we kept driving on Tenth Street to Trose.”

“Did you formally respond to the call?”

“No.”

“And why was that?”

“As soon as I heard the report, I just hit the gas and reacted. I knew the address was Anthony’s, uh, Detective Della Porta’s, and I knew we were close enough to do something about it.”

“In retrospect, should you have radioed in that you were responding to the report?”

“Yes, but I was concentrating on saving a cop’s life.”

Hilliard nodded, approvingly. “Officer McShea, what did you and your partner do next?”

“We drove to the corner of Trose Street and stopped the car.”

“Did you see anything on Trose Street?”

“Yes. We saw the defendant. She was running down Trose Street from the scene of the crime.”

Bennie shot up. “Move to strike, Your Honor. That’s speculative and misleading.”

“Overruled. The witness is expert enough to make such conclusions, Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie said, his lower lip puckering. It etched two tiny lines at each corner of his fine mouth and wrinkled his chin wattles into his bright bow tie. “Please proceed, Mr. Hilliard.”

“Officer McShea, how did the defendant appear to you when she was running? Emotionally, I mean.”

“Objection,” Bennie said, half rising, but Judge Guthrie gave his head a wobbly shake.

“Overruled,” Judge Guthrie said, and Bennie added a silent hashmark to the tally of the objections she’d lost. She was only two for ten. Any time Judge Guthrie could rule against her without arousing suspicion or annoying the jury, he would. Trial judges had carte blanche on evidentiary rulings, and appellate courts didn’t throw out jury verdicts unless the evidentiary errors made a difference in the trial’s outcome. Otherwise, they were legally considered “harmless error,” although Bennie believed no errors were harmless when a life was at stake.

McShea cleared his throat. “She looked panicky, stressed. My kids would say she was ‘freaked.’ ”

Hilliard walked to a large foamcore exhibit, a black-and-white diagram of Trose Street, which had been set up on an easel and faced the jury. “Referring to Exhibit C-1, would you show the jury where you first spotted the defendant that night?” Hilliard gestured to the exhibit resting on the easel’s ledge, raising his crutch like a personal pointer.

“Sure,” McShea said, wielding the pointer with practiced motion. “We saw her right in front of the day care center, which is 3010 Trose Street. She ran past the day care center, westbound, past 3012 and 3014, to the alley.”

“Officer McShea, would you tell the jury what you and Officer Reston did after you saw the defendant run west on Trose Street?”

“We pulled the patrol car up to Trose Street and just as we were about to turn the corner, we saw the defendant running toward us. The defendant ran past the houses, then took a left into the alley. I put the car in reverse and reversed back to Winchester Street, which is where the alley empties out. The defendant ran out the other side of the alley and down Winchester Street. We drove down Winchester Street, then we exited the vehicle and pursued on foot.”

“Describe for the jury, if you would, what you refer to as your pursuit of the defendant. Use the exhibit if you need to.”

“The defendant was running down Winchester, heading east. I kept running down the block after her and so did my partner. My partner outstripped me right here,” McShea pointed to a spot on the middle of the diagram of Winchester Street, “and he reached the defendant first. He had to use force to subdue her. She resisted arrest.”

“Did either of you identify yourself as police officers during this pursuit of the defendant?”

“Yes, it’s procedure.”

“How did you identify yourself as a police officer?”

“I shouted, ‘Freeze, police.’ I know my lines.”

Hilliard smiled. “Did the defendant stop running?”

“No, she ran faster. My partner subdued the defendant by tackling her to the ground. She was struggling pretty bad, and he was trying to hold her down. I arrived on the scene and ordered her to get down, so I could cuff her.”

“Officer McShea, when you say the defendant was ‘struggling pretty bad,’ what exactly do you mean?”

“She was kicking, biting, and punching with her arms. She struggled on the ground and kept kicking upward at my partner, in the groin area. I was shouting, ‘Get down, get down,’ but she wouldn’t listen. Before I got her cuffed, she tried to get up and run away again.”

“Did the defendant say anything to you while you were handcuffing her?” Hilliard asked, and Bennie’s ears pricked up.

“Objection!” she said, rising quickly. “The question calls for hearsay, Your Honor.”

“It’s not hearsay, it’s coming in for the truth, and it’s an admission anyway,” Hilliard said, and Bennie knew she couldn’t discuss this in front of the jury. Connolly had made an admission? When had the cops dreamed this up? There wasn’t any testimony about an admission at the prelim.

“May we approach, Your Honor?” Bennie asked, and Judge Guthrie motioned them forward. She hustled to the bench and waited until Hilliard reached it. “Your Honor, this is hearsay.”

“If it’s an admission, it comes in, Ms. Rosato. You know the rules.”

“There was no testimony about any admission at the preliminary hearing. Whatever this admission is, it should have been supplied to the defense, and it wasn’t.”

“Your Honor,” Hilliard piped up, “the Commonwealth was under no obligation to offer each and every statement to the defense, and Ms. Rosato has total access to her client. She could have asked her.”

Bennie gripped the beveled edge of the dais. “But, Your Honor-”

“I’ve already ruled,” Judge Guthrie interrupted, shaking his head. “The statement is admissible.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, and returned to counsel table. Bennie did the same, her face betraying none of the anxiety she felt as she sat down next to Connolly. An admission could be lethal to the defense.

Hilliard walked over to the witness stand. “Officer McShea, what did the defendant say to you when you arrested her?”

Officer McShea spoke clearly into the microphone. “While I was cuffing her, she said she did it, and she offered us money to let her go. She offered us thirty thousand dollars apiece and when we said no, she upped it to a hundred.”

Silence fell in the courtroom, as if the trial had suddenly stalled in a pocket of dead air. An older juror in the front row leaned back in her chair and a young woman next to her blinked. The black librarian scowled at Connolly, who was scribbling a note to Bennie on her legal pad. Connolly wrote, I BEGGED THEM NOT TO KILL ME. Bennie skimmed the note without comment. All she could think was, they just did.

“Officer McShea,” Hilliard continued, “is it your testimony, then, that the defendant confessed and attempted to bribe you not to take her into custody?”

“Yes.”

“And you refused?”

“Of course. When we didn’t accept, she demanded a lawyer.”

Hilliard paused to let it sink in. “Officer McShea, permit me to take you back a minute, in the events of that night. When you first saw the defendant running down Trose Street, did you see anything in the defendant’s hand?”

“Yes, she was holding a white bag. Plastic, like you get at the Acme. Or, I should say, my wife gets at the Acme. I can’t take the credit when she does the work.” McShea smiled, as did the women in the front row of the jury. Connolly shifted next to Bennie, but didn’t say anything.

“Now Officer McShea, fast-forward to when you and Officer Reston were arresting her. Was she still carrying the white plastic bag?”

“No. The defendant had nothing in her hand when I cuffed her.”

“So the white plastic bag vanished when the defendant came out of the alley, is that correct?”

“Objection,” Bennie said. “The district attorney is testifying, Your Honor.”

“Overruled,” Judge Guthrie barked, and addressed the witness. “Officer McShea, would you answer the question, please?”

“The plastic bag was in her hand when the defendant ran into the alley and it wasn’t there when we arrested her.”

“When did you next see that bag, Officer McShea?” Hilliard asked.

“We took the defendant into custody, locked her in the squad car, and went looking for the plastic bag. We both saw her go into the alley with it and come out without it, so we knew pretty well where it had to be. I’m smarter than I look.”

Hilliard smiled and leaned on the witness box, so close to the cop he was practically in his seat. It wasn’t Hilliard’s handicap, it was his way of vouching for the cop, so common Bennie thought of it as the D.A. lap dance. “Officer McShea,” he said, “tell the jury the results of your search.”

“Officer Reston and I searched the alley in the middle of the block, toward the west end. In the alley was a Dumpster, from the construction across the street. We searched the Dumpster and in it we found a white plastic bag, like the one I saw in the defendant’s hand.”

“Did you find anything inside the bag?”

“Yes. A woman’s gray sweatshirt. It had blood all over it. It was still wet and warm.”

Hilliard picked up a tagged white bag from the evidence table and moved it into evidence. Bennie watched as the jurors craned their necks at the dark streaks on the crumpled sweatshirt, which could only be blood. “Officer McShea, I’m holding Exhibit C-12 and C-13. Is this the white bag and the sweatshirt you found?”

The cop stretched out a hand for the clothes bag and examined it through the plastic, turning it over. “Yes.”

“Now, Officer McShea, you testified that you found the sweatshirt, C- 13, in the Dumpster in the alley. Was the Dumpster full or empty?”

“Pretty full, lots of construction trash. Boards, rubble, and whatnot.”

“Did you have to dig in the trash to find this sweatshirt?”

“No. It was right on top of the other trash.”

“Was it concealed there?”

“Not at all.”

Bennie eyed the jurors. To a one, they were engrossed in the story. McShea’s testimony was easily understood, absolutely incriminating, and totally false. She’d have to handle him with care on cross.

“Officer McShea,” Hilliard asked, “by the way, did you or your partner find the murder weapon in the alley?”

“No, we didn’t. To the best of my knowledge, the murder weapon was never recovered.”

“I see.” Hilliard paused. “Did there come a time when you and your partner took the defendant down to the Roundhouse, the police administration building, in the squad car?”

“Yes, sure.”

“When you took the defendant to the Roundhouse, was she visibly upset or crying over the death of her lover, Detective Della Porta?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said. “Does Mr. Hilliard mean other than the witness has already described? People show their grief in many different ways.” Her mother’s face materialized suddenly in her mind’s eye.

“Rephrase the question,” Judge Guthrie said, leaning back again. He arranged his robe around him and patted the gathered stitching that ringed his robe like a yoke.

“Officer McShea,” Hilliard asked, “was the defendant crying when you took her to the Roundhouse?”

“No, but a couple of us were,” McShea said, bitterness tainting his tone, and Bennie knew instantly that the jury would be reminded that the murdered man was a fallen policeman. She had to find a way to let them know what their hero had hidden under his floor.

“I have no further questions. Your witness, Ms. Rosato,” Hilliard said, his tone grave. “Thank you.”

Hilliard gathered his papers at the podium as Bennie stepped from behind counsel table, buttoned her suit jacket, and shook off her mother’s image. She had to prove to the jury something that adults should already have known. There really was no Santa Claus.

58

Bennie took a second to frame her first question. She’d tried enough cases to know that some of the jurors had already decided she was representing a cold-blooded cop killer and would regard her with the same loathing as her client. But most of them would reserve judgment, and she saw them casting an inquisitive eye on her and Connolly’s complementary blue suits and identical hairstyles. She hated the scheme she’d set in motion and wished she could wriggle from her own skin, like a common snake.

“Officer McShea,” Bennie began, walking to the podium, “what is your district?”

“The Twentieth.”

Bennie didn’t use the map of the city she’d had made because it would slow the exam. “Now, just to simplify things, your beat is the western segment of the city, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it true that Detective Della Porta’s apartment is located in a different district, the Eleventh?”

“Yes.”

“The Eleventh is on the other side of the city from the Twentieth, isn’t it?

“Yes.” McShea appeared unfazed, and Bennie walked around the podium, to the edge of the microphone’s range. The gallery wouldn’t be able to hear well, but she was no longer playing for the studio audience.

“You and your partner were the first patrol car to respond to the Della Porta murder, isn’t that right, Officer McShea?”

“Yes.”

“You were not responding to a radio call, were you?”

“No.”

“You couldn’t be, because the first call came into 911 after that, isn’t that right?”

“If you say so. Right.”

“And you were on duty that night, were you not?”

McShea cocked his head. “We were.”

“Now, you testified that you just happened to be in Detective Della Porta’s neighborhood at the time. If you were on duty, why were you out of your district?”

“We, uh, went down to get dinner.” McShea looked frankly sheepish.

“You went out of your district to get dinner? Where?”

“A cheesesteak, at Pat’s. A Cheese Whiz, to be specific.”

The jury nodded and smiled. Every Philadelphian got a “Cheese Whiz,” a steak sandwich with Cheese Whiz, at Pat’s Steaks. Not only would the story strike a hometown chord with the jurors, it was impossible to verify, and so human it sounded believable. Bennie agreed with McShea; he was smarter than he looked.

“So you went to Pat’s for a cheesesteak that night?”

“Yes.”

“How much time would you say it takes to drive from your district to Pat’s Steaks, on Tenth Street?”

“Probably half an hour, if you don’t take South Street. You know how the song goes. That’s where all the hippies meet,” McShea joked, and the jury laughed with him again. Bennie was aware she was coming off like a killjoy, but she failed to see the humor.

“Let’s do the math, Officer McShea. If it takes half an hour to get to Pat’s from your beat, it would take a half an hour to get back, right?”

“Sure.”

“So far that’s an hour. Now, did you eat the cheesesteak at Pat’s, at one of the tables outside, or did you take it out and go back to your district?”

“We ate at Pat’s. Outside, standing up, next to that big counter with the peppers and ketchup.” McShea turned to the jury in appeal, palms up. “I mean, you have to eat at Pat’s. It’s tradition.” The jury smiled, and so did McShea, who let his gaze slip toward the back of the gallery. Bennie didn’t turn to see whom he was looking at, with the jury watching her. She assumed it was his captain, since this testimony wouldn’t look so good in McShea’s personnel file. The cop was entering damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t territory, and Bennie intended to lead him there and buy him a house.

“Now, since this was in early summer, on May nineteenth, I bet Pat’s was hopping that night, wasn’t it?”

“Sure. Pat’s was busy. Pat’s is always busy.”

“So there was a line out front of the window, where you get the cheesesteaks, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you and Officer Reston wait in line to place your order or did you go to the front of the line?”

“I don’t remember.”

Bennie folded her arms. “I don’t get it. You remember you were there, you remember what you ate, you remember where you ate it, but you don’t remember whether you went to the front of the line or not?”

“Objection, asked and answered, Your Honor,” Hilliard said.

Bennie faced Judge Guthrie. “Your Honor, this is cross-examination. The defense has a right to understand the events of the night of the murder.”

Hilliard rose on his arms. “Your Honor, anything Officer McShea ate for dinner is irrelevant to the commission of the crime in question. He was merely the arresting officer.”

Bennie had to bite her tongue. “Your Honor, the issue isn’t what Officer McShea had for dinner. It concerns the timing of his arrival at the scene of the crime and how he and his partner ‘just happened’ to be there.”

Judge Guthrie put up a hand and leaned back in his chair. “I’ll allow it, in a very limited scope.”

“Thank you,” she said, as Hilliard eased back into his chair and Bennie faced the witness. “Officer McShea, you were saying you don’t remember if you went to the front of the line to order your cheesesteak.”

“Probably if it was a busy night, we’d go to the front of the line. If it was a slow night and we didn’t have jobs, we’d wait in line.”

“Was it a slow night the night of May nineteenth?”

McShea hesitated. “I don’t recall.”

“Well, if it were a busy night in your district, you wouldn’t have left for a cheesesteak, would you?”

“Objection!” Hilliard said, rising. “Your Honor, defense counsel is asking this witness to speculate.”

“Is it just speculation that this police officer would do his duty?” Bennie asked, suppressing a smile, and noticed with satisfaction that the juror with the goatee grinned with her. She hoped he’d end up as foreman. She remembered him as bright and articulate from voir dire.

“Sustained.” Judge Guthrie nibbled the calico stem of his glasses. “You need not answer the question, Officer.”

“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a busy night on the job,” McShea said anyway.

“Thank you,” Bennie said. “So, Officer McShea, let’s assume that on the night in question you waited in line at Pat’s. Do you remember how long it took to get to the front of the line?”

“Five, ten minutes at most.”

“By the way, how much did dinner cost that night, for you and your partner?”

“I don’t remember.”

Bennie cocked her head. Either somebody hadn’t taken McShea through the details of his story, or he had forgotten them. “You don’t remember that either?”

“No.”

“Did you pay for dinner or did Officer Reston pay?”

“Uh, I think Reston did. He’s always got dough on him. He’s single.”

Bennie didn’t smile. “Do you remember or are you making it up as you go along?”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Hilliard called from the prosecution table, and Judge Guthrie frowned deeply.

“Sustained. Ms. Rosato, I caution you to temper your questions with civility.”

Bennie took it on the chin and faced the witness. “Getting back on track, Officer McShea, how long did it take you and Officer Reston to eat your cheesesteaks?”

“Inhaled is more like it. It doesn’t take too long, not the way I eat. Fifteen minutes, a half hour, at the most.” McShea glanced again at the back of the gallery, and the look wasn’t lost on Bennie, who walked around her table to check the back pew of the gallery. To her surprise, it wasn’t any police brass who McShea was looking at, but a uniformed cop. A young, blond-haired cop who looked like a surfer. Oh, no. He fit Lou’s description of the driver of the black TransAm. Bennie’s pulse quickened.

“Let me understand your testimony, Officer McShea.” Bennie turned to make a note on her legal pad and passed the pad casually back to Judy. It said, GET THE NAME OF THAT BLOND COP IN THE BACK ROW.

She continued. “Officer, taking your estimate, that’s an hour and a half to get and eat dinner that night. How’s my addition?”

“Better than mine.”

“How many other cars cover your district of the city?” “One.”

“So when you’re not there, the other patrol officers are left with maybe sixty city blocks to cover by themselves?”

McShea looked sheepish again. “Hey, I’m not proud of it. It was a onetime thing.”

“Nevertheless, how would you characterize your district, Officer McShea, as a high-crime area or low-crime area?”

“It depends.”

“If I told you the Philadelphia Inquirer characterizes it as high crime, would you be surprised?”

“I’m not surprised by anything in the Inquirer,” the witness shot back, but Bennie saw that the front row of the jury had lost its sense of humor. They would recognize the neighborhood and were listening with concern, especially the black librarian. As Bennie recalled, her branch was in a rough city neighborhood, and she plainly disapproved.

“Fine.” Bennie decided to leave it alone. “So other than the cheesesteak, there was no other reason you were in Detective Della Porta’s neighborhood?”

“No.”

“You didn’t have a meeting with Detective Della Porta that night?”

“No.”

“You didn’t have a score to settle with Detective Della Porta?”

“Objection!” Hilliard said, half rising. “There’s no foundation for that question, Your Honor. What is defense counsel even talking about?”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie ruled, sliding his chair forward so quickly that a banging noise reverberated through the courtroom’s microphone system.

Bennie backed off, for the time being. “You testified that Alice Connolly confessed and tried to bribe you not to take her into custody, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And you testified she did this while you were arresting her, on Winchester Street, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Rowhouses line Winchester Street, do they not?”

“Sure.”

“And you arrested Alice Connolly in front of which house, I don’t recall you testifying.”

McShea looked heavenward for a moment. “I don’t know. It was at the end of the block, the east end.”

“Was there anybody else who heard this except you and your partner?”

“Nobody else was there.”

“Did Ms. Connolly shout this confession?”

“No.” McShea snorted derisively. “People don’t usually shout murder confessions in public. Her voice was lower than normal.”

Bennie tried to visualize it. “Help me understand this, Officer McShea. You testified that you and Officer Reston had to subdue Alice Connolly, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“So I assume her face was down on the pavement and her hands were behind her while you were attempting to handcuff her, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And you testified she was struggling and kicking, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you testified you were standing above her, struggling with her, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you were shouting, ‘Get down, get down’?”

“Yes.”

“So how did you hear Alice Connolly make this so-called confession, if her voice was lower than normal?”

McShea paused. “Okay, it was a little louder than that.”

“How much louder?”

“Loud enough to hear.”

“Loud enough for the neighbors to hear?”

“Not that loud.”

Bennie scratched her head, for effect. “Officer McShea, I’m confused. A minute ago, you testified that Alice confessed in a lower tone than normal. Now you’re saying it was a normal tone of voice. Which is it, Officer McShea?”

“Normal.”

“Normal enough for you to hear, but not normal enough for anyone but you and your partner to hear?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, and Judge Guthrie leaned forward.

“Sustained.”

Bennie couldn’t do any more with it on cross. She’d have to bring the Winchester neighbors in, in the defense case. “Officer McShea, were you friends with Detective Della Porta?”

“We knew each other.”

“How well did you know each other?”

“Saw each other at police events and whatnot. Before he got promoted out, to detective.”

“You said ‘promoted out.’ Do you know which district Detective Della Porta was promoted from?”

“The Eleventh, I think.”

“Officer McShea, did you ever serve in the Eleventh District?”

“No, I was always in the Twentieth. It’s the neighborhood I grew up in.”

“Was your partner, Officer Reston, friendly with Detective Della Porta as well?”

“Yes.”

“To your knowledge, has Officer Reston always served in the Twentieth?”

“No.”

“He was transferred to it?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“From the Eleventh.”

Bennie thought about it. “So Detective Della Porta and your partner, Art Reston, both served in the Eleventh?”

“Yes.”

Bennie hesitated. It was folly to try to root out a conspiracy in open court, in real time, but she had no choice. Whatever dirt they were into started in the Eleventh District and probably stayed there if the pattern held true. “Officer McShea, did you ever visit Detective Della Porta at his apartment?”

“Maybe once or twice.”

Bennie’s heartbeat quickened. She needed to pin down the specifics of any connection between the two men. “What were the occasions that you visited Della Porta’s apartment?”

“He gave a party, I think. Coupla parties. It was a while ago.”

“How many parties?”

“I don’t remember, it was a while ago.”

“You testified that you recognized Detective Della Porta’s house number when it came over the radio, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“So it had to be a lot of parties for you to remember the house number and the house, didn’t it?”

“Objection,” Hilliard said, but Bennie raised her palms in appeal.

“This is cross-examination, Your Honor.”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie ruled, and began reading papers on the dais.

Bennie glanced at the jury. The librarian looked concerned again and the videographer shot a veiled look at the judge. Judge Guthrie was playing a risky game. If the jury sensed the bias in his rulings and felt that they weren’t getting the truth, they’d side with Bennie. She decided to emphasize it to them. It was the only way to combat the judge. “Your Honor, the jury is entitled to understand the connection between Detective Della Porta, Officer McShea, and Officer Reston.”

“There is no connection!” Hilliard protested.

“I’ll rephrase that,” Bennie said. “The jury is entitled to understand what, if any, connection exists between these three police officers.”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie ruled again. He leaned over the open index on his desk and for the first time since the cross-examination began, met Bennie’s eye directly. She sensed he was trying to warn her off. For her good? For his? In any event, she wasn’t listening.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, taking his seat, and Bennie turned to the witness.

“Officer McShea, I’ll change the subject for you. Please tell the jury what your job duties are as an active uniformed police officer.”

“What do you mean?” McShea asked, wary now, and Bennie slipped her hands into her pockets.

“I mean, what do you do as a cop?”

“I protect citizens from crime and enforce the law.”

“What kinds of law?”

“Robbery, murder, auto theft.”

“Laws against the use and sale of drugs, as well?”

“Objection,” Hilliard said, half rising on arms braced against counsel table. “What possible relevance do Officer McShea’s duties have to a murder case?”

Bennie faced Judge Guthrie. “Your Honor, in his direct, the prosecutor established Officer McShea’s credentials as a police officer, a father, a husband, even as Santa Claus. The defense is entitled to explore that once he’s opened the door. It’s a simple question, Your Honor.”

“I just don’t see any point to it, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, glancing at the jury.

Judge Guthrie peered over his glasses. “You may explore this in a very limited scope, Ms. Rosato.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Bennie said, and faced the witness. “Officer McShea, do you enforce drug laws in your district?”

“Yes.”

“What type of drugs?”

“Marijuana. Cocaine, crack cocaine, heroin. Methamphetamine. PCP. Ecstasy. Shall I go on?”

Bennie shook her head. “That’s plenty. Officer McShea, have you ever arrested anyone for use or sale of any such drugs?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever confiscated any drugs in connection with those arrests?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever confiscated any cash in connection with those arrests?”

“Objection!” Hilliard said, rising and reaching for his crutches. “This is far beyond any relevant inquiry, Your Honor.”

Judge Guthrie nodded. “I agree, the objection is sustained. Ms. Rosato, please move on to your next line of questioning.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Bennie addressed the witness and prepared to let it rip. “I have one final question, Officer McShea. Were you aware that Detective Della Porta was involved in a conspiracy of police officers to sell confiscated drugs?”

“Objection!” Hilliard thundered, grabbing his crutches and leaping to his feet.

“Sustained!” Judge Guthrie ruled, the stem of his reading glasses almost falling from his mouth. His eyes flared as he looked past Bennie to the jury, then to the gallery on the other side of the bulletproof divider. Spectators chattered to each other, courtroom artists drew at speed, and reporters dashed off notes. “Order! Order!” he shouted, rooting through the papers for his gavel, then forgoing it altogether. “Order in the Court! Order!” The judge turned to Bennie. “Ms. Rosato, if you ever ask a question like that without laying a proper foundation, I’ll hold you in contempt. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Bennie said, her chin high. She knew what she’d found under that floor. There was only one way to get it into evidence. She was one step closer.

Judge Guthrie swiveled toward the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, please disregard that last question. Merely because defense counsel asks a question does not make it so. There hasn’t been any evidence presented in this trial that the decedent, Detective Della Porta, had any involvement whatsoever in any illicit drug dealing.” Judge Guthrie grabbed his reading glasses from the dais and stood up. “We’ll break for lunch and readjourn at one-thirty. Mr. Sheriff, please escort the jury out.”

Bennie watched the prosecutor slap his legal pad closed in anger, and she sat down in the midst of the havoc she had created, oddly satisfied.

“Meet with me at lunch,” Connolly whispered. Her voice echoed Bennie’s own, and the lawyer’s satisfaction evaporated in the blink of an eye.

59

Judy, on a mission, shot from her seat as soon as the court session ended. She pushed through the locked door in the bulletproof divider and slipped into the gallery, getting a bead on the blond cop as he headed out the double doors of the courtroom. The cop was at the front of the throng, one of the first to leave. Judy went after him, keeping her head down and charging ahead so the reporters wouldn’t bother her. The marble hallway outside the courtroom was mobbed, and Judy lost sight of the cop’s blue shirt in the sea of blue shirts. Cops were always around the courthouse waiting to testify.

The blond cop resurfaced near the elevator bank, waiting with a circle of others. There was usually a stampede to get out of the Justice Center at lunchtime and tacit courthouse decorum demanded that cops get priority to the elevators. But Judy was never one for decorum anyway. She threaded her way through the crowd and ended up only one cop away. Underneath the shiny patent-leather bill of his hat, she could see that the cop’s blue eyes were large and bright, his nose short, and his teeth bright against his tan. He was a hunk, but too Hitler Youth for Judy’s taste. She tried to get a look at the black nameplate on the far side of the cop’s broad chest, but he was turned away.

Judy reached for his sleeve. “Excuse me, may I speak with you for a minute, Officer?” she asked, and the cop’s eyes hardened.

“I’m late for my tour.”

“Maybe I can help you, miss,” offered one of the other cops, with a broad smile.

“She’s one of Connolly’s lawyers, Doug,” interrupted the third cop, but Judy’s eyes stayed on the blonde. The elevator door had opened and he was slipping inside, wedging himself between the already uncomfortable passengers.

“Wait a minute, comin’ through!” Judy said. She barreled into the elevator by bending her knees and plowing ahead, just like Mr. Gaines had taught her. Interesting that boxing lessons came in handy for trial lawyers.

“Hey, look out!” groused one of the passengers as Judy squeezed in the cab and the elevator doors closed behind her. “What you think you’re doin’, steppin’ on my foot?”

“Sorry.” Judy looked past the passenger to the blond cop, who kept his gaze averted. She still couldn’t read his nameplate; it was blocked. “Officer, I do need to speak with you,” she said, but he ignored her. The passengers looked at her like she was crazy, since she had already established that she was ill-mannered. “Meet you in the lobby, Officer.”

The elevator doors opened behind her and the crowd in the cab pressed forward, flowing around Judy like a river. The blond cop brushed past her, but she fell into step beside him and glanced at his nameplate. LENIHAN.

“Is there a reason you’re avoiding me, Officer Lenihan?” Judy asked, practically running to keep pace. “Why were you in the courtroom today?” The cop plowed through the courthouse lobby, passed the line at the metal detector, and shoved the courthouse door open. “What possible interest do you have in the Connolly case, Officer Lenihan?” Judy called out, brash as a reporter, but he charged ahead.

It was raining outside the Criminal Justice Center, a full-fledged summer thunderstorm, and people crowded for shelter under the entrance in front of the courthouse, talking and smoking until the rain broke. Frail beech trees in aluminum cylinders rustled in the downpour, and people opened umbrellas like new blossoms. A group of lawyers scurried into the rain, and Lenihan bolted between them and across Filbert, heedless of the storm.

Judy dashed after him, beginning to anger. She spent her waking hours asking questions people didn’t answer. “Officer Lenihan, stop!”

Lenihan picked up the pace. Heavy droplets pounded on his hat and epaulets, turning them a darker blue in quarter-sized spots.

Judy sprinted to catch up with him, blinking raindrops from her eyes. Her shoulders were getting drenched. “You can’t run away from this, Lenihan,” she shouted, as she dogged his thick, black heels. They passed an empty office building in a controlled run, its granite façade slick in the storm. The crowd wasn’t so thick here, though one old woman peered at them from under a pink ruffled umbrella. “I have your name and badge number!” Judy yelled after the cop. “We’ll subpoena you, Officer Lenihan! We’ll ask you on the stand!”

The cop whirled around suddenly, his handsome face red with anger. “Did you threaten me?” he said through clenched teeth. “I thought I heard you threaten me.”

Judy stepped back in the downpour, feeling a sudden chill she knew wasn’t the rain. “What do you know about Della Porta’s murder? What are you hiding?”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the cop demanded, his eyes flashing under the wet brim of his hat, but Judy stood her ground. Stance was her specialty.

“What do you know about Della Porta’s dealing drugs? Do you have information for us? Talk to me now and we can make a deal.”

“Don’t mess where you don’t belong,” the cop whispered, leaning close. Then he turned and hurried into the lunchtime throng of bobbing umbrellas, their bright colors a cheery counterpoint to a conversation that left Judy shaking.

What the hell had that been about? What did he mean? Rain soaked Judy’s smock, and she bounded back to the courthouse, clip-clopping in her clogs like a spooked colt.

60

There wasn’t time to go back to the office during the lunch recess, so the defense team staked out a war room in a courthouse conference room, a sterile white cubicle off the courtroom. Light from a fluorescent panel filled the tiny room, which felt crowded with only four chrome chairs with tan wicker backs encircling a round table of fake wood. At the moment, the table was cluttered with deli sandwiches, pungent canoes of kosher dills, and copies of the police activity sheets. Bennie was making notes and wolfing down a tuna fish on rye when Carrier burst in and told her what had happened.

“You did what?” Bennie asked, scanning her soggy associate in alarm. She set down her sandwich. “You threatened him?”

“Not really.” Judy wiped damp bangs from her forehead. “If you don’t count the subpoena part.”

“That counts,” Mary told her, from behind an unfinished tossed salad. She wore a paper napkin bib over a black linen suit and her hair was pulled back into a businesslike twist. “Subpoenas count, definitely.”

Bennie frowned. “You were supposed to find out his name, that’s all. Lenihan. Good work. I didn’t want you to talk to him, much less threaten him.”

“He threatened me back, and he’s a cop.”

“Carrier, if Lenihan was involved in the drug business, he’ll be panicking. Your threat could flush him out, make him do something dangerous.” Bennie had told the associates about the money under the floorboards, but hadn’t told them she was being followed by the black TransAm, to protect them. “From now on, do what I say. No more and no less.”

Judy stiffened at the rebuke, and Mary looked down at her salad.

Bennie regretted her sharpness and tried to explain. “The cops are keeping an eye on us, to see how close we’re getting. If Lenihan heard the cross of McShea, he’ll think we’re a lot closer than we are. That’s good. I’d like the rats to run scared and see what they do. It’ll give me more leads to follow. But I want to do it, not you. Or DiNunzio.”

Judy sat down, mollified. “You think Lenihan took the money?”

“Probably. I don’t know why he’s not halfway around the world by now.”

“The bonehead factor?” Judy offered, and Mary shrugged.

“Maybe he just can’t imagine leaving Philadelphia.”

Bennie shook her head. “Or maybe there’s more where that came from. In any event, I’ll call Lou and turn Lenihan over to him. Let’s us handle the lawyering and Lou handle the investigation, okay?”

“Fair enough,” Judy said, unwrapping her sandwich. A roast beef special, with extra Russian spilling out the sides. “Got it. Kill the body, the head will die.”

“What?” Bennie asked.

“It’s a boxing expression. Mr. Gaines, my coach, taught it to me. It means, you don’t have to go for the head, for the knockout. If you keep whaling away at the body, you’ll win the fight. Same thing here. If we keep pounding on the bottom of this conspiracy, the top will come tumbling down.”

“You’re taking boxing lessons?”

“For the case.”

Bennie’s face fell. “Well, quit. Leave the punching to me, child. It’s not a game, and it’s not lessons.” She stood up. “I have to go. We’re on in ten minutes, and I have a date with the devil.”

“Hilliard?” Judy asked, but Mary knew who she meant.

Bennie met Connolly as she sat handcuffed in her royal-blue suit on her side of the courthouse interview room. It was cleaner and more modern than the interview room at the prison, but a variation on the same theme: two white plastic chairs on either side of a white counter, and a shield of bulletproof glass that separated client from lawyer.

“I have one question for you,” Bennie said, and Connolly scowled. Her skin looked pallid without makeup, or maybe because Bennie wasn’t used to the new blond color that seemed to wash out her features, close-up. In any event, the strain of the morning was plain on Connolly’s face.

“I don’t give a shit about your question. I’ve been trying to meet with you all lunch,” she spat out. “Didn’t you get my note? I gave it to the fucking deputy.”

“I got your note.” Bennie folded her arms and stood beside the empty chair on her side of the glass. “You know a cop named Lenihan? A blond guy, young.”

“No. I wanted to talk to you about-”

“Lenihan wasn’t in your drug business?”

“If he was, I don’t know it, but-”

“You have no idea what cops were in on the drug business?”

“I told you already, no.”

“Bullshit.”

“The cops took care of the supply, with Anthony. He didn’t tell me, I didn’t want to know.”

“Bullshit.”

“I never heard of Lenihan. I sold the shit, I didn’t care where it came from. There was no reason for me to know, so I didn’t want to know.” Connolly edged forward, a pitchfork of wrinkles appearing above the bridge of her nose. She looked just like Bennie when Bennie was antagonized in the extreme. “What, are you cross-examining me? I’m trying to talk to you. What the fuck did you think you were doing in that opening argument?”

“Saving your worthless life,” Bennie said. Then she turned on her heel and walked out of the interview room.

61

On the witness stand, Officer Arthur Reston made a more conservative picture than his partner had. He was trim through the waist and collected in his pressed uniform. His neat, dark mustache had been newly trimmed under a straight nose, and his brown eyes were slightly lifeless, which telegraphed as professional from the stand. “No, I did not hear the testimony given by my partner, Sean McShea,” Reston answered.

Hilliard nodded. “And that was because you were sequestered, is that correct, Officer Reston?”

“Yes, sir.” The witness sat tall in front of the microphone and held his prominent chin high, as if the collar of his uniform were a bit too tight. “I waited outside in the hall until I was called to testify.”

“Would you consider yourself a diligent patrol officer, Officer Reston?” Hilliard asked.

Bennie almost gagged but didn’t object. Self-serving questions were obvious to jurors, and she knew where this was going anyway.

“I take my job very seriously, if that’s what you mean,” Reston said.

“You have served for how many years?”

“Fifteen.”

“Have you received any decorations because of your performance as a police officer?”

“Yes. I’ve received several commendations for certain arrests and for bravery. I was Police Officer of the Year last year. I’ve been lucky.”

“Permit me to take you back, if I may, deeper into your career history.”

Bennie half rose. “Objection, Your Honor, as to relevancy.”

Judge Guthrie nodded. “I’ll overrule it for now, but let’s not travel too far afield, Mr. Hilliard.”

“Certainly, Your Honor.” Hilliard squared his shoulders. He seemed energized since lunchtime, not from food, but adrenaline. Bennie had thrown down the glove with her question about drugs and she could almost see Hilliard’s juices flowing.

“Officer Reston,” Hilliard said, “isn’t it true that your former partner was killed in a shoot-out in the line of duty, in which you were also grievously injured?”

“Yes, sir.”

One of the jurors coughed, several looked moved, and even Bennie felt a twinge at the tragedy of an officer killed in the line of duty. She had nothing against honest police, only crooked ones, and the thought of death sobered her. She knew what death looked like, had felt its chilly touch in the hand of her mother. She realized now that she had seen death coming in her mother’s eyes that afternoon at the hospital, though Bennie didn’t want to acknowledge it then, as if greeting death were to invite it.

Hilliard continued, “You were shot in the cheek and spent four months in the hospital and another five in rehabilitation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Officer Reston, you have been partners with Officer McShea for seven of your fifteen years on the force, have you not?”

“I have.”

“And you were on duty with him on the evening in question, May nineteenth, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Hilliard checked his notes at the podium. “Please tell the jury why you were in the vicinity of Anthony Della Porta’s apartment, at Tenth and Trose Street.”

“We stopped down there for dinner, at Pat’s Steaks.”

“You left your district to do this, is that correct?”

“Only this one time, and because we could get cover.”

“So the district is never left unprotected, isn’t that correct?”

Bennie half rose. “Objection, Your Honor. The prosecution is mischaracterizing prior testimony.”

“Overruled, Ms. Rosato.” Judge Guthrie nodded in the direction of the jurors. “The jury can hear for itself.”

“It’s a minor point, Your Honor, and I’ll move on,” Hilliard said, waving in an offhand manner. “Officer Reston, you knew Detective Della Porta, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Were you friends?”

“Yes. We both like boxing. Liked. Went to the Blue together, once.”

“What is the Blue, Officer Reston?”

“The Blue Horizon, up Broad Street. Anthony, Detective Della Porta, used to get me tickets, ringside.”

“Officer Reston, what kind of man was Detective Della Porta?”

Bennie stood up. “Your Honor, I object on relevancy grounds. Officer Reston purports to be a fact witness, not a character witness.”

“I beg to differ,” Hilliard said, stepping toward the dais. “Ms. Rosato has maligned Detective Della Porta’s character and reputation. I think the jury has a right to know what kind of a man Anthony Della Porta was.”

Judge Guthrie leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers the same way he had in chambers. Bennie noted that the overhead lights made him look older than his years, or perhaps he’d had a few sleepless nights since their meeting, too. “Overruled,” he said. “Mr. Hilliard, I’ll allow the question.”

Bennie took her seat, frustrated. She could feel Connolly beside her, equally unhappy, but didn’t look over.

“You were going to tell us something about Detective Della Porta, Officer Reston.”

The cop nodded. “Detective Della Porta was a good man and a fine police officer. He worked his way up to Detective. He got one of the highest scores ever on the exam, which tests general knowledge, you know. Intelligence. It’s not about police procedure.”

“Do you know if Detective Della Porta was active in civic groups?” Hilliard asked.

“He surely was. Detective Della Porta donated his time to civic groups in his area of interest, which was boxing. He was like a big brother to plenty of boxers, and even managed Star Harald, who’s about to turn pro, if any of you heard of him.” Officer Reston turned to the jury and scanned their faces for verification. In the middle of the back row, a young black man raised thin eyebrows in recognition. He was Jamell Speaker, thirtysomething, shoe salesman; Bennie remembered him from voir dire.

“Officer Reston, I must ask you an uncomfortable question, one that will come at you from left field, as it did me. Was Detective Della Porta involved in drug dealing, in any way, shape, or form?”

The shock on the cop’s face was evident. His dark eyes flared in disbelief, then anger. His tight lips remained pursed, and the effect was that Officer Reston was too mortified to answer.

“Officer Reston, to the best of your knowledge, was Detective Della Porta involved in drug dealing?” Hilliard asked again.

“Of course not,” Reston snapped finally, his voice ringing with anger.

“To the best of your knowledge, did Detective Della Porta ever use illicit drugs himself?”

“No, sir.”

“Officer Reston, you have attended parties at Detective Della Porta’s apartment, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“I don’t recall, but there were several, and they were more like get-togethers, not parties. Detective Della Porta had a lot of friends and we used to go over there after the tour, or after a match, to unwind. He liked to cook. He’d cook omelets for everybody on the three-to-eleven.”

“Did you ever see drugs of any kind in use or available at these get-togethers?”

“No, sir.”

“I thought as much,” Hilliard said quickly, with a pointedly contemptuous glance at Bennie. “Now, to May nineteenth of last year. Can you please describe how you came to arrest the defendant for the murder of Anthony Della Porta?”

Officer Reston testified, telling a terse version of the story his partner had, corroborating Connolly’s panicked flight, the sighting of the white plastic bag in her hand, and her confession at capture. Bennie listened without objection, sizing Reston up as a strong witness whose testimony would have to be attacked with some skill. But she wouldn’t go over the same ground as she had with McShea; she’d have to get tougher and Reston was the right witness to do it. He was less likeable than McShea, and she wouldn’t look like she was picking on him.

“I have no further questions at this time,” Hilliard said, and Bennie was on her feet.

62

Bennie began her cross-examination of Officer Reston at the podium, but wouldn’t stay there long. She wanted to get in the cop’s face, literally. “Officer Reston, you testified that you were a friend of Detective Della Porta’s, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Hadn’t you been to get-togethers at his house?”

“Yes.”

“So you knew, didn’t you, that his apartment was on the second floor?”

“Yes.”

Bennie walked to the jury box and faced the cop. “And you had to be familiar with the layout of the apartment, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“So you knew that you entered into a living room, walked to the left through a bedroom, and at the end was a spare room used as a home office, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“So you knew the clothes closet was in the bedroom?”

“I assume.”

“You assume?” Bennie leaned on the jury rail. “The bathroom is in the bedroom, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“If you’d been to several get-togethers at Detective Della Porta’s apartment, having omelets and coffee, you probably used the bathroom.”

Reston paused, his eyes squinting slightly in thought. “Yes. Once or twice.”

“The closet is the only other door in the bedroom, isn’t it?”

“Yes, now that I think about it.”

“So you were familiar with where the clothes closet was in Detective Della Porta’s apartment, weren’t you?”

“I guess so, yes.”

Bennie leaned against the polished rail. “Officer Reston, weren’t you also familiar with the location of the house?”

“Yes.”

“In your visits to Detective Della Porta’s apartment, did you ever see that there was construction directly across the street?”

“Yes.”

“They’re building a very large apartment building?”

“Yes.”

“Were they building it a year ago?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you see, as well, the Dumpsters out in front for construction debris?”

“I guess, yes.”

Bennie braced herself. “Officer Reston, isn’t it true that you planted the bloody clothes in the Dumpster on Trose Street, to frame Alice Connolly for this murder?”

“Objection!” Hilliard shouted, rising and reaching for his crutches. “Your Honor, there’s no foundation for this question. Again, it comes out of left field, and is irrelevant and prejudicial.”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie said, as Bennie knew he would. She had gotten the statement before the jury, and they were rustling in their seats.

“Move to strike the question and answer, Your Honor,” Hilliard added, but Bennie faced the judge.

“Your Honor, there are no grounds to strike the question. It’s important for the appellate court to see this exchange, should we need to appeal this matter.”

“Motion to strike granted,” Judge Guthrie ruled, his blue eyes flashing behind his glasses. “Move to your next question, counsel.”

Bennie bore down. “Officer Reston, you testified that Detective Della Porta had many friends on the police force. Who were his other friends on the force, if you know?”

“Objection,” Hilliard said from a sitting position at the prosecution table. “The question is irrelevant, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor,” Bennie said, “it is highly relevant to the defense of this case that Detective Della Porta, Officer Reston, Officer McShea, and other members of the Philadelphia police were involved in a drug conspiracy.”

“Objection!” Hilliard barked. “Your Honor, that’s slander! Defamation of the rankest kind, and an obvious attempt to distract the jury from the real issues in this case.”

“Approach the bench, right now, both of you!” Judge Guthrie snapped, snatching his reading glasses from his nose and gesturing to his court reporter. “Kindly place this on the record.”

Bennie approached the bench, sneaking a glance at the jury on the way. The videographer looked worried for her. He was young and urban, and Bennie knew from experience that a juror’s willingness to believe police misconduct varied with generational, racial, and even geographic factors.

“Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie whispered hoarsely, “the Court has warned you not to follow this line of questioning. There is no evidence of a police conspiracy in this matter, none at all.”

Hilliard nodded vigorously. “In addition, Your Honor, the very insinuation is prejudicial. The jury is already looking for proof of a conspiracy that doesn’t exist. The only evidence of a conspiracy is counsel’s own testimony.”

“Your Honor,” Bennie said firmly, “it’s axiomatic that conspiracies, particularly official conspiracies, are difficult to prove.” She fought the irony of arguing the point to a judge who himself was a co-conspirator. “Cross-examination has always been the engine-”

“Please don’t argue Justice Holmes to me, Ms. Rosato.” Judge Guthrie strained to lean over the dais. “The Court recalls the quotation and though we find it compelling, it is not entitled to precedential weight. You transgressed with that drug reference within the jury’s hearing. The Court has already warned you about such references and it is within this Court’s powers to hold you in contempt.”

“I have to cross-examine this witness, Your Honor.” Bennie met his eye. “This is standard cross-examination in a conspiracy case.”

“This isn’t a conspiracy case, Ms. Rosato.”

“It’s a conspiracy case to me, Your Honor. Conspiracy to commit murder. The wrong person is on trial here, and I’m entitled to pursue and develop the defense theory of the case. It’s part and parcel of Ms. Connolly’s right to a fair trial.”

Hilliard scowled. “Smoke and mirrors aren’t a fair trial, Your Honor. It’s the antithesis of a fair trial. Evidence that is irrelevant, such as the kind of innuendo she’s peddling as theory, is absolutely inadmissible, for the very reason that it misleads and confuses the jury. This is a smear job, without any proof or specifics.”

“I have specifics, Your Honor,” Bennie argued, and Judge Guthrie’s wispy eyebrows arched behind his glasses.

“Specifics? Kindly let the Court hear them, Ms. Rosato. We’d like an offer of proof.”

Bennie gripped the dais. An offer of proof meant that she’d have to show her hand to Guthrie and Hilliard. “Your Honor, case law is clear that I can cross this witness in these circumstances without an offer of proof. I have a right to ask the question, then Mr. Hilliard can object if he wants. But I don’t have to offer the question first.”

“Well, well.” Judge Guthrie puckered his mouth, the slack tissue of his cheeks jiggling with consternation. “You’re refusing to make an offer of proof?”

“To you? With all due respect, sir.” Bennie shifted her focus to the court reporter, earnestly tapping out her statement on the steno machine. “I want it clear on the record that it is in the best interests of my client for the witness to hear the question before this Court does.”

Hilliard exploded, his large mouth agape. “What’s she insinuating, Your Honor? Is she accusing you of misconduct? Has Ms. Rosato lost her mind?” He looked genuinely shocked, and Judge Guthrie’s hooded eyes flickered with anger, then with something Bennie recognized instantly: fear.

The judge eased back slowly in his chair. “Ms. Rosato, the Court will not respond to what the prosecution so accurately calls an insinuation. Additionally, the record will show that the Court did not impede any exploration of putative official corruption. Please, go ahead and ask your question, but only if it contains such specifics. Mr. Hilliard, kindly take your seat.”

Bennie turned from the judge and knew without looking that the jury was anticipating her question, as was the gallery behind her. She blocked them all from her mind. This was between her and Reston. The cop straightened his tie and watched Bennie walk to the spot in front of him with wary interest. She wouldn’t get another shot. She had to aim for the heart.

“Officer Reston,” Bennie said, “when Officer Lenihan of the Eleventh District testifies that you, Officer McShea, and Detective Della Porta were involved in drug dealing, will he be lying?”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Hilliard thundered. “Move to strike that question! It’s irrelevant, prejudicial, and utterly without foundation! Who is Officer Lenihan? What does any of this have to do with Detective Della Porta’s murder?”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie said. He replaced his glasses, then addressed the jury, his mouth quavering faintly. “Strike the question from the record, and ladies and gentlemen, please strike the question from your mind. Ms. Rosato has no right to ask such a question without proof or evidence. Please remember that a question by an attorney is not testimony from a witness stand, and you may not consider it as such.”

The jurors looked grave, and a black man in the back row nodded in understanding. But Bennie could see their eyes trained on Reston, whose expression was dull with restrained fury. She had engaged the enemy. She didn’t know how far the conspiracy went or who was at the center of it, but she understood that she had provoked it, poked it like a tiger in a pen. But no cage could contain this beast, and sooner or later, it would strike back, defending its own survival.

If Bennie didn’t kill it first.

“I have no further questions,” she said. She turned her back on the witness, walked back to her chair, and sat down.

63

Surf caught up with Joe Citrone outside the Eleventh, just as he was pulling away. The asphalt of the parking lot behind the station house was a slick black and almost empty. Everybody on tour was out now or at lunch. Citrone had his new partner in the car, so Surf had to play it cool. He couldn’t rip Joe’s throat out, which is what he really wanted to do. “Joe, we need to talk,” he said casually.

“Can’t.” Citrone looked out the window of the patrol car, his hands resting on the steering wheel. The engine rumbled, jiggling beads of rainwater that warmed on the cruiser’s hood. “We just got a job.”

From the passenger seat, Citrone’s partner Ed Vega ducked his head, smiling under his mustache. “How’s it hangin’, pal?” Vega said.

“Good, good, Ed,” Surf said, drumming his fingertips on the wet roof of the car. “Gotta delay you for a minute, my friend. Your partner owes me some cash, and I’m seeing my girl tonight.”

“Gotcha, big guy,” Vega said, and Citrone frowned.

“Need it now?” Citrone squinted against the last of the rain that dripped through the window. The storm was dissolving to a fine, chill mist.

“Yeah, I need it now,” Surf insisted with a fake laugh, and opened the door. “Cough it up.”

“Relax, kid.” Citrone unfolded his long legs from the driver’s seat and got out of the car. Gravel crunched underneath his shoes, their patent polished to a high shine, and he slammed the car door closed. “Be right back, Ed.”

“This way.” Surf took Citrone’s arm and led him a distance from the car, out of Vega’s earshot. Vega could be undercover, for all Surf knew. That was how they got those cops in the Thirty-seventh, with a sting. Took down the whole district. Surf didn’t trust anybody anymore, least of all other cops.

“Get your hand offa my sleeve,” Citrone said when they were alone. He tugged his arm from Surf’s grasp. “I’ve had it up to here with you.”

“You’ve had it?” Lenihan’s temper flared. “You fucked this up so bad, none of us are going to get out of it.”

“You got a fresh mouth, Lenihan.”

Surf glanced at the patrol car and flashed a Boy Scout smile. “I told you this would happen. I told all of you, but you thought it was a big goddamn joke. We’re made, Citrone. Rosato was askin’ questions in court this morning. She’s on to us.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know. You think you’re the only one with people in the courtroom?”

“I don’t need people. I was there myself.” Surf didn’t mention the bitch catching up with him outside the courthouse. He didn’t want Citrone to give him shit. “I heard it all.”

“Then you heard Rosato say you’d be testifying against Art.”

“What?” Surf looked at Citrone, shocked. “Me, flip on Art?”

“That’s not true, is it, kid? She’s bluffin’, isn’t she?”

“Of course she is.” Surf’s mouth felt dry. “I mean, of course it ain’t true. You kiddin’?”

“You shoulda stayed away.” Citrone shook his head as he reached into his back pocket, retrieved a slim calf billfold, and plucked out a new twenty from the neatly ordered bills. “Take this in case my partner’s watchin’. Then get lost.”

“Sure, I’ll get lost.” Surf snatched the bill from Citrone’s hand and pocketed it. “I’ll get lost when I get my cut of the half a mil.”

“It’s comin’.”

“Yeah, when is it comin’? I coulda taken my cut off the top. I coulda taken the whole fuckin’ pile, but I didn’t. I brought it to you like a good boy and you said to wait. Fuck, what am I waitin’ for?”

“The right time.”

“What’s that mean? Why can’t we divvy it up now? Then we can all get the fuck outta Dodge.”

“No.”

“Why not, Joe? Fuckin’ explain it to me, old man. You might have to say a whole sentence.”

Citrone’s eyes went flinty. “Every time there’s a meet, there could be a witness. Every time there’s a phone call, there could be a tap. Be patient ’til the situation is under control.”

“Like it was in control last week and the week before that? Della Porta was takin’ money from us, and you didn’t know about it. He was settin’ up that cunt.”

“All along, I knew.”

“So what, you knew? You knew” Surf’s temper gave way and he raised his voice. “You didn’t do dick about it, Citrone. That’s your MO. You know everything, but you don’t do anything.”

“Calm down,” Citrone said quietly, which only made Surf angrier.

“Fuck you. You act like you got muscle, but you got nothin’ goin’ on. Nothin’!”

Without another word, Citrone turned around and walked away, leaving Surf standing there in the rainy mist, alone with his fear and his rage.

64

Back at her office, Bennie’s associates yammered away while her tired eyes meandered over a print on the wall of the conference room: Max Schmitt in a Single Scull, Thomas Eakins’s portrait of the rowing lawyer who was the painter’s idol. She found herself looking at Eakins himself, unidentified in his own painting and sculling with effort in the background. Eakins had lived in Bennie’s Fairmount neighborhood, only a block from her, and his mother had had manic depression most of his life, too. Funny.

Bennie’s gaze wandered to the window. She wondered how Eakins felt when his mother died. Why didn’t he paint that? Or her? The night offered no answers, only darkness, and clouds obliterated the stars. Bennie had rowed on nights like this night, when the river flowed as black as the sky, carved into onyx ripples by the wind across its surface. On those nights she felt herself at the very center of a black sphere, suspended above and below a darkness without density.

“Bennie, do we have a blood expert yet?” DiNunzio asked, reading from notes on a yellow legal pad. Carrier sat to her left, swiveling side-to-side with nervous energy. To the right of the associates sat Lou, listening carefully, his chin grizzled gray and wrinkling into his hand.

Bennie came out of her reverie. “I’ll cross their blood expert. It’s a matter of logic, not expertise. I can get him to say what I need.”

“Then that’s it,” Mary said. “There’s only twenty-five things left to do, without the blood expert.”

“By tomorrow morning?” Judy asked. Her Dutch-boy haircut had gone greasy from a day of raking it with her fingers, and her face, usually so game and honest, looked wan.

“No, not tonight,” Bennie said. She stood up and gathered her papers. “All of you are going home, including you, Mr. Jacobs. I’m going to look over my notes for tomorrow one more time, then get out of here. None of us can do good work if we’re dead on our feet.”

Lou stood up, too, and shook his khaki pants down to his loafers. “That makes sense. I’ll finish the two neighbors I have left in the morning, then follow up on Lenihan.”

Bennie looked over. “You really think the neighbors will yield anything? If we can work up something on Lenihan, the neighbors won’t matter.”

“You never know, neighbors see a lot.” Lou flattened his tie with an open hand. “I think I got all the scuttlebutt I can on Lenihan.”

“That he’s a loner who likes the ladies? That he’s in the Eleventh and moving up in the department? Then it’s time to follow him. I need to know where he goes and what he does the next few days. Take pictures, too, Lou. I want proof so I can cross him on it when he denies it.”

Judy nodded, pursing her lips. “If he’s smart, he’ll lay low. Take a vacation.”

Lou shook his head. “It ain’t that easy to get vacation time on the force. You have to apply way in advance.”

“Let’s table this for now,” Bennie said suddenly. “We’re all tired, and two of us are very old. Carrier, DiNunzio, leave your stuff here, you can start fresh in the morning. Vamoose!” She waved the associates out of the conference room, and they stood up and shook off their cramped muscles, giddy at being set free.

“Trial fever,” Bennie explained to Lou, who smiled as they got up from the conference table and left the room.

“I woulda guessed PMS,” he said, and Bennie laughed.

“A related syndrome.” She followed the associates into the empty reception area, where they hit the elevator button. The offices were empty except for the hallway. “Lou, hang with me a minute.”

“No problem,” he said, as the elevator arrived and the associates got inside.

“Good night, Mom and Dad,” they chimed, and the elevator closed smoothly, whisking them downward.

“Pieces of work,” Lou said, as the elevator rattled down the shaft. The building was so quiet they could hear the associates laughing on the way down and the ping of the cab when it reached the lobby floor.

“Yeah, they are.” Bennie folded her arms. “So here’s the problem, Lou. You don’t want to take it to Lenihan, do you?”

“I admit, I ain’t in love with it.”

“Fair enough. Then don’t do it. You stay with the neighbors, do as complete a job as possible. I’ve worked with other investigators, I’ll call one of them.”

“I’m just not convinced it’s what you think, is all. I mean, money under a floor?” Lou shrugged, his hands deep in his pockets. “That wouldn’t be enough to charge a cop with nothin’. The only thing you’re goin’ on is Connolly’s word, and she has no credibility in my book. She’s rotten to the core.”

Bennie flashed on Connolly’s confession to the inmate murders. “She sure is, but she didn’t kill Della Porta.”

“I don’t get you, Rosato.” Lou shook his head, exasperated. “You goin’ to all this trouble to save Connolly, and here she is, dressin’ like you, playin’ to the press, the whole nine yards. You’re even willing to smear a cop, work all night, do everything for her. Why? Because you feel like her twin?”

“No, I don’t.” Bennie couldn’t shake her memory of Connolly’s confession at the prison.

“Then what? You’ve been around, you gotta know. Somebody like Connolly, even if she didn’t kill Della Porta, she killed somebody else, and she’ll kill again, sooner or later. She’s scum. She belongs right where she is.”

“That’s not the way it works, Lou. Connolly’s not in jail for being bad, she’s in jail for killing Della Porta. We can’t start putting people away because they’re bad. That’s not justice.”

“Justice?” Lou smirked. “So if she kills three hundred people but not this one, she walks. That’s justice?”

“Sorry to say, yes.”

“Talk to me after the next murder, lady,” he said, and Bennie couldn’t think of an immediate reply.

Bennie was halfway up Broad Street when she noticed a dark car following her, half a block down the street and in the right lane. It looked a lot like a TransAm, but she wasn’t sure. She drove with her eyes glued to the rearview. She couldn’t make out the car’s driver or its color, either. The only streetlights on Broad Street were old-fashioned and cast almost no light.

The street glistened from the rainstorm and was deserted except for a boxy white delivery van behind Bennie. The van accelerated and filled her entire rearview mirror. It had blacked-out windows in the back, so she couldn’t see through it. The TransAm, if it was the TransAm, slipped into line behind the van.

Bennie cruised to the traffic light in front of City Hall, lit with purplish lighting that cast harsh shadows on its Victorian vaults and arches. Gargoyles screeched silently from the arches, but Bennie hadn’t been spooked by gargoyles for a long time. Tonight it was the cops that worried her. One cop in particular.

The traffic light turned red, and she looked at the outside mirror. Behind the van she could see the slanted grille of the car, but it was still too dark to identify it as a TransAm. Maybe it wasn’t. She’d thought she had seen a black TransAm four times yesterday and had been mistaken each time. She was getting paranoid.

Still, Bennie hit the gas. The white van trailed her at a slow speed and she could see the dark car following close behind, almost tailgating. The three vehicles snaked around City Hall, traveled past the Criminal Justice Center, and headed for the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. Bennie lived in the neighborhood that surrounded the Art Museum at the west end of the parkway. She had chosen the location because it was affordable, unpretentious, and close to the Schuylkill, for rowing; the same reasons Thomas Eakins had picked it much earlier. Though it wasn’t far, Bennie found herself worrying if she’d make it home safely.

She accelerated, and her Ford moved onto the four-lane boulevard that was the Ben Franklin Parkway, slick and wet from the storm. Her tires splashed through a puddle in the gutter, spraying water onto the truck’s siders, and the Ford rumbled under the multicolored flags of all nations that flapped in the wind. NIGERIA, KENYA, TANZANIA, read the labels as Bennie sped past. The white van hung back, and after a moment the dark car popped from behind it and charged aggressively up the right lane, directly under a streetlight. It was a TransAm. Blue or black, Bennie couldn’t tell, but she wasn’t splitting hairs.

Her fingers gripped the steering wheel. The TransAm was thirty yards behind her and coming on strong. Her heart began to pound and she steered her truck around Logan Circle, struggling to remain upright as she whirled around Swann Fountain, which shot illuminated arcs of water into the night. The TransAm sped up, closing the distance between them, and Bennie saw its color as it passed by the lighted fountain. Black. Oh, no. The silhouette behind the wheel was of a man. It had to be Lenihan.

Her chest constricted. She thought fast. She had no weapon but she had a car phone, a hands-free model. Her fingers fumbled for the keyboard and she pressed the coded button for 911.

“Emergency operator,” said a professional voice when the connection crackled to life.

“I need help. I’m being followed, in a car. A black TransAm.” She plowed through another puddle and checked the rearview. It was only her and the TransAm. “I just passed Logan Circle and I’m heading for the Art Museum. What do I do?”

“Are you in your car, miss?”

“Yes! It’s a blue Ford.”

“And this car is following yours?”

“Yes! Yes!” Bennie struggled to steer and shout at the same time.

“What makes you think this car is following you, ma’am?”

The TransAm was closing in. It was twenty yards behind, then fifteen. Bennie stiff-armed the steering wheel. “Take my word for it! He’s a police officer named Lenihan.”

“Did you say a police officer is following your car, miss? Why don’t you flag him if you need help?”

“I need help from him. Put out a bulletin. I’m traveling west, up Ben Franklin Parkway. Should I drive to a station house?” Bennie had no sooner asked the question than she realized she had whizzed past the street that led her to her district’s station house. The TransAm was so close. Then it switched into her lane. Right behind her.

“Help!” Bennie shouted. She trounced on the gas pedal and the Ford rocketed forward, careening up the parkway. The streetlights blurred to bright lines. The flags were streaks of color. It was all Bennie could do to keep the truck stable. She aimed right for the Art Museum.

“Miss, are you there? Miss?”

“Help!” Bennie shouted, her own cry reverberating in her ears. She checked her rearview mirror and squinted against the light. The TransAm blasted its high beams into the Ford. The black car was right on her bumper. She could see the face behind the wheel. His expression, grim. His hair, blond. Lenihan.

A bolt of fear shot through Bennie’s body. The Ford barreled down the slick boulevard. Eakins Oval, the rotary in front of the Art Museum, lay just ahead. The traffic light turned red at the cross street but Bennie roared through it. She held tight to the steering wheel and took the curve around the Oval at speed. Light filled her truck and the TransAm jolted the Ford from behind. Bennie hung on to the steering wheel for dear life.

“Miss? Miss?” the operator asked. “Did you say the police are there?”

“No! Help!” Bennie cried, then gave up. The Art Museum loomed dead ahead, looking like an amber-colored temple to the ancient Greeks. Lights at its base set it glowing gold in the night and it stood high atop a promontory. A huge set of stairs led to its columned entrance. They gave Bennie an idea. She had to go where Lenihan couldn’t. She drove a truck; Lenihan had a TransAm. It was no contest.

Suddenly Bennie cranked the steering wheel hard to the right and the Ford skidded left. Its back end fishtailed, throwing her against the driver’s side door. The impact sent an arc of pain through her left shoulder but she hung on to the steering wheel, frantic. The Ford ended up facing the direction it came from. Bennie spotted the TransAm. It screeched into a full three-sixty, spraying water from its tires like a pinwheel. It would take Lenihan time to recover.

Bennie slammed on the gas and twisted the Ford onto the sidewalk. Her back wheels churned in grit and rainwater. She pointed the Ford at the steps of the Art Museum. There was nowhere to go but up. If Rocky could do it, so could Rosato.

She engaged her four-wheel drive and the Ford bounded onto the pavement and charged up the granite staircase. She bounced in the driver’s seat despite her shoulder harness, taking each step to the landing, then racing skyward. Fountains flanking the Art Museum steps spurted water into the air, misting onto the truck. Cast iron gaslights lit her way.

Bennie hit the gas. The truck bobbled like it was racing over railroad tracks. Its suspension squeaked in protest. Her jaw rattled in her skull. Her front tooth sliced through her lower lip. She felt her own warm blood bubble into her mouth. The truck hit the next landing and lurched forward.

Bennie checked the rearview. The TransAm had recovered from its spinout and tore onto the sidewalk after her, but it stalled at the bottom of the staircase. It took three steps up, then lost traction and slid backward. Bennie’s heart leapt with relief. She kept the gas flowing and the Ford climbed the next set of steps. Only one set to go to the plaza and the huge circular fountain in front of the museum. The Corinthian columns of its façade stretched before her, five stories high, bathed in golden light. At the top of the tiled roof, Greek gods and goddesses gazed with serene indifference into the dark sky.

The Ford surged forward. Bennie lost sight of the TransAm. She was five steps from the museum plaza. Around the back of the museum was a route she used to run on her way to the Schuylkill, which flowed on the far side of the museum. She wasn’t far from Boathouse Row, home of her own fiberglass scull. This was Bennie’s turf. She was nearly home free.

She took another jolt as the Ford climbed onto the granite flagstone of the plaza. The lighted fountain misted the Ford’s windshield. The Art Museum blazed before her. Bennie careened right, almost crashing into the stanchions that kept traffic from the plaza, then turned left onto the narrow road around the back of the museum. It led to a parking lot and a cobblestone road that returned to the parkway. She’d take the parkway to the nearest police station, back at Twenty-second Street. The voice of the 911 operator sounded far away.

Bennie glanced in her rearview. The TransAm was nowhere in sight. Then she realized it could come around the back. She had to get away before Lenihan came after her. She navigated the narrow road between the museum and a low stone wall. Cast-iron lamps lined the road and Bennie spotted a security camera mounted under one. She prayed museum security would come.

Out of nowhere, Bennie heard the roar of an engine. Her windshield filled with light. She threw up her hands. There was a deafening crash that drove her back into the seat, then snapped her body forward into the shoulder harness. Dazed, she opened her eyes.

Her windshield was a network of broken glass. Her hood had buckled in the middle. The TransAm had slammed into the Ford and sat facing her, its hood crumpled and leaking steam. A split second later, Lenihan staggered out of the car. In his hand was a black nightstick.

Oh, God. Bennie tried her ignition but the Ford was dead. She looked around wildly. The phone was out. Lenihan was coming at the truck. He would kill her. She screamed, the sound thundering in her head. Her vision went foggy.

A cracking sound shattered her driver’s side window. Bennie looked over in terror. Lenihan was pounding the glass with the baton. His face was bloodied, contorted with a lethal fury. Oh my God.

Bennie stopped screaming. She had to act, to go. To run. She snapped off her shoulder harness and scrambled to the passenger side of the truck. She wrenched open the door and almost fell onto the wet flagstone. She hadn’t hit the ground before she heard heavy footsteps behind her. Lenihan was upon her.

“You fucking bitch!” the cop bellowed. Lenihan grabbed Bennie by the neck from behind and jammed the nightstick under her chin, cutting off her windpipe. Her throat exploded in pain. Her eyes filled with tears. She clawed the nightstick, struggling to wrench it off.

“You’re dead, bitch!” Lenihan dragged her to the edge of the stone wall. A panel of lights at the foot of the wall blinded her. She gasped for breath. She tore at his hands, then his nylon windbreaker.

“Get over there!” Lenihan shouted, then slammed Bennie onto the hard edge of the stone wall. The rough stone scraped her cheek. Her ribs seared in agony. She dangled over the wall. She could barely see for the pain and the darkness. It was fifty feet down to a concrete delivery ramp. “Get over the wall!”

Bennie forced herself to think, but she was losing consciousness. She couldn’t breathe. Lenihan shoved her higher onto the wide wall and tried to push her over the side. No, God. Her head flopped over the other side of the wall. A ballpoint pen from her blazer pocket rolled onto the wall. That was it!

With her last breath, Bennie grabbed the pen and stabbed blindly backward. Lenihan’s surprised gurgle told her that she had hit something. The nightstick eased at her throat. Her body shuddered as her lungs gulped air. There was no time to lose.

“Aaargh!” Lenihan cried. He dropped his nightstick and it clattered to the asphalt.

Bennie torqued in his grasp. The ballpoint hung from the base of Lenihan’s neck and he yanked it out. Blood spurted from the wound. His eyes blazed with renewed fury. He grabbed Bennie by the throat and slammed her back against the wall, banging her head against hard rock. She fought back on the edge of consciousness, hanging on his shirt so as not to fall over the side.

They struggled up and onto the wall, their shadows commingling in a grotesque lover’s dance, their silhouettes magnified in the lights. Lenihan’s blood drenched them both. Bennie felt its hot spray on her cheek. Its primal smell filled her nostrils. Her nails raked Lenihan’s windbreaker as he rolled her to the edge of the wall. The sky went black around her.

“Hey, you! Hey, cut that out!” came a shout, and Bennie felt Lenihan’s grip release her throat. She coughed for breath and opened her eyes long enough to see a museum security guard running toward them both. “Cut that out, you two!” the guard yelled.

Lenihan startled at the sight, then wobbled, losing his balance at the wall’s edge.

“No!” Bennie cried, and reached for him. His wind-breaker brushed her fingertips, but she closed her fist too late. Lenihan slipped from her fingers, his eyes sick with terror as he dropped over the side of the wall. The last sound Bennie heard before she collapsed was Lenihan’s final shriek, joined by the screams of approaching police sirens.

65

Bennie hadn’t realized how much the police hated her until she walked into Two Squad that night, after Lenihan’s death. The squad room was a dirty light blue, crammed with battered gray desks, lined with dented file cabinets, and encircled by water-stained curtains. It seemed to Bennie that everyone was on the night tour as she walked through their silent ranks and was led into the interview room for questioning. It wouldn’t help to tell them that she was sorry. It wouldn’t help to tell them she felt worse than they did. Nor would it help to tell them that Lenihan was trying to kill her. Bennie Rosato, who had built a career suing the department, had now killed one of their own. That was all that mattered to them.

“Take a seat, Ms. Rosato,” said one of the detectives, though Bennie had been here many times. The room was tiny, its institutional green walls unscrubbed, and she sat down in the steel Windsor chair that was bolted to the ground, reserved for murder suspects. The room smelled faintly of stale smoke, and flush against the grimy wall was a rickety wooden table, half the size of a card table. Scattered across its uneven surface were blank statement forms and an ancient Smith-Corona.

Bennie wasn’t worried for herself. She knew the police couldn’t charge her in Lenihan’s death; they hadn’t even cuffed her on the drive to the Roundhouse. The museum guard would tell what happened, there’d be 911 transcripts to support Bennie’s story, and Lenihan’s baton was in plain sight. God knew if his original plan was to make Bennie’s death look like a mugging or a carjacking, but neither ruse would work now. The attack was proof positive of a police conspiracy, one ruthless enough to kill to protect itself. The gloves were off. The war was on and had claimed its first casualty.

“Your lawyers are here, Rosato,” the detective said, and Bennie looked up.

Judy and Mary stood in the doorway behind Grady, their expressions strained with fear. Grady rushed forward and gathered Bennie in his arms, lifting her almost bodily out of the chair. Pain arced through her ribs. “I’m all right,” she said, but Grady turned to the detective.

“Leave us alone, please. We need five minutes.”

“Five minutes, counselor,” the detective said. He had a runner’s build and a trim haircut. He opened the door and left.

“Grady, wait,” Bennie said, holding up a palm. “There’s something I have to do. DiNunzio, Carrier, sit down.” Grady stepped aside as the associates, in jackets over their street clothes, sank into chairs. Judy looked worried, and Mary positively stricken, the three wrinkles across her young forehead now permanent as the earth’s strata. “Are you okay?” Bennie asked her.

“Are you okay?” Mary answered, her voice hushed. “Your lip is all bloody.”

“I’m fine.” Bennie ran her tongue over a sore bottom lip. “But listen, what happened tonight is no joke. You guys are off this case. No more court appearances, no more signing any papers that get filed.”

“Bennie, no,” Judy protested, but Mary remained silent, which Bennie noted.

“Carrier, you have no choice. First thing tomorrow, you file a withdrawal of your and Mary’s appearance. I want it as high-profile as possible. Tell Marshall to send a press release about it, too. I want you two off this case and I want everybody to know it.”

“How’s that gonna look?” Judy raked her tousled hair with her hand. She was wearing jeans and a football jersey that stuck out under a short Patagonia jacket. “It’ll look like we quit, like we got scared.”

“You can’t worry about what people think. Your safety is more important.”

“Than my reputation as a lawyer? Than my responsibility to you?” Judy shook her head and her hair swung around her ears. “I’m not quitting. I’m showing up tomorrow in court. That’s my choice.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s my law firm, I make the case assignments. We need an associate on the Burkett case. You’re it. Both of you.”

“I won’t do it,” Judy insisted, and Bennie rubbed her forehead. Her head throbbed from the bump she’d taken in the back. Her cheek had stopped bleeding but her jaw ached, and all this arguing didn’t help.

“Carrier, just once, could you do what I say? Just once, could you listen?”

“I’m listening, I’m just not obeying. What would my getting off the case solve? What about you? You’re the one they’re after. This cop tried to kill-”

“Yes, what about you, Bennie?” Grady chimed in, and Bennie looked up from her chair to see the fear on his face. His skin, fair to start with, was an unhappy shade of pale, and his eyes red from work and worry. Blond nubs dotted his chin and his old DUKE T-shirt was on inside out, tugged on in a hurry. “I know you won’t quit, but you can’t go on without some security. Either I’m in that courtroom or you hire protection.”

“Protection? You mean a bodyguard?”

“I mean three bodyguards.”

“We can’t afford three.”

“I’ll settle for two, but that’s my final offer.” Grady turned to the associates and managed a smile. “Is that agreeable to you, counsel? Two bodyguards?”

“Yep,” Judy said. “That means I’m still in. Okay, boss?”

“No, not okay.”

Grady touched Bennie’s shoulder. “It should be her choice. Look at all the stupid choices you make, and nobody stops you.”

Bennie smiled. “Stop. It hurts to laugh.”

Judy laughed. “It’s a settlement, then. I’m still on the case.”

Bennie sighed, too shaken to fight. “All right, I’ll settle for Carrier, but, DiNunzio, you’re on Burkett starting tomorrow. File your withdrawal of appearance in the morning, then take the rest of the day off. Got it?”

Three heads suddenly turned, and all of a sudden Mary felt as if she were the one in the chair for prime suspects. “I don’t know,” she said.

“It’s not up to you,” Bennie told her. “You did wonderful work on this case, with the neighbors, and now it’s over.”

“But the neighbors haven’t been called yet, as witnesses. How will you cross them? I haven’t prepared you.”

“I’ll be fine. I have your notes. I know what to do.”

There was a sharp rap on the door and Bennie stiffened, wincing as her ribs protested the change in posture.

“Rosato?” said a man’s voice, and the door to the interview room opened.

But it wasn’t one of the detectives. Standing at the threshold, his grizzled face lined with regret, his familiar khaki pants and navy blazer a wrinkled mess, stood Lou Jacobs.

It had gone as Bennie had expected at the Roundhouse, with Grady acting as her attorney, though he was barely needed. The detectives listened to Bennie’s account of Lenihan’s death with civility and professionalism, and credited it almost immediately. They had no alternative, given the supporting evidence. DiNunzio and Carrier perched on folding chairs and managed to keep their tears in check, but it was Lou who surprised Bennie.

He hovered at her shoulder opposite Grady during the entire questioning, taking her side against the police without having to say a word. When she was finished, he rested a warm hand on her shoulder, which she found more comforting than she could rightly account for. Bennie hardly knew the man, but she sensed something benevolent in him. A goodness not found in the young; a tenderness that came only with years. Lou would be her bodyguard. In a way, he already was.

Bennie remained quiet in the car ride home with Grady, who was as kind and as solicitous as he could be. At the house, he made her fresh coffee, understanding that Bennie didn’t feel like talking. He put an ice pack on her head, which remained sore in the back, and gave her a tablespoon of honey to make her throat feel better. It helped, even though it was less than scientific. Her lip had swelled where she’d cut it and her jaw was shaky from being bounced around, and for that Grady prescribed a night’s rest. Beside him.

Bennie was grateful to him, but oddly found herself unable to say so. She lay sleepless, awake until dawn. She couldn’t think, but could only feel. If she had met death firsthand with her mother’s passing, Bennie was on an intimate basis with it now. She couldn’t help but feel partly responsible for Lenihan’s death. She kept replaying the fight on the wall in her mind. If she had just closed her fingers around the windbreaker a second earlier.

Bennie closed her eyes in the dark bedroom. Her thoughts wandered to the prison murders. Connolly had driven a screwdriver into Leonia Page’s throat, almost the same spot where Bennie had stabbed Lenihan with the pen. Was there such a thing as the killer instinct? Did Bennie have it, too? Tears slipped from beneath her eyes, one after the other, coming as uncontrollably as her questions. Was her heart as dark as Connolly’s? Did she have that level of hate in her nature, subsisting deep in her bone and fiber, residing within her very cells?

The bedroom remained still. The night was deep and silent. The only sound was the low electrical hum of the alarm clock, its squared-off face glowing a fraudulent orange. Grady’s breathing came soft and even. The dog snored from a curl on the plywood subfloor at the foot of the bed. This room, this man, and even this animal used to make Bennie feel safe, used to fill her with love. She used to think of her mother, sleeping as peacefully as she could, in the hospital, watched over by the best doctors money could buy. The thought would comfort her, complete her somehow. Bennie’s life was full then, and sweet. She was happy.

But right now, Bennie couldn’t even remember what happiness felt like.

66

The early rays of the morning sun fought their way through the skyscrapers into chambers, and Judge Guthrie sat almost slumped behind his elegant mahogany desk. His reading glasses lay folded beside a hunter green blotter, and he gazed at Bennie with hooded eyes, sloping downwards. “I was so terribly sorry to hear of what befell you last night, Ms. Rosato.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Bennie said. Freshly showered and dressed in her standard navy suit, she crossed her legs in the leather chair across from the judge’s desk. She and Hilliard had received an early morning call from Judge Guthrie, in inevitable response to the media accounts of Lenihan’s death. KILLER TWINS, read the worst of the tabloid headlines, along with the subtler DOUBLE JEOPARDY.

“How are your injuries, my dear?” Judge Guthrie asked. He sounded sincere and almost looked it, in a red paisley bow tie with a white oxford shirt that hadn’t been on long enough to wrinkle.

“I’m alive, thank you.” Bennie’s lip remained sore and her shoulder and side ached. Her jaw still felt rattled, though the scrape on her cheek had been concealed by foundation. Nevertheless, she was determined to put last night behind her. Letting it get to her was letting them win.

“It’s terrible,” Hilliard chimed in, his voice grave. His beefy frame looked as if it had been clothed hastily, in a tan pinstriped suit and a cream-colored shirt that contrasted with the darkness of his skin. His gray tie had been knotted sloppily, unusual for Hilliard. “I spent most of the night trying to get to the bottom of it.”

Judge Guthrie turned. “What did you learn, Mr. Hilliard?”

“We understand that Officer Lenihan was very upset by Bennie’s cross-examination in court the other day, when she mentioned his name in connection with official corruption. They tell our office that Lenihan reacted badly, thought it was an embarrassment, a disgrace. We believe he went to talk with Bennie, perhaps confront her about what she’d said, but he lost control. Our office will be issuing a statement this morning. We regret deeply what happened, of course.”

Bennie said nothing. Behind Judge Guthrie’s frail shoulder, his court reporter tapped on the long black keys of the steno machine. This conference would be on the record, and Bennie was mindful that any transcript could find its way into the news, COURT-TV, or even the Internet. She wouldn’t say a word that wouldn’t be for public consumption.

Hilliard shook his head. “Frankly, Officer Lenihan was a renegade, a loose cannon. You might as well know, both of you, that we understand he went drinking last night. His blood alcohol level was double the legal limit.”

Bennie listened, her face impassive though her thoughts were in tumult. She hadn’t smelled alcohol on Lenihan’s breath last night and she would have if there had been any. Somebody either injected him with alcohol postmortem or falsified the lab results. She wondered who had signed off on the blood work.

“My, my,” Judge Guthrie said quietly. “That’s quite a shame, quite a shame.”

“It certainly is,” Hilliard agreed. “You never think anything like this happens, then it does.”

“Such a young man, too,” the judge mused. “So sad, so sad.”

Hilliard nodded. “Lenihan had so much going for him. Was on his way up. Except for his personality problems, he was a good cop. His personnel record was clean as a whistle.”

Bennie thought their conversation stilted, as programmed as a dialogue in a high school language lab. She could read between the clichés. Lenihan’s personnel record had been altered. Any infraction had been magnified to a personality problem, to support their “loose cannon” spin. She looked at the prosecutor and wondered again if he was in on the conspiracy.

Hilliard turned to Bennie, shifting his weight with difficulty in the chair. Beside him on the floor lay his crutches. “The police department is also going to issue you a formal apology for what happened. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s the best we can do under the circumstances.”

“Thank you very much,” Bennie said, choosing her words carefully. “I’m very sorry about Officer Lenihan’s death myself. No apology by the department is necessary.”

“On a personal note, I don’t hold you responsible for the questions you asked in court. I understand that you had to cross-examine on something. I’ve been in your position, Bennie, when you don’t have a case.”

Bennie bristled. “My cross-examination was entirely appropriate.”

“You can’t really be serious about this drug corruption theory, can you?” Hilliard scoffed, and Bennie permitted herself a tight smile.

“The defense will do its theorizing in court.”

“But you don’t have a shred of evidence.”

Judge Guthrie picked up his reading glasses and unfolded them. “Let’s not argue, counsel. The question for us is, what effect should this terrible occurrence have on the trial? I surmise, Ms. Rosato, that you will be requesting a few days’ time to recover from your injuries and distress. In view of the recent loss in your immediate family, the Court will grant you a reasonable continuance. I gather, Mr. Prosecutor, that you would agree.”

“Within reason, of course,” Hilliard said quickly, but Bennie had anticipated the move.

“Thank you, both of you, but I won’t be needing any continuance, Your Honor. I’d like to keep the case on track. I expect that Mr. Hilliard will call his next witness”-she checked her watch-“in one hour.”

The court reporter looked up in surprise, her mouth a perfectly lipsticked circle. There was no way Bennie wanted an extension now. She had the conspirators in disarray and she had to keep the heat on. She was closer than ever to bringing to justice whoever was behind the conspiracy. Besides, nothing pissed her off like attempted murder, especially her own.

“My, this is unexpected,” Judge Guthrie remarked, easing his glasses onto his nose. “Surely you will be needing some time to collect yourself and prepare your case. A day or two, perhaps?”

Hilliard’s dark brow furrowed in confusion. “Bennie, don’t push yourself like this. Nobody could live through what you’re living through and still try a case.”

Bennie smiled politely. “Thanks for your concern, but I’m perfectly able to go forward. We have a sequestered jury, and I’d hate to keep them from their families any longer than necessary.”

Judge Guthrie made a familiar tent of his fingers. “The Court doesn’t quite understand, Ms. Rosato. Before this tragic event, an extension of time was your most fervent desire.”

“That’s true, Your Honor. But since what happened last night, I think it’s more important than ever to conclude this case. Delay makes it more likely that the jury may be tainted by the publicity, precluding the defendant’s ability to receive a fair trial. In fact, the defense finds itself in the position of opposing any extension at this critical point.”

Judge Guthrie’s finger tent collapsed. “Well, then. The Court will see both of you next door at the previously scheduled hour, counsel.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Bennie said. She picked up her briefcase, hiding the discomfort that shot through her ribs, then left chambers ahead of Hilliard.

Sitting in Judge Guthrie’s waiting room was Judy Carrier, flanked by two extraordinarily muscular young men. Lou had made sure the guards were at Bennie’s house when she left for court that morning. He’d called them “Mike” and “Ike” because they looked so much alike: brown hair buzz-cut into oblivion, navy polyester suits, and regulation Ray-Ban aviators. Yet it wasn’t their presence that surprised Bennie, it was Mary DiNunzio’s, at the near end of the sofa. She rose to her feet with Carrier and the bodyguards.

“How’d it go?” Mary asked as they left chambers and entered the corridor. The floor was of black-and-white marble and the white vaulted ceiling towered over their heads. The press was momentarily at bay, obeying orders not to come within fifty feet of the judge’s chambers.

“What are you doing here?” Bennie looked at Mary, whose brown suit hung on her form, as if she’d lost weight. “Why aren’t you back at the office, withdrawing from this case?”

“I want to stay on,” Mary answered. She had thought about it all night. “I have to. You need me.”

Bennie smiled. “I have tried cases without you.”

“I’m not a quitter.” Mary hustled to keep pace down the corridor. “I thought about this and I’ve made a decision. It’s firm. If I’m a lawyer, I’m going to lawyer.”

Bennie frowned. “If you’re a lawyer? You are a lawyer, and a far better one than you know.”

“Thank you.” Mary felt blood rush to her face. She’d never heard Bennie praise anyone.

“But I still want you off this case.”

“No. I’m going to court with you.”

“Take a compromise, then. It’s a research mission on this case, purely factual. Do it from your desk, and out of trouble.”

“Sure, what?”

“Find out if our friend Dorsey Hilliard has any connection to Judge Guthrie or Henry Burden, or both.”

“Both Burden and Hilliard were in the D.A.’s office, obviously.”

Bennie shook her head grimly as she bustled forward. “More specific than that. See if they worked the same case, like that. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I want you to find it.”

Mary smiled crookedly. “Gotcha,” she said, and Judy glanced at her friend.

“What are you going to do about your parents, Mare?”

“It’s time I grew up,” Mary said, and for a second, she almost believed it.

67

The next witness for the prosecution, Jane Lambertsen, perched on the stand, well dressed in a flowered spring dress, chic gold jewelry, and a sweater the color of Granny Smith apples. Her raven hair had been gathered back into a thick ponytail, emphasizing her youth and freshness. Lambertsen contrasted in every way with the cops who had testified the day before, and Bennie figured that Hilliard had reshuffled his batting order after Lenihan’s death.

The courtroom was quiet, the court personnel occupying themselves with official duties, and the jury presumptively ignorant of the events swirling outside the courthouse walls. If they thought Bennie looked a little puffy around the face, they’d ascribe it to a late night at the office. Only Bennie knew open war had been declared, as she and the entire courtroom sat fully focused on the next witness for the Commonwealth.

“Yes, I did hear them arguing that night,” Mrs. Lambertsen testified.

Hilliard straightened at the podium. “That is, you’re testifying that you heard Alice Connolly and Anthony Della Porta arguing before his murder on the night in question?”

“Objection,” Bennie snapped. “The prosecutor is testifying again.”

Judge Guthrie fiddled with a bow tie that was already straight. He seemed completely preoccupied to Bennie since their meeting in chambers. Perhaps the knowledge that his cohorts weren’t fellow Quakers had sobered him. “I’ll allow it,” the judge ruled. “You may answer, Mrs. Lambertsen.”

“That’s right,” the witness said. “I heard arguing that night, a little before eight o’clock. I was trying to put the baby down. To bed, you know. Her bedtime was at seven forty-five then, and I was watching the clock.”

A woman juror in the front row nodded, and Lambertsen caught her eye and smiled back. Bennie thumbed through her papers for her notes; her head hurt too much to remember the jury sheets. The juror was Libby DuMont, age thirty-two, homemaker, mother of three.

“Mrs. Lambertsen,” Hilliard said, “you’ve already testified that you lived in the rowhouse next door to Detective Della Porta and the defendant. Does that mean you shared a common wall?”

“Yes, and it’s a thin wall, too. You can hear sounds, kind of muffled. I used to worry all the time that they’d hear the baby crying. I did hear them argue, a lot.”

“How often would you say the defendant and Detective Della Porta argued, Mrs. Lambertsen?”

“Well, she moved in in September, I think. I would say the arguing started in October.”

Beside Bennie, Connolly shifted unhappily in her seat. She was wearing the same blue suit as yesterday, which matched Bennie’s, and looked like a lawyer with her cultured pearls. Bennie hadn’t spoken to Connolly since Lenihan’s attack and had to assume she didn’t know about it. As much as she loathed Connolly, Bennie had to admit that Connolly had been telling the truth about the police conspiracy. It made Bennie credit Connolly’s story, even if, paradoxically, she couldn’t abide sitting with her.

“Did their fighting have a pattern you could discern?” Hilliard asked, and Bennie didn’t object. Judge Guthrie would permit Hilliard to lead, on direct.

“It seemed like they fought at night, mostly,” Lambertsen answered.

“Could you make out anything they said during these fights?”

“Objection, hearsay,” Bennie said, half rising. Her side hurt but she ignored it. “The question is vague, irrelevant, and assumes facts not in evidence. There’s been no proof that these voices belonged to the defendant or to Mr. Della Porta.”

“You may want to rephrase that, Mr. Prosecutor,” Judge Guthrie said after a moment, which Bennie regarded as a small victory.

Hilliard paused to act exasperated. “Without telling the jury what the words were, Mrs. Lambertsen, could you make out who was speaking?”

“Only sometimes, when they really yelled. I tried not to listen, I didn’t want to invade their privacy. I just heard voices shouting at each other.”

“In general, again without telling us the words, whose voice was generally louder during these fights, the defendant’s or Detective Della Porta’s?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said, half rising again.

Hilliard held up a hand, flashing a large class ring of garnet and gold. “I’ll rephrase. Mrs. Lambertsen, when you heard arguing coming from the apartment shared by the defendant and Detective Della Porta, whose voice was generally louder, the woman’s or the man’s?”

Bennie objected on the same grounds but Judge Guthrie denied it. Mrs. Lambertsen testified, “The woman’s voice was usually louder.”

“Thank you,” Hilliard said. “Now, going back to the night of May nineteenth, how long did the argument last?”

“Fifteen minutes, at the most.”

“Do you recall what happened after the argument?”

“I heard a noise. Sometimes after they argue I hear a door slam. This time it was a gunshot.”

Two of the jurors looked at each other and several stiffened in their seats. Hilliard paused to let it register. “What did you do after you heard the gunshot?” he asked.

“I went to the door to see what was going on. I have one of those chains on the door, so I left it on and peeked out.”

“Wait a minute, why did you go to the door, Mrs. Lambertsen?” Hilliard asked, apparently spontaneously, and Bennie reflected that the question demonstrated why he was such a good lawyer. Hilliard asked witnesses the questions that would occur to jurors, reinforcing his logical nature and aligning him with the jury.

“I’m not sure exactly,” Lambertsen admitted. “The gunshot came from next door, but I couldn’t go next door, so I went to my door and opened it a little. Just to see what was going on. Like, a crack.”

“What did you see when you went to the door?”

“I saw Alice, Alice Connolly, running by. She ran right by my door.”

The jury shifted, though Connolly remained still. Bennie willed herself to stay calm. She’d known this testimony was coming. It would only get worse, as each of the neighbors corroborated. Hilliard looked grave. “Mrs. Lambertsen, how did the defendant appear to you as she ran by?” he asked.

“Worried, scared, kind of in a panic. Like you’d look after a fight, but worse.”

The jurors listened to every word, caught up in the story. Bennie wished she could break it up with an objection, but it would cost her more in credibility than she’d gain. She glanced uneasily over her shoulder at the gallery, which looked rapt. Directly behind her sat Mike and Ike, solid as fence posts at either end of the front row. No cops watched from the back row, where Lenihan had sat. It was hard to believe he was there only yesterday, watching her. Bennie flashed on him falling in horror over the wall and found herself wondering when his funeral would be. She knew just how his family would feel, picking out the casket. Sick. Horrified. Dazed.

“Mrs. Lambertsen, after you saw Alice Connolly run by, what did you do?”

“I called 911 and told them what I had seen, and the police came.”

Hilliard continued by eliciting the details of the 911 call and found an excuse to take Lambertsen again through the gunshot and Connolly’s running down the street, to emphasize it to the jury. It was a slam-dunk direct examination of an appealing and critical witness.

Bennie rose to her feet, wincing from hidden injuries and knowing that she had to attack Lambertsen’s testimony without attacking the witness. And she had to do it without getting bollixed up by what had happened last night. Near-death experiences didn’t make for productive workdays.

But she couldn’t think about that now.

68

Bennie stood beside the podium and addressed the young mother. “Mrs. Lambertsen, thinking back to the night of May nineteenth, you say you heard arguing, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear male and female voices arguing, or did you just hear voices raised in argument?”

Lambertsen thought a minute. “I guess I just heard voices.”

Bennie sighed inwardly, with relief. Funny thing about the truth. It enabled a lawyer to ask a question she didn’t know the answer to, because she knew what the answer had to be. “Now, Ms. Lambertsen, there came a time when you saw Alice Connolly running down the street. Do you remember what she was wearing?”

“Uh, no.”

“Do you remember what type of shirt she had on?”

“I didn’t notice, or if I did, I don’t remember.”

“And you didn’t see what she was wearing on the bottom, jeans or shorts, did you?”

“No.”

“Was she carrying anything?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t notice that either.”

Bennie nodded. No white plastic bag? She had almost made the point and sensed not to push it. “Now, you testified you were trying to put your baby down at seven forty-five that night, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. It was always a fight then, it still is. She doesn’t want to miss anything.” Mrs. Lambertsen smiled, as did the young mother in the front row. It was a warm moment, and Bennie decided to prolong it. There was precious little warmth in the world, of late.

“Mrs. Lambertsen, how old was your baby on May nineteenth of last year?”

“About two months old. She was born on March twenty-third, so she was a newborn.”

“And what is her name, by the way?” Bennie asked, to loosen up the witness, who obviously welcomed talking about her child. Bennie’s only point of reference was her dog and she could talk golden retrievers for hours.

“Molly’s her name.”

“Okay, Molly. You were with Molly. Now, what time was it when you heard the gunshot?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“You know that how?”

“I looked at the clock. Molly hadn’t napped that afternoon and she needed to go down. On days like that, you have an eye on the clock.”

“Now, when did you look at the clock, in relation to when you heard the gunshot?”

Lambertsen thought a minute, pursing lips lipsticked a light, feminine pink. “I looked at the clock right after I heard the gunshot.”

Bennie paused. It was a crucial point. She had to prove that more time had elapsed between the sound of the gunshot and when Lambertsen saw Connolly running past her door. If Bennie’s theory was true, whoever shot Della Porta had gotten out just before Connolly arrived home. “What kind of clock do you have? Is it digital?”

“No, it’s a small, round one on the oven front. You know those?”

“Sure. So you have to read it, like the old days?”

The witness smiled. “Yes.”

“Mrs. Lambertsen, what did you do after you looked at the clock?”

“I went to the door, opened it, and looked out.”

“Did you? Let’s go back over the exact sequence of events.” Bennie walked around the front of the podium and leaned on it, wincing as her shoulder flexed. If she had to develop her defense as she went along, so be it. She’d always thought that was the worst trouble a lawyer could get into, but that was before last night. “Mrs. Lambertsen, where in your house were you when you heard the gunshot?”

“I was in the kitchen.”

“What were you doing in the kitchen?”

“Rocking the baby, trying to get her to settle down.”

Bennie nodded, wishing she had done the interview of Lambertsen herself and finagled her way into that house. “Where is your kitchen in relation to the front door?”

“The kitchen’s in the front of the house, to the left of the front door.”

“How large is the kitchen?”

“It’s long and skinny. About twenty feet long.”

“So, Mrs. Lambertsen, you walked through the kitchen, about twenty feet, to get to the front door?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Bennie visualized the scene and imagined a mother’s instinct. “You didn’t take the baby with you to see about the gunshot, did you?”

“God, no. I put her down.”

“Where did you put Molly?”

“In her baby chair, on the counter. One of those portable chairs, with a handle. It was in the kitchen.”

“So you put Molly in her chair. Did you strap her in?”

“Yes. I always do. She’s wriggly. Wiry.”

“Did she sit in the seat willingly?”

Mrs. Lambertsen burst into light laughter. “Molly doesn’t do anything willingly. She has a mind of her own.” The jurors laughed, too, relishing the baby talk, which Bennie knew was only apparently a frolic and detour.

“Did Molly cry in the chair?”

“A little, and kicked. Fussed, you know. Molly was kind of clingy at that age. She didn’t like it when I left the room. She’d kick and cry.”

“So you had to settle Molly before you went to the door, right?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do to settle her?”

“Gave her a pacifier, then patted her. Smoothed her hair, she likes that.”

“Did she settle down then?”

“No. I think I gave her a toy, too. Her favorite toy then was Rubber Duckie. I gave her Duckie.”

Judge Guthrie smiled benevolently from the dais. “You’re a very good mother, Mrs. Lambertsen,” he said, and the witness blushed at the praise.

“I agree,” Bennie said. She suppressed thoughts of her own mother. “Let’s see, Mrs. Lambertsen, before you went to the door, you put Molly in her chair, fastened the strap, gave her a toy duck and a pacifier, and you patted her and smoothed her hair, is that your recollection?”

“Yes.”

“Where was the rubber duck, by the way?”

“It was in a plastic bin on the kitchen counter.”

“Were there other toys in the bin, Mrs. Lambertsen?”

“There are toys everywhere in my house. Fisher-Price is our decorator,” she answered, and the jurors laughed again.

“So you had to root through the toy bin to find the rubber duck, is that right?”

“Right.”

“How long would you say it took for you to do all those things that good mothers do-that is, put Molly in her chair, fasten the strap, find her a toy duck, give it to her with a pacifier, and pat her and smooth her hair?”

“How much time? Uh, maybe five minutes, maybe more.”

Bennie guessed the witness was underestimating, albeit unintentionally. “How much more? As much as ten minutes?”

“Maybe, but more like seven.”

Bennie had made progress. Seven to ten minutes was almost enough time for a killer to escape and Connolly to arrive, but close. “And that was before you went to the door?”

“Uh, yes.” Mrs. Lambertsen glanced regretfully at Hilliard, taking notes at counsel table.

“Mrs. Lambertsen, after you got Molly the duck, did you walk or run the twenty feet to the door?”

“Walked.”

Bennie reconsidered the scenario. It was hard to think, with her jaw aching. She should have taken more Advil. “Wait a minute. You said Molly’s chair was on the counter in the kitchen. Can you see the baby from the front door?”

“No.”

“So you had to leave Molly out of sight, on the counter, while you went to the door?”

“Yes.”

“And she was kicking and crying, in one of those baby chairs?”

“Yes.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Bennie saw the young mother in the front row frown just the slightest bit. It gave Bennie her cue and she walked stiffly from the podium to the witness stand, instinctively closing in on a point even she didn’t understand yet. “Mrs. Lambertsen, when you left Molly on the counter to go to the door, kicking and fussing, weren’t you worried she would fall off the counter?”

“Objection!” Hilliard shouted, his voice booming from the prosecution table. The sound had the intended effect of interrupting the good vibes Bennie was nurturing. “What could be the possible relevance of these details?”

Bennie faced the judge. “This is an entirely proper exploration of the events of the night in question, Your Honor.”

Judge Guthrie leaned back in his chair, touching his teeth with the stem of his reading glasses. “Overruled.”

Bennie turned to the witness. “Mrs. Lambertsen, weren’t you worried about Molly when you left her on the counter to go to the door?”

“Yes, I was. I should have put the chair on the floor, but I didn’t. I was so distracted by the gunshot and all. It was like two things happening at once.” The witness paused, thinking. “Now that I think of it, I ran back to check when I was halfway there.”

Bennie nodded. It was a break. “Considering that, how long do you think it took you to get to the door? Maybe three to five minutes?”

“Yes, probably.”

“So would it be fair to add three to five minutes to the time you saw Alice Connolly run by?”

“Yes.”

“Would that bring us to a total of ten to twelve minutes between the time you heard the gunshot and the time you reached the door and saw Alice Connolly?”

“Well, yes.”

Bennie paused, pleased, then thought back through Lambertsen’s testimony. It always surprised her that information witnesses volunteered during their testimony assumed significance in context. “Mrs. Lambertsen, you mentioned earlier that Molly needed a nap. When was the last time that day that she had slept?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Hilliard half rose from his chair. “This line of questioning is totally irrelevant and calls for the witness to speculate.”

“Your Honor,” Bennie said firmly, “the relevancy of the questions will become clear, and I don’t think Mrs. Lambertsen is speculating. She’s obviously very attentive to her child, as you yourself noted.”

Judge Guthrie frowned. “Mrs. Lambertsen, please don’t speculate or guess at your answers. Feel free to say so if you don’t remember.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mrs. Lambertsen said. “I know Molly’s schedule. Even then, she kept to a schedule.”

Hilliard sat down heavily as Bennie sent up a prayer of thanks. “Mrs. Lambertsen, the question was, when was the last time that day that Molly had slept?”

“She had been awake since her morning nap. She woke up at about six in the morning, then went right back to sleep. She woke up at about ten-thirty, in those days. She didn’t even take an afternoon nap, or if she did it lasted like an hour.”

“So on May nineteenth, she was up from about ten-thirty in the morning until when she eventually went to sleep, is that right?”

“Right.”

“Take us back a bit, to the day before May nineteenth. You said Molly was two months old at the time. If you can recall, what was her schedule then?”

Hilliard sighed audibly, but refrained from making an objection. His cranky growl got him the interruption he wanted anyway.

“Oh, God. It was hell, sheer hell,” Mrs. Lambertsen said, rolling her eyes. “She would start fussing late in the day, when she was really too tired to stay awake. She would fall asleep at about nine o’clock, then wake up at about midnight. We’d watch Jay Leno together.”

“If you remember, did Molly go right back to sleep after the Jay Leno show on the night of May eighteenth?”

“She never went right back to sleep,” Mrs. Lambertsen shot back, so flatly that the jurors laughed. “She always wanted to play after she’d nursed. She was happy, well fed, and had my attention.”

“When was the next time Molly did go back to sleep, the night of May eighteenth?”

“She didn’t go back down at all. We were both up all night.”

Bennie couldn’t imagine it. She thought of her mother’s devotion, with a pang of fresh grief. She paused a minute and hoped the jurors attributed it to her next question. “Mrs. Lambertsen, had you napped that day, on May nineteenth?”

“Not since the morning. I always napped when Molly napped or I wouldn’t have survived her first year. Somebody in my playgroup told me to do that and it was good advice.”

“So in the night before May nineteenth, you had a total of three hours sleep?”

“Yes.”

Bennie thought about how she felt without a good night’s sleep for a week. “Doesn’t sleep deprivation affect your concentration?”

“For sure. I’m one of those people who need a lot of sleep, nine hours a night. Once I took Molly to the doctor, she had an ear infection, and I couldn’t remember whether the doctor told me to put drops in her ears or mouth. Another time I bought diapers and left them on the counter.”

The jurors smiled, and Bennie waited before her next question. “Did you ever think you read something, and read it wrong?” she asked.

“Objection!” Hilliard said as he rose and reached for his crutches. He knew where Bennie was going and it wasn’t baby talk anymore. He slipped strong forearms into the aluminum handles of his crutches. “The question calls for speculation and is vague. I think this entire line of questioning is totally irrelevant and a waste of the Court’s time.”

Judge Guthrie was caught cleaning his reading glasses. “I think not, Mr. Hilliard,” he ruled, and Hilliard took his seat heavily.

Bennie glanced at the judge, thankful. If Judge Guthrie had been ruling against her yesterday, he was playing fair today. Too bad she almost had to get killed to get his attention. “Mrs. Lambertsen,” she said, “you may answer the question.”

“I guess I remember reading the directions on the bottle over and over. Even out loud.”

“Thinking back to the night of May nineteenth, recall that you’re trying to get Molly to calm down, you’re working on three hours of sleep and you hear a gunshot. Then you run to the door, come back, and read the clock. How can you be sure you read the clock right?”

Lambertsen looked away, apparently reconsidering. “I think I did.”

“You’re sure your perceptions were correct that night, even though you were working on three hours’ sleep?”

“I am.”

Bennie slipped her hands into her pockets. Maybe she was pushing it, but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know what had happened that night. “But other perceptions of yours were off that night, weren’t they, Mrs. Lambertsen?”

“Like what?” the witness asked thoughtfully, and Bennie could feel the jurors faces as they turned toward her. If she could come through, she sensed they’d shift to her side. Bennie felt it like an undertow tugging at her ankles, threatening to drown her if she didn’t swim hard.

“Well, Mrs. Lambertsen, when you looked out your front door, you didn’t perceive what Alice Connolly was wearing for a shirt, did you?”

“Uh, no.”

“And you didn’t perceive what Alice Connolly was wearing on the bottom, jeans or shorts, did you?”

“Well, no,” she answered, a tremor of doubt in her tone, and Bennie felt the tide begin to turn. Mrs. Lambertsen was an intelligent, reasonable person, bending over backward to be honest in her testimony. In Bennie’s experience, they made the worst witnesses ever.

“So isn’t it possible, Mrs. Lambertsen, given how tired you were and all that was going on, that you’re not exactly sure what the clock said when you read it? Police records show you didn’t call 911 until 8:07.”

Mrs. Lambertsen straightened in her chair. Bennie held her breath, and Hilliard his objection. Judge Guthrie craned his neck over his papers as the silence lengthened. The jury focused completely on the young mother, waiting for her answer.

Finally Mrs. Lambertsen said, “I guess I can’t really be sure if it said eight o’clock.”

Bennie’s body sagged suddenly with the release of tension. “I have no further questions,” she said, and returned to her chair behind counsel table.

“Your Honor, I have redirect,” Hilliard said, rising and holding up a finger, but Bennie relaxed in her chair. She knew he couldn’t erase Lambertsen’s testimony.

Connolly leaned over and tapped Bennie’s sleeve. “Way to go, counselor. There’s not many lawyers who could kill a cop, then kick ass in court the next day.”

Bennie’s face flushed with shame. She looked over, stung, but Connolly had turned away, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

69

It was the lunch break at trial, and Bennie faced Connolly in the courthouse interview room. Bennie was so angry she couldn’t feel her assorted aches and pains. “How did you know about Lenihan?” she demanded.

“How could I not know?”

“You’re incarcerated, for one thing.”

“That never stopped me before. Impressed?”

Bennie folded her arms. “Who are you in contact with on the outside? Is it Bullock?”

“Relax.” Connolly sat back and smiled. Her wrists lay handcuffed in her lap, incongruous with her suit and pearls. “One of the guards showed me the newspaper. I told you the cops were behind it. Lenihan, McShea, Reston, they’re all out to get me. Now do you think I’m telling the truth?”

“About them, yes.”

“So you know I’m innocent.”

“You didn’t kill Della Porta. We’ll leave it at that. Did you know Lenihan or not?”

“No, I told you that.”

“You never heard anyone mention him? He almost killed me last night. What’s his connection to you, or them?”

“No idea.”

Bennie grew only more determined. “Why does the judge want me disabled on this case? Do you know?”

“So I’ll get railroaded.”

“Why? How’s he connected to this conspiracy?”

“I don’t know how, I told you.”

“What about the D.A., Hilliard? What about him?”

“I don’t know what the connection is, I said.”

“You don’t know anything that can help us out?”

“Us? I’m touched.”

“Us is me and my associates.”

Connolly laughed. “Can’t help you, girlie. It’s your show.”

“Show’s over. See you in court.” Bennie reached for the doorknob and walked out. But it wasn’t as easy to turn away as it should have been.

Bennie left Connolly upset and walked into the courthouse conference room while DiNunzio and Carrier finished eating. The associates were seated in the same chairs as at the last break, like a family at a dinner table. Mary was having her customary Greek salad, and the crust of an impossibly large sandwich lay in waxed paper in front of Judy. The scene almost managed to soothe Bennie’s spirit.

“We got you some chicken soup,” Judy said, pushing a plastic container across the table. Her eyes were bright, her hair shiny, and her large frame jittery with energy in a loose-fitting navy smock. “Mary thought you could use it, for medicinal purposes.”

“I’m fine.”

“Nobody’s fine after a night like last night.”

Bennie slipped into her seat and didn’t move to uncap the soup container. “How’d we do with Lambertsen?”

“Awesome.”

“That a term of art? How’d the jury take it?”

“They got it, I think.”

“Good. You guys figured out the next witness? Another neighbor, to shore up Lambertsen? What are their names?” Bennie struggled to remember, but Mary jumped in.

“There’s Ray Munoz, Mary Vidas, and Ryan Murray,” she said, her answer firm. “Also a Frederick Sharp. All of them saw Connolly running by that night.”

Bennie nodded, pleased. “Good for you, DiNunzio.”

“I studied,” Mary said with a wry smile. “Munoz is the main neighbor we have to worry about. But something tells me Hilliard won’t put up another neighbor after Lambertsen.”

“I agree,” Judy said. “Hilliard just put up a girl and got killed. Babies, pacifiers, neighbors-it’s girl testimony. Also, he doesn’t have anybody to address the time issue. He needs something objective, harder to impeach. Boy testimony.”

Bennie thought it was an odd way of looking at the world. “So who is it? The coroner? A blood expert?”

“That’s my bet. Can you handle it? You feel okay?”

“I’m fine,” Bennie said, but she had hardly finished the sentence when Mary began clearing her throat, loudly.

“I could take a witness,” the associate said. “If you want.”

Judy’s mouth dropped open. “Mare?”

“You would?” Bennie asked with a smile.

Mary nodded. “I could try. I’m good on boy stuff, whatever that means. Math, science, bicycles with bars down the middle. I think I could do it.”

Bennie shook her head. “Before last night, I would have let you, but not now. I don’t want you on the firing line.” A soft knock sounded on the conference room door, and Bennie looked over. “We expecting anybody?”

“Mike and Ike?” Mary offered.

“Ooh, I feel safer already,” Judy said. “Big, strong men protecting me.”

Mary smiled. “They’re gay, you know. Ike told me.”

“For real?” Judy asked.

“If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.”

Judy laughed. “What did you say? You never say things like that.”

“Sometimes I do.”

Bennie was opening the door onto a short, elderly couple, standing close enough to each other to be huddling against a blizzard. They smelled faintly of mothballs in their cloth coats and looked vaguely familiar. “I’m sorry, this is the attorney’s conference room,” Bennie told them.

“I can read English!” the old woman snapped, though an Italian accent flavored her words. She glared through thick glasses that magnified milky brown eyes. “We come to make sure our daughter is safe!”

“Oh, no,” came a loud moan from the conference room, and Bennie turned to see DiNunzio leaping to her pumps.

Lou flipped up the collar of his dark-blue windbreaker and kept his head down against the drizzle. The sidewalk was wet and raindrops dotted the pebbled surface. Soggy trash clumped in the gutter, blocking the sewer. Lou couldn’t remember the last time it had been sunny in this goddamn city. Maybe the last time somebody had cleaned up South Philly. He was in a foul, foul mood. Investigating one of his own. A killer.

Lou shook his head, jingling the change in his pockets. He’d told Rosato last night he’d follow up on Lenihan, and he had started as soon as he got home, making phone calls. Lenihan was in the Eleventh, and Lou used to have buddies in the Eleventh. One of his buddies had died, prostate cancer, and the other, Carlos, had moved to Tempe, Arizona. For the air, Carlos had said, when Lou called him long-distance last night.

What, we don’t have air in Philly? Lou said.

Lou and Carlos shot the shit awhile, dime a minute, and it turned out Carlos’s kid joined the force, also the Eleventh. Maybe the kid could give him the skinny about Lenihan and drug dealing. Lou had asked Carlos to set it up, and Carlos had said yes. Lou lowered his head and watched unhappily as rain pelted his leather loafers, making a wavy water line around the edge of the toe. Shit. The back of his collar felt clammy. He tried to shake off the drops, but couldn’t. It wasn’t the rain bothering him anyway.

It was Rosato. She’d almost got whacked right under his nose. He hadn’t seen it coming. What was the matter with him? He was a cop, for Christ’s sake. Maybe he really was getting old.

Lou reached the corner and looked down the street, blinking against the drizzle. A patrol car was coming on, a half block away, probably on its way to the precinct house. The car looked like a new one with a factory-fresh white paint job. Red, white, and blue lights shiny on the roof, like the flag.

Lou jogged across the street, trying to jump the gutter and falling short. Christ. He was getting old. He remembered the first time he got into a squad car, he twisted the wheel back and forth like a kid. But what he felt like was a man. Responsible. Not just for himself, for his wife and family, but for everyone. To protect and to serve. It had meant a lot to Lou.

The drizzle came heavier, and Lou picked up the pace. A bank of rowhouses lined the cross street, then a corner bakery. Nobody was inside the bakery, but its shelves were full. Old glass display cases heaped with butter cookies that were covered by pink cellophane hay. Trays of soft pinwheel cookies with sticky red jam in the middle. Lou shook his head, hurrying by. All those old-time bakeries would be gone soon. Everybody wanted everything new nowadays. Good-bye, little white boxes tied with string.

Lou spotted the precinct house straight ahead, on the left. You’d never know it was a police station from the outside. The sign was small and the yellow brick poorly maintained for a municipal building. Steel cages covered the windows and the flag was at half-mast. It was because of Lenihan, though the kid wouldn’t be getting the hero treatment. The Department would want the whole thing to blow over, and so would the mayor.

Lou got closer. Squad cars were piled like goddamn cookies around the place. Never enough parking around any precinct house; never enough cops, never enough cars. Nobody could keep up with the scumbags, the drugs so plentiful they blanketed everything, cheap as baker’s flour. Not a soul in the world could stop it. Lou knew that in his head, but it didn’t stop him from trying. He was stupid that way. He climbed the front steps of the station house and went inside.

Behind the desk was a young black woman with her hair tucked up under her hat and a smile covered with braces. She asked if she could help him, like it was a bakery shop, and Lou smiled. “Lookin’ for Ed Vega,” he said.

“You just missed him. He’ll be right back.”

“Damn,” Lou said. “I’ll wait. He was supposed to meet me for lunch.”

“You’re not a reporter, are you?” she asked, her eyes narrowing, and Lou laughed.

“Hell, no. I’m-I used to be-a cop.”

70

The witness, Dr. Liam Pettis, was bald, with a silver-white tuft of hair above each fuzzy ear, and his smile was flanked by the softest of jowls. He wore a seersucker suit of sky-blue stripes that fit his small, pudgy frame as if it had been bought many years ago. In response to Dorsey Hilliard’s questions, Dr. Pettis recited a laundry list of expert qualifications-degrees, publications, and awards-yet still managed to sound slightly surprised when Judge Guthrie qualified him as an expert.

“Dr. Pettis,” Hilliard continued, “in addition to being a professor and a licensed physician, you are also an expert in blood spatter analysis, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Briefly explain what blood spatter analysis means, in layman’s terms, if you would.”

“Blood spatter analysis, or bloodstain pattern analysis, means simply that when blood is acted upon by physical forces, it will deposit itself on items at a crime scene or on the clothing of a perpetrator in a certain pattern. By understanding these patterns, we can learn much about the manner in which the murder was accomplished.”

Bennie caught a glimpse of the gallery. Sketch artists rushed to get a drawing and reporters made rapid notes. Mike and Ike remained in position and behind them huddled the DiNunzios. Mrs. DiNunzio glared at her, and Bennie wondered who were more protective, bodyguards or Italian parents. Still, she didn’t resent Mary’s mother, who reminded her of what her mother could have been, had she been well.

“Dr. Pettis,” Hilliard asked, “could you describe for the jury the type of injury Detective Della Porta sustained in relation to the blood spatter you examined?”

“Certainly. In this case, a gun, a.22 caliber weapon, was fired into the decedent’s lower forehead. Here.” Dr. Pettis pointed a furry finger at the middle of his brow. “The skin over the bone exploded, the cranium was pierced, and blood and matter in the cranial vault were blown forward. The bullet lodged in the back of the skull and made a small hole in the forehead. Its geometry was quite round, which suggests that the weapon was fired directly at the victim, point-blank. Considering the blood spatter on the walls and furniture of the apartment, which I examined through photographic evidence, I would say the weapon was fired from a distance of three to four feet.”

Hilliard crossed to the evidence table and picked up the plastic bag containing the bloody sweatshirt. “Dr. Pettis, have you had a chance to examine the blood on the sweatshirt that constitutes Commonwealth Exhibit 13, which we admitted earlier into evidence?”

“Yes, sir, I have.”

Hilliard rested on a single crutch, extracted the sweatshirt from the bag, and walked to the stand with the sweatshirt, which flopped at his side like a blood-soaked battle standard. “These spots on the sweatshirt are what you are referring to as blood spatter, is that correct?”

“Yes. That is a very typical pattern of blood spatter. In addition, I performed a number of tests on that blood, the conventional blood work for typing and so forth, as well as DNA testing. PCR testing. I could elaborate, if you wish, on the PCR process.”

Hilliard shook his gleaming head. “That won’t be necessary,” he answered, glancing at the jurors. “PCR testing is accepted in the scientific community as reliable and valid, is it not, Dr. Pettis?”

“Oh, yes, of course. PCR testing is used for plant and animal research around the country. In the human biology context, PCR testing may be used to determine paternity and twinness.”

Bennie flushed instantly, thinking of the DNA test she and Connolly had taken. She had completely forgotten about the test because of all that had happened in the interim. When would those results be in? She caught one of the jurors, the videographer with the goatee, looking over at her.

“Dr. Pettis, did you test the blood on the sweatshirt and compare it for identification purposes with a sample of Detective Della Porta’s blood supplied you by the Commonwealth?”

“I did,” Dr. Pettis said, nodding.

“And is it your considered expert opinion, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, that the blood on this sweatshirt is that of Detective Della Porta?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Thank you, sir. I have no further questions of this witness, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, gathering the sweatshirt and dropping it back at the evidence table, bloody side up before the jurors. They fell silent, gazing at the stains. Even Bennie imagined the blood on Della Porta’s forehead, then the blood spurting from Lenihan’s neck. The blood of Valencia Mendoza. Then hers and Connolly’s, squinted at through microscopes, cell-size.

“Will you cross-examine, Ms. Rosato?” Judge Guthrie asked, and Bennie rose without looking at her client.

71

“It’s Vega the Younger,” Lou said when he saw Carlos Vega’s kid bounding out of the rain and through the glass doors of the precinct house.

“Sorry I’m late, sir,” the young cop said. He palmed his dripping cap and brushed it dry. A flock of uniforms flowed into the station house, talking and shedding wet slickers when they got inside. They all looked like babies to Lou, none as robust as Carlos’s kid, who crammed his hat under his arm and extended a large hand. “I’m Ed Vega. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jacobs.”

“Shit, who’s Mr. Jacobs?” Lou said. He shook the kid’s hand and held on to it for a minute, marveling at his broad, earnest face. The kid had dark hair, a small mustache, and the bedroom eyes his father had at twenty-three. “Call me Lou, okay? Your dad, now he has to call me Mr. Jacobs.”

Vega laughed. “Okay, Lou. Sorry I’m late. You buyin’ me lunch, I hear?”

“Depends on how hungry you are.”

“I could eat a horse,” the kid said, and Lou shot him a look.

“Drink water. I’m on Social Security.”

“Deal.”

Lou fell in step with the kid and they headed back outside, but were stopped at the door by a flood of uniforms coming in from the rain. Lou counted eight of them, including two broads who cursed worse than the men. “It’s a brave new world, ain’t it?” Lou said, without elaborating, as an older, taller cop hurried up the steps.

“Hey, Lou,” Ed said, grabbing the older man by the elbow, “wanna meet somebody even older than you? Lou, this is Joe Citrone, my partner. Joe, Lou Jacobs, a friend of my dad’s.”

“Hey,” Citrone said quickly, nodding like he was too busy to shake hands. He tried to pass but the boisterous crowd blocked the door.

“You look kinda familiar,” Lou said, his crow’s-feet wrinkling as he appraised Citrone. A fit guy, with hard eyes and no laugh lines. “When’d you graduate the academy? Class of-”

“Don’t try to make conversation,” Ed interrupted with a grin. “Joe Citrone is a man of few words.”

Lou laughed. “Most cops yap like yentas.”

“Lou, you want to know about Lenihan, you oughta be talkin’ to Joe,” Vega said, and Lou’s ears pricked up.

“You knew Lenihan, buddy?”

“No, I didn’t,” Citrone said, and confusion creased the younger cop’s forehead.

“Sure you did, the other day…” Vega started to say, but his sentence trailed off.

“You’re mistaken, Ed.” Citrone looked at Lou. “Good meeting you.”

Vega fell silent as his partner walked away, then he slapped his cap on and gave it a twist. “Where we goin’ to lunch?” he asked.

“Where else?” Lou said, and after a backward glance at Citrone, he ventured into the storm.

Debbie’s Diner, with its aluminum sides, train-car shape, and familiar doughnut sign, had become a fixture in South Philly. The food was good, the prices cheap, and the only drawback to the diner were the mob killings that took place in its front parking lot, generally in odd-numbered years. The murders were of the old-fashioned variety; a single, accurate gunshot to a target selected by an organized crime family, not the scattershot drive-by that shredded kids in the crossfire and left Lou asking what had the world come to, whenever the killers acted so inhuman. But rather than scare the patrons away, the murders served only to authenticate Debbie’s, fazing neither the made men nor uniformed cops who ate there. Lou knew that as long as there was scrambled eggs with ketchup, there would be Debbie’s. And he was glad.

“Let’s sit here,” Lou said, and showed Vega to his favorite booth. He sat down and grabbed some paper napkins from the steel dispenser, leaving it rocking. “You wet, kid? You want a napkin to dry off?”

“No, thanks.” Vega shook his hair dry like a Newfoundland puppy, and the waitress came over, cute with a short haircut and a black uniform that fit just right.

“You guys ever hear of umbrellas?”

“No,” Lou said. “We hate umbrellas.”

Vega grinned. “It’s a cop thing.”

The waitress shook her head. Her lapel pin, in the trademark doughnut shape, read TERESA-THREE YEARS, her name and years of service at Debbie’s. Teresa was an infant by Debbie standards. “Two coffees, right away?” she asked.

“You’re a genius,” Vega said with a grin.

“Yeah, right. I should go on Jeopardy,” she said, and took off.

Vega ran his hand over his hair and it popped back up like porcupine quills. “So, Lou, I don’t know anything about him. Never even met the guy. It’s an effin’ shame, what happened.”

“You hear anything about him? What’s the scuttlebutt?”

“There isn’t any.”

“Hard to believe.”

“Lou, I don’t know what my dad told you, but I only been in the district two months. I just got paired with Citrone.”

Lou nodded. “Citrone knows Lenihan, though?”

“You heard him. No.”

“I heard you. You said he did.”

“I musta made a mistake.”

Lou blinked. “I don’t think so, son, and I gotta know what you know. Lenihan got dead tryin’ to kill somebody I care about. I want to know why.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

“You said Citrone knows Lenihan. What made you say that?”

Vega swiped his hair again and squinted around for the waitress. “Where’s that coffee?”

“Why’d you think Citrone knew Lenihan?”

Vega waved a hand, caught the waitress’s eye, and made a drinking motion. She nodded, grabbed the pot by its brown plastic handle, and scored two mugs on the fly.

“Ed, why did you think Citrone knew Lenihan?” Lou asked again, but the kid kept squinting at the waitress, avoiding his eye. “Ed?”

“Here’s the brew,” Vega said, turning around as the heavy mugs arrived and the waitress set them on the table with a harsh clatter.

“I was gettin’ the menus for you, Skippy.” She poured the coffee into one mug, then the next. Lou noticed a dark tattoo on her forearm, a Chinese symbol, and wondered when girls started getting tattoos. Right after they joined the police force, but before they started law firms? Lou watched the waitress walk away and saw with satisfaction that some things still remained the same.

Vega gulped his coffee and hunched over the table. “Mr. Jacobs, Lou,” he said, in a low voice. “My dad says you’re a great guy, so you’re a great guy, but I’m not about to go up against Joe Citrone for you. You understand?”

“I’m only asking for information.”

“Information is going up against Citrone, and I don’t know anything anyway, I swear.”

Lou sipped his coffee and looked at the kid’s face. “You’re afraid.”

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t work in clothes, kid. They’d make you in a minute.”

“I’m not afraid, there’s nothing to be afraid of. That I don’t want to fuck with Citrone? Nothing wrong with that, I’m new on the job.”

Lou edged over the table. “What’s the big deal? Citrone the President of the United States? Did I miss something when I was in the can?”

“Citrone’s the old man. He knows everybody.”

“Then he must know Lenihan, like you said the first time.” Lou held his coffee cup. “Kid, Lenihan was in business with two guys from the Twentieth. They were in it together, with a detective, Della Porta, who got it last year and who used to be in the Eleventh. You think Citrone knows something about it? He’s an old-timer, like you said.”

Vega stood up abruptly, reached in his pocket, and flipped open his wallet. “Don’t call me, don’t find me, don’t bother me.” He threw a creased five on the table. “Stay away from me. Stay away from my father.”

Lou rose, his knees creaky. “Listen, I just want to talk.”

“You heard me,” Vega said, and lumbered from the booth and out of the diner.

Lou watched him jog across the parking lot to his patrol car. Running scared, Lou thought.

“What happened to your friend?” she asked. The waitress appeared and tugged a pad and a stubby pencil from a black apron.

“My friend? He had to see a man about a horse.”

“Wha?” The waitress scratched her head with her pencil.

“It’s an expression. Don’t you know that expression?”

“No. You wanna order?”

“Gimme three scrambled eggs and answer me this. You see a lot of cops in here, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever see a cop in here named Lenihan? He was from the Eleventh.”

“Lenihan? Isn’t he that blond babe from the newspaper?”

Babe? Lou thought he heard her wrong. Maybe he did need a hearing aid. “Babe? When did men become babes?”

“Wha?”

Lou wiped his forehead, still damp. “Forget it. Did Lenihan eat here?”

“Sure.”

“Who’d he eat with?”

“Other cops.”

“Which other cops?”

The waitress shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Cops wear nameplates, for one thing.”

“I don’t read their nameplates. Besides, I don’t talk about my customers.”

“It’s just a question. Who’d he eat with, usually?”

“You a cop? I thought you were a cop.”

“No, I’m just a guy. An old guy who wants to know.”

“Well, you’re shit out of luck, old guy who wants to know,” the waitress said, and shifted her weight. “You still want those eggs?”

“You got ketchup, right?”

“’Course.”

“Then yes,” Lou said, and sipped his coffee as she sashayed off.

72

Bennie faced the blood expert on the witness stand. “Dr. Pettis, you and I have met before, so I won’t introduce myself.”

The professor nodded, with a jowly smile. “Good to see you again, Ms. Rosato.”

“And you, sir,” Bennie said, hamming it up. The jury liked Pettis and she wanted them to know that Pettis liked her, too, so she wasn’t the enemy. It was the best tactic with a reasonable expert put up by the other side: make him your own. “Dr. Pettis, the Commonwealth has provided you with various items to examine in this matter. It has provided you with photos, a complete file, blood samples, and a sweatshirt, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“The Commonwealth did not provide you with a weapon to examine, did it?”

“No.”

“Is it your understanding that the police have not recovered the murder weapon in this case?”

“Yes.”

Bennie was watching the jurors’ faces. They looked attentive, and she guessed they were already wondering about the absence of the murder weapon. She walked calmly to the witness stand. “Dr. Pettis, what kind of forensic evidence can be found on a gun used to commit a murder?”

“Objection,” Hilliard said, half rising. “This is beyond the scope of direct examination. Dr. Pettis didn’t discuss murder weapons on direct.”

Bennie faced Judge Guthrie, who sat listening behind his tented fingers. “Your Honor, Dr. Pettis has been qualified as a forensics expert, and I’m asking him some basic questions about forensics.”

“I’ll permit it,” Judge Guthrie said, and his mouth disappeared behind his finger steeple.

Bennie returned to Dr. Pettis. “Please tell us the type of evidence you usually find on a murder weapon, such as a.22 caliber gun, for example.”

“Obviously, one would find fingerprints on the gun, which may result in a positive identification. There may also be flakes of skin, hair, or other trace evidence that could help identify the person who shot the gun.”

Bennie raised a hand. “But in this case, there was no weapon, so no suspect can be identified or eliminated on that basis in this case, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Pettis, are you also aware that a sweatshirt was found in a Dumpster in an alley, is that right?”

“I was told that by the prosecutor, yes.”

“No gun was found in the Dumpster, that you know of?”

“Not that I know.”

Bennie took a moment to look at the jurors’ faces, one by one. If they were wondering, let them wonder. “I have another forensics question, Dr. Pettis. When a person fires a gun, from any distance, aren’t certain residues deposited on their hand?”

“Yes, provided there’s no intermediate barrier, such as a glove.”

“Can you test for the presence of such residues in your lab?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Were you asked to perform any such test on Alice Connolly’s hands?”

“No.”

“You have no knowledge if any samples of residues were taken from Alice Connolly’s hands, do you, Dr. Pettis?”

“I do not.”

“Thank you. Let’s move on.” Bennie crossed to the evidence table and plucked the large baggie containing the sweatshirt from the evidence table. “Dr. Pettis, I am showing you what is marked as Commonwealth Exhibit 13. Do you recall testifying about the spatter pattern on this sweatshirt?”

“Yes.”

Bennie extracted the sweatshirt and unfolded it, releasing a stale, distasteful scent. The blood dotting its surface was caked and dried, but she couldn’t help feeling vaguely nauseated. “Dr. Pettis, blood spatter analysis is well accepted in the law enforcement community, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And most law enforcement professionals, such as the police, are familiar with its principles, are they not?”

“Objection, calls for speculation, Your Honor,” Hilliard said from his chair.

“Overruled,” Judge Guthrie said. “Dr. Pettis may so testify.”

Dr. Pettis faced Bennie. “Law enforcement professionals, such as police, would be familiar with blood spatter analysis. I myself lecture on it at police academies around the country.”

“Do you lecture on blood spatter to the Philadelphia police, as part of their training?”

“I do, and on other forensic principles as well.”

Bennie cocked her head, still holding the sweatshirt. “Do you have an estimate of how many police officers you’ve trained over the years in principles of blood spatter analysis?”

“I’m so long in the tooth, God only knows,” he said, and the jurors smiled with him. “Thousands, easily.”

“Thank you.” Bennie held up the sweatshirt. “Dr. Pettis, didn’t you testify earlier that the blood spatter pattern on this sweatshirt is typical?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You teach this in your lecture course to the police, is that right, sir?”

“Yes.”

Bennie faced the jury, still holding the sweatshirt against her own chest. She didn’t need hair or skin analysis to tell her it was Connolly’s; it would have fit Bennie exactly. “Tell the jury, Dr. Pettis, do you ever re-create spatter like this in your lab?”

“Yes. All the time. I do it to test my hypotheses and confirm my conclusions.”

“So you create blood spatter, all the time? How do you do it?”

“I simply spray blood, I use pig’s blood, at different garments. If it’s at a distance I use a spray gun. But short of that, I simply flick the blood onto the garment, as Jackson Pollock did with paint. It isn’t difficult.”

Bennie smiled inwardly. Thank God for the expert’s modesty. “So isn’t it true that an individual familiar with blood spatter principles can create blood spatter?”

“Yes.”

Bennie tossed the sweatshirt aside to signal to the jury how useless it was. She never was one for subtle cues. “I have no further questions,” she said, but Hilliard was already reaching for his crutches.

Dr. Marc Merwicke was the most respected of the city’s medical examiners, and Bennie wondered as Hilliard qualified him if his signature was the one on Lenihan’s false blood alcohol levels. But Dr. Merwicke’s appearance belied the suggestion that he could be capable of anything as exciting as a criminal conspiracy. Dressed in a gray suit and a solid tie of platinum color, Merwicke was about forty years old, with wet-down hair prematurely gray and a pallor that belonged in a morgue. Bennie felt a cold chill looking at him, thinking of her mother, then Lenihan. So much death; it was all around her. Her life was thick with it, as were her thoughts.

Hilliard asked a series of questions that took Merwicke through the autopsy he performed on Della Porta. Over Bennie’s objections, Merwicke launched into a complete and painstaking examination of grisly autopsy photos, wound site photos, and magnifications of exit and entrance wounds. They were projected on a large screen pulled down from the wall, like a macabre movie, and Bennie watched the librarian turn away and the back row of the jury shudder almost collectively.

Merwicke finally testified that the “shooter”-borrowing the term from police lingo-could have been a man or woman, but was a tall person. Bennie watched nervously as several of the jurors turned to size Connolly up. The jurors frowned further when Merwicke testified that hair and skin samples from the defendant matched several found on the sweatshirt, linking the blood-spattered exhibit to Connolly.

“I have one last question, Dr. Merwicke,” Hilliard asked, returning to the podium. “Does your office routinely perform tests for gunshot residue on the hands of murder suspects?”

“Yes.”

“Did you perform a residue test on Alice Connolly’s hands in this case?”

“No.”

“Why was that, Dr. Merwicke?”

“Lawyers,” the witness said flatly, and the jury laughed.

“Move to strike, Your Honor,” Bennie said, standing up. She didn’t understand the answer and she wasn’t about to lose the residue point. “A lawyer joke isn’t responsive, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor,” Hilliard said from the podium, “I was about to ask the witness to explain his answer.” Judge Guthrie nodded, and Hilliard asked the witness to elaborate.

Dr. Merwicke’s mouth tightened. “I meant that we can’t always perform the tests we need to because criminal defense lawyers obstruct our efforts.”

“Objection!” Bennie said, angry. “Move to strike that question and answer, Your Honor. There has been no evidence in this case that defense lawyers obstructed efforts to test Ms. Connolly’s hand and-”

“But they did,” Merwicke broke in, pointing a finger. “Alice Connolly’s first lawyers did. They filed a motion. They made such a stink, my office couldn’t get a sample. We had to take it to court, and by the time we could get a judge to rule, your client’s hands were clean.”

“Move to strike the testimony!” Bennie said, though it shocked her. There hadn’t been any motion about it in the Jemison file and she had been too busy to check the docket sheets herself. “Your Honor, the witness may not testify as to any decisions or filings by previous defense counsel in this matter. Ms. Connolly has a right to assert all protections due her under the Constitution.”

“Your Honor,” Hilliard argued, “defense counsel opened the door, with Dr. Pettis. The Commonwealth is entitled to elicit why a gun residue test wasn’t performed on the defendant’s hands, now that defense counsel made it an issue in her examination.”

“Quite right, the objection is overruled,” Judge Guthrie said. “I’ll not strike the testimony.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hilliard said. “Permit me a minute while I determine if I have any further questions.”

Bennie sank into her seat, her eyes on the jury. They had heard the whole exchange and it was devastating to the defense. She had screwed up the residue point. What had Jemison, Crabbe done? Opposed the residue test? Why? Because it would prove that Connolly hadn’t fired the gun? And why hadn’t their briefs or motion been in the file?

“I have no further questions, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, his tone ringing with confidence as he gathered his papers and took his seat.

Bennie rose, hiding her unease. She had to set it right, if possible. “Dr. Merwicke, I have only a few questions for you. You testified that no residue test was performed in this case, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“That test could have just as easily have shown that Alice Connolly did not fire the gun that killed Detective Della Porta, couldn’t it?”

“Well… Yes.”

“In fact, isn’t it true that if the residue test had been performed, and no residue was found on Alice Connolly’s hands, that would be proof positive that she was not the murderer of Detective Della Porta?”

“Then why would she oppose the test?” Merwicke’s eyes flashed with anger, and Bennie bore down.

“It’s a yes or no question, Dr. Merwicke. If no residue was found on Alice Connolly’s hands, it would prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that she had not fired that gun. Yes or no?”

“Yes. But then why-”

“Dr. Merwicke, do you know for a fact that Alice Connolly opposed it or do you know only that her previous lawyers opposed it?”

“I assume she would know-”

“You assume wrong,” Bennie spat back, and Hilliard half rose.

“Move to strike, Your Honor. Defense counsel is testifying.”

Judge Guthrie nodded quickly. “Sustained. Please strike that comment, Ms. Reporter.”

“No further questions,” Bennie said. She’d said it for the jury anyway. She could only hope it would mitigate the damage she’d just done. She sat down and caught Connolly’s expression. She looked as stricken as Bennie felt, and it wasn’t contrived. Connolly’s features, so like Bennie’s without makeup, were limned with the stark, cold fear of a woman who had glimpsed her own execution. It was as if Bennie were looking at her own death mask.

And she couldn’t turn away.

73

The defense team, including Lou, huddled back at the office over a dinner of take-out ribs at a walnut conference table dotted with crumpled paper towels. A paper clip tray had been converted to a water bowl and droplets of saturated fat floated on the water like oil in a gutter. “How’d we do today, Coach?” Judy asked, licking her fingers.

Bennie wiped her mouth with a napkin. “We took a big hit, thanks to me.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Mary said. Her eyes were tired from a predinner session at her computer, running down her assignment about Dorsey Hilliard. So far she’d had no luck. Hilliard had no unusual relation to Judge Guthrie, at least on reported cases online. He’d been before him in six cases; won three and lost three. “We just have to keep at it,” Mary said, more to herself than Bennie.

“Cheer up, Rosato.” Lou rolled his chair back and crossed his damp loafers. “At least we got a lead on Lenihan. Tomorrow I find Joe Citrone.”

Bennie shook her head. “Lou, we discussed this already. You’re not seeing Citrone. It’s too dangerous.”

“Oh, I forgot.” Lou saluted. “You order, and I obey.”

“Don’t do it, Lou.”

“I won’t, Ben.”

Bennie suppressed a smile. “I mean it. Go back to the neighbors, finish canvassing the neighbors. Find me one that saw a tall cop go into that apartment.”

“Whatever you say, lady, but Joe Citrone is tall.”

“Then show ’em pictures of Citrone. Find me a defense witness. It would make a nice change.”

“First thing in the morning, dear.”

“Lou, I mean it. That’s an order.”

Lou took another slug of Rolling Rock from a green bottle. His was the only beer on the table with all the diet Coke cans. Lou loved beer, always had. It was his one vice, going back to when he was thirteen and his father gave him his first one. Ortleib’s, in the brown bottle, which they didn’t make any more. Ortleib’s was his favorite, classier than Schlitz, a real Philly brand. And Frank’s soda, too, that was from Philly. “If it’s Frank’s, thanks,” Lou said aloud, faintly buzzed, and Bennie laughed.

“Snap out of it, Lou.”

“I can’t. I saw a girl with a tattoo today.” Lou took another slug. “I’ve had all I can stands and I can’t stands no more.”

Judy laughed. “That’s Popeye, isn’t it? Popeye the Sailor Man. That’s what Popeye always says before he eats the spinach.”

“Good girl!” Lou raised his bottle in silent tribute. To Popeye. To Ortleib’s. To old-fashioned bakeries and his well-loved ex-wife.

Bennie smiled. “I remember Popeye.” Black-and-white cartoons flickered through her brain like a dime-store flip book. “He squeezes the spinach can and it pops open, right?”

Judy laughed again. “The spinach flies into the air with a really loud squirt, and Popeye catches it in his mouth. Then you see it go down his throat and his arms turn into anvils. Or they, like, inflate.”

Lou imitated her. “Right, they, like, inflate.”

“Shut up, you,” Judy said, and threw a straw at Lou, who ducked.

“Plus, girls shouldn’t have tattoos,” Lou shouted. “You hear me? No tattoos for girls! Only for sailor men!”

Mary clapped, suddenly lighthearted. Being a lawyer wasn’t so bad, at least one night a year. “Sailor men? Sailor men?”

“What’sa matter with sailor men?” Lou asked, and they all laughed, suddenly giddy.

Bennie grinned, looking around the conference table, watching them all relax for the first time in days. It felt good to her, too, to laugh and forget about postmortem reports and spattered blood and even about her mother. About Lenihan and Della Porta and Grady. Bennie had called him twice but he wasn’t at home and she guessed he was working late. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen each other, talked, or made love.

“Sing it!” Lou was shouting, and the associates began warbling the Popeye theme song, complete with fighting to the finish and eating spinach. Singing filled the conference room, and Bennie didn’t hush any of them. Let them get it out of their system. Then, like all sailor men, they’d have to take on the Blutos of the world.

Toot toot!

74

The next morning, Alice dressed for court in the small holding room. She hadn’t slept at all last night. Rosato wouldn’t return any of her calls and she had no contact with Bullock or the outside. She couldn’t tell which way the trial would go, but yesterday went terrible. Rosato should put her up on the stand. Alice could sell the story. She could sell anything.

She slipped into a gray skirt and yanked on a silk blouse. It would be a big day in court, the last day of the prosecution’s case. Alice had saved the gray suit for today on a hunch that Rosato would be wearing hers. In the photos Alice had seen, Rosato wore the gray suit for her most important appearances, with matching gray shoes. Connolly slipped her feet into an identical pair and clicked her heels together three times, like Dorothy in the Emerald City. “Get me out of this, motherfucker,” she said aloud.

She started brushing her hair. Rosato’s hair would be freshly washed, so Alice had made sure her own hair was clean and hung limp like Rosato’s. If Alice did her job right, she and Rosato would look exactly identical today. The guard knocked on the door. “Wait a goddamn minute,” Alice called out.

A few minutes later, she was walking handcuffed behind the guard, led through one locked door, then another, and through the narrow hallway to the courtroom. “Like a lamb to the slaughter, huh?” Alice said, but the guard shook his head.

“Trust in the Lord, Miss Connolly.”

Alice snorted. “Why? Will he work on contingency?”

The guard opened the door to the courtroom, and the first thing Alice saw was Rosato, sitting at defense table. And she was wearing her best gray suit.

Bennie ignored Connolly’s gray suit and scrutinized the Commonwealth witness as the court session got under way. Ray Munoz was short, about fifty years old, and muscular, a bricklayer before a back disability ended his working years. His brown eyes were set deep above heavy cheekbones and his demeanor was garrulous and unpleasant, as if the world hadn’t heard enough about his disintegrated disk. Hilliard brought the witness to the particulars. “Mr. Munoz,” he asked, from the podium, “please show the jury where your house is located on Trose Street. Use the pointer, if you would.”

“I’m right here, at 3016,” Munoz said, pointing at the exhibit of Trose Street. His black knit shirt matched his hair, which sprung coarse as a scrub brush from his scalp. “Lived in that house for three years. Since I came from Texas.”

“Mr. Munoz, are you indicating that you live five houses west of number 3006, on the same side of the street that the murder of Detective Della Porta took place?”

“Yeah, right.” Munoz pointed to the sidewalk in front of his rowhouse. “Now, it was right here that I saw the lady run by. I could see right out the window.”

“I didn’t ask you that question yet, Mr. Munoz,” Hilliard said, his tone reproachful, and Munoz frowned.

“Get to the point. I don’t get paid by the hour anymore, like you lawyers.” The jury laughed until Hilliard began coughing loudly.

“Excuse me,” Hilliard said. “Mr. Munoz, where were you before you looked out of your window?”

“I was readin’ in my living room.” Munoz set the pointer down. “I like to read the form after dinner.”

“The form, Mr. Munoz?”

“The racin’ form, son.”

The jurors laughed again, and Munoz sat taller in his chair, encouraged, like a bad boy acting out in class. Bennie would have laughed with them, but Hilliard stayed with his stern principal role. “Mr. Munoz, where were you while you were reading the racing form?”

“In my BarcaLounger, I was sittin’.”

“And where is your BarcaLounger, Mr. Munoz?”

“In front of the TV. Where else?”

Hilliard stiffened. “Where is your chair in relation to the living room window?”

“I got the BarcaLounger right next to the window. The window faces on the street. I sit by the window, for the light. Also the breeze. I don’t have air-condition.”

“So you were sitting in a chair by the window on the night in question. Was the window open?”

“That’s the only way I know to get the breeze.” The jury laughed, and Munoz grinned, fully playing to them now. “I ain’t kiddin’. You can sweat like a pig in this town. Worse than south Texas and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

“Please, Mr. Munoz. Was there a screen in the window? And when you answer, please address me and answer the question by saying yes or no.”

“I was answerin’ yes or no.”

“No you weren’t, Mr. Munoz. Please say either yes or no, understood?”

Munoz cocked an eyebrow.

“The question is, was there a screen in the window?”

“’Course there was a screen in the window. That’s how I heard the noise. Sounded like a firecracker. I thought it was some kids, outside. You know, kids gettin’ ready for Fourth of July.” He glanced again at the jury and an older woman in the front row nodded in agreement. “You know, kids,” Munoz said again.

Hilliard looked up at the judge. “Your Honor, could you please instruct the witness to answer the question in the manner indicated? It would make the record much clearer.”

Judge Guthrie nodded curtly and turned to the witness. “Mr. Munoz, if you don’t mind, for the record.”

“If you say so, Judge,” Munoz said, glowering at Hilliard so fiercely that Bennie realized the prosecutor had made his first, and probably only, mistake of the trial. He had just turned a direct examination into a power struggle. The jury looked uncomfortable in their seats, a captive audience to the exchange.

“Mr. Munoz, do you know what time it was when you heard the noise you mentioned? As I said, please face me and answer yes or no.”

Munoz stared at the prosecutor. “No.”

“You didn’t look at your watch?”

“No. How’m I doin’, counselor?”

“Fine, Mr. Munoz,” Hilliard said, consulting his notes. “Now. There came a time when you looked out the window. Mr. Munoz, do you know how long after you heard the shot that you looked out the window?”

“I’m suppose to answer yes or no?”

“Yes. Answer yes or no, please.”

“Yes.”

“How long was it between the time you heard the noise and the time you looked out the window?”

“Yes or no?”

Hilliard inhaled audibly. “Obviously not.”

“Okay, you gotta tell me how you want my answer, or I don’t know. I’m not as brilliant as you. For the record.” Munoz smiled, and so did two of the jurors, but Hilliard gripped the podium and stood straighter.

“Mr. Munoz, how long was it between the time you heard the firecracker noise and the time you looked out the window?”

“A little while.”

“Mr. Munoz, can you describe the time any better than ‘a little while’?”

“You want me to answer yes or no?”

“Yes, please!”

“No.”

The jury stifled smiles, and Hilliard wiped a hand over his lumpy scalp. If he had hair, he’d be pulling it out. “Mr. Munoz, tell this jury exactly what you saw when you looked out your window.”

“I tol’ you, I saw a lady runnin’ by. I saw her face and her hair, goin’ right by my window.”

“So you got a good look at her?”

“Objection,” Bennie said, half rising. “The prosecutor is testifying, Your Honor. The witness didn’t say he got a good look. In fact, the witness hasn’t even said who ‘her’ is.”

“Sustained.” Judge Guthrie peered over his glasses. “Mr. Hilliard, the Court understands that you are trying to clarify the record, but please use care in how you phrase your questions.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Hilliard squared off against the witness from the podium. “Mr. Munoz, just so the record is clear, would you identify the woman you saw running by your window?”

“Identify? What’s that mean?”

“Point her out in the courtroom,” Hilliard snapped, but Munoz was already squinting at Bennie and Connolly. His thick arm rose and he pointed a stubby index finger at the defense table, but his aim wavered.

“I saw one of them, I don’t know which one,” he said. “They look like twins.”

Bennie sat bolt upright in her seat, realizing what would happen the split-second before it did. Munoz couldn’t make the ID of Connolly, not with them dressed and looking so much alike.

“Mr. Munoz,” Hilliard said hastily, “you’re pointing at the defendant and not her lawyer, correct?”

“Objection!” Bennie said, rising to her feet. “That’s not what the witness did or said, Your Honor. Mr. Munoz testified he could not identify the defendant as the woman he saw running that night.”

“Your Honor!” Hilliard fairly shouted from the podium. “For God’s sake, the witness pointed right at the defendant.”

Bennie approached the bench. “Your Honor, Mr. Munoz pointed between me and my client. He said he couldn’t identify the defendant.”

Crack! Crack! Judge Guthrie banged the gavel, his brow creased with concern. “Order, please. Counsel, please, and in the gallery. This Court has previously admonished you, you must maintain order!” Judge Guthrie swiveled his high-backed leather chair to face the witness. “Mr. Munoz, permit me to clarify the record. Did you identify, by that I mean point to, the defendant?”

“I don’t know what the defendant is, I pointed at those ladies. They look like each other. The one I saw had red hair, anyway. Neither of them have red.”

“Move to strike as unresponsive and prejudicial,” Hilliard barked, and Bennie couldn’t restrain herself.

“Your Honor, there’s no grounds to strike the answer! The witness’s testimony is clear and he just confirmed it. Mr. Hilliard just doesn’t like the answer he got.”

Munoz pumped his head. “She’s right! He don’t like the answer, so he tells me I’m wrong. I know what I’m sayin’, Judge. I know what I saw. I saw a redhead.”

“Your Honor, please,” Hilliard said, scrambling for his crutches and shoving them under his elbows. “Let me rewind the tape a moment. Mr. Munoz, do you remember being shown a photo array by the police and picking out the defendant’s picture?”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Bennie said, but Judge Guthrie waved her into silence.

“Overruled.”

Munoz looked confused. “Photo what?”

Hilliard plucked an exhibit from the podium, hustled with it to the stand, and set it down in front of the witness. “Let the record show that I am supplying Mr. Munoz with Commonwealth Exhibit 21, a photo array. Now, Mr. Munoz, have you seen this set of photos before?”

“Yeah.”

“And when you were shown it, didn’t you pick out the left middle picture as the woman who you saw running past your window?”

“So what?” Munoz tossed the photo array to the side, and Bennie couldn’t have done it better herself. “You asked me who is the lady I saw out my window. You said answer yes or no. You said point to the lady in the courtroom. I can’t do that and swear to God. You don’t like my answer, that’s too damn-”

“Your Honor,” Hilliard interrupted, “may we continue this discussion in chambers?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Bennie stood as if rooted to the spot. “The prosecutor interrupted the witness’s answer. Mr. Munoz was in the middle of completing his answer.”

Judge Guthrie slammed the gavel to its pedestal. Crack! “Silence! In chambers, now, Ms. Rosato! Mr. Deputy, dismiss the jury! Mr. Hilliard, the Commonwealth’s outstanding motion to strike is granted. This colloquy is not for the record.”

“Place my running objection on the record, please,” Bennie told the court reporter, a young woman who had lifted her hands from the keyboard. “I want the record to show that Mr. Munoz’s testimony is being silenced by prosecutor Dorsey Hilliard and the Honorable Harrison Guthrie.”

“Ms. Rosato!” Judge Guthrie shouted, whirling around in his leather chair. “Don’t you dare give orders to my court reporter! Court is in recess! Counsel, in chambers! Deputy, move!”

75

Judge Guthrie stood behind his desk chair, his black robe unhooked at the top and his starchy white shirt exposed. His lined hands clutched the top of his leather chair, and Bennie wasn’t surprised that his fingertips made deep indentations in its buttery burgundy hide. The trial had veered out of his control and any guilty verdict he’d guaranteed hung in jeopardy. He didn’t look at Bennie as he spoke and he could barely keep his tone civil.

“Ms. Rosato,” he said, “I was shocked by your conduct this morning. The accusations, the innuendo, in open court!” The judge glanced at the court reporter. “But my personal feelings are of no consequence at this juncture. We must settle a legal issue of grave importance. Please state your position, Mr. Hilliard.”

“Your Honor, Ms. Rosato is intentionally confusing and manipulating the jury. She came to court today dressed identically to her client, in a gray suit with gray shoes, and she looks exactly like her client. Her scheme has succeeded in confusing a vital fact witness. Ms. Rosato cannot continue as defense counsel, Your Honor. The Commonwealth is requesting she be removed.”

Bennie almost exploded. “There’s no grounds for-”

“Quiet, Ms. Rosato!” Judge Guthrie ordered.

Hilliard edged forward on his seat. “Ms. Rosato’s conduct has been outrageous and unethical. She should be replaced by one of her associates. There would be no prejudice to the defendant, because Ms. Rosato’s associates have been in the courtroom every day.”

Judge Guthrie faced Bennie, his expression cold. “Ms. Rosato, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Judge, I did not plan to dress like my client today. I had no idea what my client would wear. I look like my client, that’s true, but it’s unprecedented to remove me as trial counsel merely for my physical appearance. There’s no case law that holds that a client on trial for her life may not retain her lawyer of choice because that lawyer looks like her.”

Hilliard’s smooth pate snapped around. “There’s no precedent because it’s never happened. How many times you think a twin represents her twin, in a murder trial?”

“Excuse me.” Bennie talked over him, directly to Judge Guthrie. “In addition, if the Court recalls, I did attempt to withdraw my appearance in this matter after my mother’s passing, partly because of my difficulty in representing Ms. Connolly, and the Court denied my motion.”

Judge Guthrie stiffened. “This Court did not, and could not, have anticipated that you would attempt to so boldly exploit the situation.”

“I didn’t do that, Your Honor. The courtroom ID was requested by the prosecutor and the testimony was given by Mr. Munoz, the Commonwealth’s own witness. I merely acted to protect the record and the witness’s testimony, and was under a legal and ethical duty to make a mistaken identity argument at that point. The record is clear that Mr. Munoz could not make a positive ID of my client in court. The jury is entitled to weigh that testimony, as any other, and we should all be back in court right now, starting on my cross.”

“What?” Hilliard was so frustrated he banged his crutches into the soft rug. “After that stunt you just pulled? You should be held in contempt!”

“There’s no basis for a contempt citation,” Bennie shot back. “I haven’t violated a judge’s ruling.”

Judge Guthrie held up a cautionary finger. “Not so fast, Ms. Rosato.” He paused and sighed. “The Court finds itself between a rock and a hard place, counsel. The question is where we go from here. My law clerks tell me that Ms. Rosato may stay on as counsel regardless of the physical similarity between her and her client. The cases suggest, and they are scant indeed, that if the Court were to sua sponte, or on the Commonwealth’s oral motion, ask her to withdraw in these circumstances, at this point, it could constitute reversible error and create a colorable issue for appeal.”

Hilliard addressed the judge. “But going forward with Ms. Rosato prejudices the Commonwealth. We can’t do redirect on Munoz and we can’t put up the other neighbors to say they saw Connolly running from the scene, because they’ll be confused by Ms. Rosato’s appearance. It eliminates my afternoon witnesses.”

Bennie edged forward. “Your Honor, if his witnesses can’t make the ID, they can’t make the ID. If his people can say only that they saw a woman who looks a lot like me running by, then that’s not proof of identity beyond a reasonable doubt.”

“Save your closing for the jury,” Hilliard snapped, but Bennie was speaking for the record.

“Your Honor, the prosecution already has Mrs. Lambertsen’s ID. The rest of the witnesses are cumulative, and there’s no prejudice to the Commonwealth.”

“They were corroborative witnesses!” Hilliard shouted. “Don’t tell me how to try my case!”

Judge Guthrie walked around to the front of his chair and sat down slowly, his eyes avoiding both lawyers. “Mr. Prosecutor, I understand your frustration, but there are no other options at this point. We find ourselves in a quandary. The only alternative is a mistrial, and the Court doubts the Commonwealth will request that.”

“Absolutely not,” Hilliard said. “The Commonwealth can’t take the chance on double jeopardy attaching. Then we couldn’t retry Connolly.”

Judge Guthrie nodded slowly, his gaze straying from both lawyers to the window. “Then we must go forward, after lunch. Court resumes, at one-thirty.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, almost sarcastically, hoisting himself to his feet, and Bennie followed him to the door, without a word to Judge Guthrie. The judge’s mood mirrored Hilliard’s. They were both trapped and hated her for it. It gave Bennie no satisfaction. She hadn’t acted to confuse Munoz, Connolly had, and Bennie no longer wanted to cheat to win. Worse, the victory she’d gained was only temporary, and the forces behind the conspiracy would redouble their efforts.

Having a tiger by the tail wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, especially in a murder case.

76

Lou glanced at the sky through the windshield of his Honda. The sun struggled through the thick gray clouds that blanketed the red-brick skyline in this part of town. At least it wasn’t raining; he’d worn his good loafers again. He was parked catty-corner to the parking lot in back of the Eleventh, waiting for Citrone to report back. So far he’d had more luck waiting for the sun to come out. The girl at the front desk told him Citrone was expected around ten in the morning, but that was two hours ago.

Lou drained his coffee cup and bided his time, watching the uniforms come and go. No sign of Citrone or Vega. He went inside the precinct house and checked, but the girl kept saying Citrone should be coming in soon. Lou tried calling him at home from a pay phone on the corner, but Citrone’s phone was unlisted. There were two other Citrones in the book and Lou called both. One never heard of Joe Citrone and the other no speaka de English. Nobody bothered to learn the language anymore. Even the immigrants were better in the old days.

Lou considered it, watching the uniforms and looking for Citrone’s patrol car. Number 98, the girl said it was. America was full of people who didn’t want to be American. Lou’s parents never felt that way. They were proud of being German Jews, but they came to America because they wanted to become Americans. They didn’t want Lou and his sisters to speak Yiddish like the other Jewish kids, or God forbid, like Russian Jews. They were looking to the future, not the past.

Lou checked the clock again. 12:18. Anybody else woulda been antsy, but not Lou. Careful police work, step-by-step, would pay off. Sometimes you just had to wait. Not everybody had the patience for it, but he did. It wasn’t always a good thing. It kept him in a bad marriage for way too long. Like a cup of coffee, it just turned cold, and nobody knew where or when.

Lou’s stomach growled. It was lunchtime. Another patrol car pulled into the last space left in the lot. He squinted to read the number. 32. A single uniform got out of the car and started examining the side door, like he’d caught a dent there. Lou scanned the lot. More cars would be coming in now, checking in around lunch.

Another car pulled into the lot, and Lou looked for its number. 10. Son of a bitch! The car parked sideways behind the row in front, blocking them in, and two uniforms got out, talking. They walked over to the cop looking at the dented door and started talking to him, standing around the car. It looked like they were razzing him about the dent. Lou looked at the clock. 12:32. When he looked up, patrol car 98 was turning into the lot. At the wheel was Joe Citrone, with Vega beside him.

Hot damn! Lou waited until Citrone pulled up and parked sideways next to the last patrol car. After Citrone had cut the engine, Lou got out of the Honda. He crossed the street, keeping an eye on Citrone. Citrone had stopped at the threesome gathered around the dent, and Lou hustled onto the lot and made his way between the parked patrol cars. Vega saw Lou coming before Citrone did, and Lou caught Vega warning Citrone by touching his elbow.

“Joe,” Lou called out. “Joe Citrone.”

The tall cop didn’t respond, just stayed cool as Lou approached.

“Remember me? I’m Lou Jacobs, from yesterday.”

“No.”

“We met on the steps, you don’t remember?”

“No,” Citrone said with a poker face, and Lou laughed, taken aback.

“Come on, sure you do. We met. I was with Ed here.” Lou looked at Ed Vega, who was shifting his feet as he stood in front of the other cops. “Hey, kid, tell him.”

“I don’t know you, pal,” Vega said coldly, and Lou’s mouth went dry. They had gotten to Carlos’s kid.

“You kiddin’ me, Ed? We went to Debbie’s, you don’t remember?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Vega shook his head and his eyes turned hard. “You must have me mixed up with some other guy.” The three cops behind Vega looked Lou up and down, then backed off like he had a disease.

“Come on, Ed.” Lou considered pressing him, but didn’t want to get the kid in dutch with Citrone. If Vega ended up dead, Lou would never forgive himself. He turned to Citrone. “Look, Citrone. Stop dickin’ around. We both know you knew Lenihan. You’re senior in the same district, for Chrissake. You want to talk to me about it in private or you want to do it in public?”

“I’m not talking to you at all.” Citrone turned his back and walked away, as did Vega. They passed through the group of cops to the back door of the station house.

“Citrone!” Lou called out after him, on impulse. “Where’s that half a mil? You got it stashed somewhere safe?”

Citrone didn’t stop moving, though Lou thought he saw Vega freeze, then move on. The other three cops looked shocked, which was just what Lou wanted. Get them all asking questions. Talking. Whispering. More shit got traded in the locker room than the New York Stock Exchange. Lou felt suddenly inspired.

“Citrone!” he shouted again. “You were in business with Lenihan and we all know it. You, Lenihan, and God knows who else, making a fortune, pushing drugs. You sent Lenihan to kill Rosato, Citrone. You’re worse than the scum you bring in, Citrone!”

Citrone and Vega disappeared inside the station house, but Lou’s audience wasn’t Citrone anymore. It was the other cops in the district and there were more of them pulling up by the minute. One by one, they got out of their cars and listened. “You’re made, Citrone! Your cover is blown, baby!”

The three cops stood rooted to the spot, and Lou couldn’t tell from their expressions whether they were crooked or clean. The clean ones would agree with him. They would be tired of the shit Citrone was pulling, disgracing them all, for dough. The clean cops were the only weapon Lou had, and he had to reach them before more people got killed. So much for slow and steady police work; somebody had to blow the lid off these crooks. Who better than him, Lou Jacobs from Leidy Street?

“You’re goin’ down, Citrone!” Lou bellowed, making a liver-spotted megaphone of his hands. “You and every single crook in this house! Because you’re dirty, Citrone! You’re dirty as they come! You ruin it for all of us! You give good cops a bad name! You’re a disgrace to the Eleventh, you sack of shit!”

Lou’s words echoed in the chill air. Every cop standing around heard them. Cops on the second floor of the precinct house gathered at the windows.

“I served in the Fourth, where crooks like you didn’t exist, Citrone! Crooks like you weren’t tolerated! Any cop in this house, any cop here who won’t tolerate this shit, should call me, Lou Jacobs! I’m in the book, in town!” Lou had to catch his breath. “You hear that, Citrone? You hear me? I’m gonna take you down! I’VE HAD ALL I CAN STANDS AND I CAN’T STANDS NO MORE!”

With that last shout, Lou stopped and looked around. The parking lot was stone silent. Cops stood like statues between the cars. One stared, stricken, but a relieved smile spread across the face of another. Lou figured it wouldn’t be long before he got a call from one of them. Or from Internal Affairs. Or from Citrone himself. Whatever it would be, Lou would be ready for it. He turned on his best loafers and walked back to his Honda like a much taller man.

I yam what I yam.

77

“The prosecution calls Shetrell Harting to the stand,” Dorsey Hilliard announced to the waiting courtroom, and Connolly emitted a low moan.

“Here comes trouble,” she said under her breath.

“What?” Bennie whispered, vaguely remembering the name buried in the Commonwealth’s lengthy witness list, disclosed before trial. There’d been so many witnesses, Bennie hadn’t had time to run them all down and she figured Harting wasn’t important since she hadn’t testified for the Commonwealth at the prelim. Now Bennie worried she’d called it wrong. “Who’s she?”

Connolly leaned over. “Leonia Page was her girl, if you get my drift.”

“Please approach the stand, Ms. Harting, and the deputy will swear you in,” Judge Guthrie said, peering over the dais. The jurors’ heads wheeled expectantly to the back of the courtroom, but the witness entered from the side, through the door that led to the holding cells.

“A prisoner?” Bennie said under her breath, and Connolly nodded yes. “What’s she gonna say?”

“She’s gonna lie her ass off,” Connolly whispered back.

Oh, no. Bennie shifted to the edge of her seat as Harting walked to the witness stand. She was tall, black, and too thin to be healthy, and her coarse hair had been ironed into a paintbrush ponytail. She was dressed in blue jeans with bell bottoms and a red nylon top that caught the eye. An inmate who could incriminate Connolly, with revenge as a motive to lie. No wonder Hilliard had saved her until last. Bennie gestured backward to DiNunzio, who left her seat and came over.

“What?” Mary whispered.

“Go, now. Find out everything you can about this woman. Take Lou with you. Tell him to get the dirt from his cop buddies.”

“Lou’s not here.”

Bennie’s eyes flared. “He was at the office this morning.”

“He left when court started. Said he’d be back tonight.”

Bennie fumed. So Lou had gone to see Citrone. “Then take Carrier. I want everything you can get on this witness. Go!”

DiNunzio took off, and Bennie watched Harting place her long fingers on the Bible, take the oath, and ease into the witness stand. She could have been a model but for her eyes. A dull, sulking green, they didn’t bother to please and engaged no one directly, least of all the prosecutor. “Ms. Harting,” Hilliard began, his tone almost stern, “please tell this jury where you have been living for the past year.”

“County prison, sir.”

“That same prison that housed Alice Connolly until this trial?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please tell the jury why you were incarcerated, Ms. Harting.”

“I’m doin’ time for possession and distributin’ crack cocaine. Also some weapons violations, I think.”

The jurors in the front row sat engrossed, while the videographer stifled a smile. The court reporter typed away, the steno machine spitting a white paper tape into a tray, in folded strips.

“Ms. Harting, did I contact you and ask for your testimony, or did you contact me?”

“I called up your office from the house, I mean, prison.”

“Ms. Harting, have I or anyone else representing the Commonwealth made any threats or promises to you in return for your testimony today?”

“No.”

“So, Ms. Harting, it’s your testimony that you came here today on your own initiative?”

“Yeah. Yes, I called you and axed could I come.”

“Fine.” Hilliard nodded and thumbed through a folder on the podium. “Now, would you please tell us how you know the defendant?”

“We on the same unit. We friends, her an’ me, and she teaches the computer class I take.”

At defense table, Bennie was gauging the jury’s response. Each juror was listening carefully, many of them seeing a felon for the first time. Connolly passed Bennie a legal pad. On it was written, LIES!!! SHE HATES MY GUTS. SHE’S TRYING TO BURY ME.

“Ms. Harting,” Hilliard continued, “did there come a time when the defendant had a conversation with you alone, after computer class?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember when that conversation took place?”

“It was sometime last year is all I remember.”

Connolly scribbled, NEVER, NEVER HAPPENED, but Bennie waved her to stop writing. The jury was watching Connolly’s reaction to the testimony.

Hilliard checked his notes. “Ms. Harting, please tell the jury about the conversation you had with the defendant on the day in question, if you would.”

“Well, Alice tol’ me-”

“Objection,” Bennie said, on her feet. “Your Honor, this is hearsay.”

Hilliard shook his head. “Your Honor, it’s not hearsay. It’s not offered for the truth and again, it’s an admission.”

“Overruled, Ms. Rosato.” Judge Guthrie waved Bennie into her seat and nodded in the direction of the prosecutor. “Please continue, Mr. Hilliard.”

“Ms. Harting, please face the jury and tell them what the defendant said to you.”

The witness turned her chair toward the jury. “Well, Alice tol’ me that she capped her boyfriend, Anthony. That she killed him. She said that nobody would never catch her. Said she was too smart for the cops, too smart for everybody.”

A juror in the front row gasped, and two others exchanged looks. Bennie forced herself to sit stoic, though Connolly glared straight ahead at the witness. Harting crossed her legs, seeming to relax into her new role as star witness for the Commonwealth, and faced Hilliard.

“Ms. Harting,” he said, “what did you say to the defendant when she said this?”

“I tol’ her you kill a cop in this town, you pay with your life.”

“And what did she say in response?”

Bennie half rose. “I have a running objection to this line of questioning.”

“Duly noted,” Judge Guthrie said dismissively.

Harting nodded, shaking off the interruption. “She said she’d get away with it, ’cause she was about to hire her the best lawyer in Philly. Was gonna try and convince the lawyer she was her twin, so she’d take her case on.”

On the dais Judge Guthrie cocked an eyebrow and looked over, and at defense table Bennie felt her face flush with embarrassment. Connolly, next to her, was writing hastily, DON’T BELIEVE A WORD OF IT.

“Ms. Harting, did you believe what the defendant told you about her plans?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Why was that?”

“Because I seen her. Alice was the computer teacher, like I said, and she got in the computer room all the time. She studied about that lawyer on the computer, looked up pictures of her, got all kind of information. She had it all planned out.”

Bennie struggled to control her emotions. It explained Connolly’s accuracy in matching her wardrobe, down to her shoes. She’d been had; it had all been a carefully devised scheme from the outset. Her thoughts raced ahead. Still, even if Connolly had planned to dupe her, Connolly didn’t kill Della Porta. Lenihan had tried to kill Bennie for a reason, but the jury would never know about Lenihan’s attempt on her life. They would credit Harting and convict Connolly.

Hilliard skimmed his notes. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

Judge Guthrie nodded at defense table. “Ms. Rosato, do you wish to cross-examine?”

Bennie stood up, slightly weak at the knees. “Your Honor, my associates are busy gathering valuable information for the defense’s cross-examination of this witness. They will not be finished until the end of the day, if that. I request that we begin my cross first thing tomorrow morning, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor,” Hilliard said, raising his chin, “the Commonwealth objects to recessing right now. My office promised the warden of the county prison we would return Ms. Harting tonight.”

“Your Honor,” Bennie argued, “this testimony comes as a surprise, as Ms. Harting did not testify at the preliminary hearing. The defense questions the reliability of her testimony. Surely the court wants to ensure the reliability of all of the testimony before the jury.”

Judge Guthrie paused, undoubtedly aware that the jury awaited his ruling. “You may have your night, Ms. Rosato,” he said finally, reluctance weighing his tone. “Be in court in the morning at nine, sharp. Mr. Hilliard, please have Ms. Harting returned tonight and brought back tomorrow morning. Make my apologies to the warden.” The judge turned to the witness. “Ms. Harting, you may step down,”

“Thank you, sir,” the witness said, and climbed out of the stand while the jury was led from the mahogany box. Harting avoided Connolly’s eyes while she walked to the paneled door, but Bennie shot Connolly a warning glance. It didn’t help the cause that Connolly looked ready to kill.

Bennie packed her briefcase. She had her work cut out for her and no time to lose. “I’ll be there in five,” she said as the deputy came for Connolly.

“I told you all I know about Shetrell,” Connolly said from the other side of the bulletproof plastic. “I got nothing to do with that bitch.”

“Jesus.” Bennie paced the interview room, but it was barely wide enough for five steps up and back. “She sent someone to kill you and you don’t know why?”

“It was the cops, I’m telling you. Any idiot can see it. They put a contract out on me. Shit, they tried to kill me and when they fucked up, they tried to kill you.”

“Why use Harting?”

“Why not? She’s connected on the outside, she’d be easy to reach. Plus, she’s a gangbanger and she had people to do it for her. Shetrell’s a good choice, a great choice. If I was gonna put out a contract, I’d use her, too.”

“It was very damaging testimony.” Bennie reached the blank white wall and turned around. “I have to cross her with something.”

“You want to put me up? I’ll sell it, believe me.”

Bennie glared at her. “It was true, what Harting said about the pictures and the computer. You researched my life, my clothes. The twin story, it was all bullshit.”

“I told you, she’s lying.”

“Then how did she know it?”

Connolly’s eyelids fluttered. “Okay, okay. Some of it’s true. I did research you on the Web. Your clothes and shit. Your website. She musta spied on me. Bitch has spies everywhere. Half the gang sells for her.”

“She runs a drug business, in prison? How is that possible? How is any of it possible?”

“Money,” Connolly said with a grim smile. “You know how much money is in drugs? You can buy girls, boys, guards, and cops. Judges and lawyers. Police and deputy mayors. Anything and anybody, tax-free. How you think the cops bought Hilliard and Guthrie?”

Bennie’s heart sank, and for the first time since the trial started, she saw that the defense was going to lose. Connolly would go onto death row for a crime she didn’t commit. Bennie would be invited to witness the execution. As much as she loathed Connolly, she couldn’t bear that sight. “I have to get to the office,” she said, ashamed at the thickness in her throat, and left the interview room.

78

“All we got is this?” Bennie said, reading the documents back at the office. The conference room table was blanketed with sheets of Shetrell Harting’s prior convictions. It was after hours, so the office was empty except for the three lawyers working on Connolly. The air smelled faintly of hazelnut coffee and leftover pizza. Bennie would have felt good to be back on her own turf if her case hadn’t been sliding down the tubes. “But drugs, prostitution, it’s not enough. It’s standard cross of a jailhouse snitch.”

“It’s the best I could do,” Mary said, and Bennie waved her off, her hand reflected in the dark windows.

“I’m not criticizing you. We need something more. Something better.”

Judy came around and read over Bennie’s shoulder. “Don’t underestimate its impact on a jury. You think those old ladies are gonna like that Harting sold herself for money? You just gotta play it up.”

“I agree,” Mary said, reaching for the jury diagrams. “The librarian, she wears a crucifix. The Asian woman in the back row, Ms. Hiu, she was frowning the whole time Harting testified. They don’t like her.”

“Christ.” Bennie gulped coffee but couldn’t wait for it to kick in. “We have to go forward. We were in decent shape until Harting, we have to get back on track. We’ll counter Harting with a good defense case.”

Ping! went the elevator, and they all looked through the glass wall of the conference room to the elevator bank. In the other conference room across the hall, Mike and Ike came to attention over their dinners and newspapers. The elevator doors opened and out came Lou, stepping nimbly toward the conference room, waving his hand like he was hailing a cab.

“Hey, Rosato!” he shouted, so loud they could hear him though the glass.

“Somebody’s excited,” Bennie said, hopeful. She’d been worried about him, too, though she hadn’t realized it until he burst grinning through the conference room door.

“Go ahead, ask me how was work.” Lou flung his arms wide. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt this good.

“You were supposed to be canvassing the neighbors. You went to see Citrone.”

“You could say that.” Lou yanked out a chair and told them the whole story, about seeing Citrone and the Popeye in the precinct parking lot. “Then I went home, had myself a beer, and waited.”

“For what?” Bennie asked, nervous.

“For a phone call.”

“Did you get one?”

“Naturally,” Lou answered, obviously enjoying the suspense.

“From who?”

“From a cop who says he has the goods on Citrone. We arranged a meet.”

“Wow!” Judy hooted, and Mary looked astounded. Only Bennie’s expression showed dismay.

“You’re gonna meet him, Lou? How do you know he’s for real? What did he say?”

“I know what you’re worried about, and you don’t have to worry.” Lou patted her hand, but Bennie wasn’t comforted.

“What’s his name?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, he was afraid. Said he couldn’t trust me yet, and I don’t blame him. He’s from the Eleventh, though. He saw me having conniptions in the lot.”

Judy leaned over. “So we gonna meet him?”

Lou smiled. “Not you, sailor man. Me. He wants me alone.”

Bennie shook her head. “I don’t like this, Lou. If he has evidence of police corruption, he should go to the D.A., to the FBI. We can meet him there, even take him there.”

“He ain’t goin’ to the D.A. or the feds. He doesn’t want to be a crusader, he just wants to get it done. He trusts me because I’m a cop. He gives me the skinny, I’ll take it forward.”

“He told you all this?”

“No, but I can tell.”

Bennie shuddered. “If this guy was setting you up, that’s just what he’d say. You made yourself a target today, Lou. You declared open season on yourself. These cops are killers.”

“It’s not a setup. He’s a cop, sounds my age. He wants to meet with me, and I’m going to do it. You don’t have to worry, I can handle myself.” Lou stood and smoothed down his jacket. “I know the mentality better than you do. You do the courtroom bit. I’ll handle the cops.”

“Where’s the meeting? I’m going with you.”

Lou’s lips set firmly, his grizzled jowls soft. “The hell you are.”

Bennie stood up. “I’m going. If I don’t go, I’ll follow you. I’ll take Mike and Ike with me.”

“We’ll be right behind her, Lou,” Mary said, and found herself standing up. She wasn’t about to let Lou get hurt. She’d grown to like him when they canvassed together. “I’ll bring my parents, too. My mother, Lou.”

Judy rose, too, beside Mary. “I’m standing up only because everybody else is. I don’t have anybody to bring, but I can box.”

“You can’t box,” Mary said.

“I can, kind of. I watched people boxing. I know how to stand while someone else is boxing.”

Lou shook his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“But you did,” Bennie said, “so we make a deal. You and I meet the cop, and Mike and Ike back us up in a car. The associates stay here in case we get killed, so there’s somebody left to try the case.”

“Damn!” Mary said, and Judy looked over with a surprised smile.

The night got blacker outside Mary’s office window, but the associates huddled at the computer. Mary sat the keyboard, chewing Doublemint like a demon. It was the only time she treated herself to sugared gum, at trial. A lawyer’s is a fast and dangerous life. “See, Jude? Nothing.” She hit the ENTER key and a message appeared. The search yielded NO MATCHES.

“Let me think about this.” Judy squeezed her eyes shut. “You searched cases that Hilliard tried before Guthrie and you got six. Henry Burden, most recently vacationing in Timbuktu, was in none of those cases.”

“Yes.”

Judy opened her eyes. “Any cases at all that Burden had with Hilliard, whether they were before Guthrie or not?”

“No, I tried that. I checked their birthdates in Martindale-Hubbell. Hilliard is thirty-five and Burden is fifty-five. That’s twenty years’ difference, for you math-phobes. Burden and Hilliard didn’t even overlap at the D.A.’s office, much less try cases together.”

“Rats.” Judy thought harder. “You’re searching cases with Hilliard as a lawyer. Try cases with Hilliard as a party.”

“In a criminal case? There are no parties.”

“I meant as a complainant. When did you get so smart?”

“Since Bennie told me what a superb lawyer I was. Didn’t you hear?”

Judy smiled. “We’ve created a monster. Plug in Hilliard as a complainant, whiz.”

Mary searched the program’s libraries for complainants. “Can’t. They don’t index it that way, maybe for privacy reasons.”

Judy sighed. “The government concerned about our privacy? Impossible. There must be another way.”

“Hold on.” Mary tapped out “Hilliard” in the ALL CASES category, as if it were a standard word search. The screen read, YOUR SEARCH WILL YIELD 1,283 CASES. ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO CONTINUE? Y/N. Mary pressed Y. “You betcha,” she said, champing her gum.

“Are you nuts?”

“Clearly.”

“A thousand cases. It’ll take all night.”

“Also true.”

“Where did you get this energy?”

“Drug of choice,” Mary said, and passed her the Doublemint.

79

Drizzle darkened the night, and Bennie and Lou stood next to the concrete stoop of a closed luncheonette. The cop showed up in a makeshift disguise, a Phillies cap and sunglasses, and Bennie could make out only some of his features in the calcium-white halo of a distant streetlight. His silvery sideburns were shorn close to his head and his laughlines were pronounced. His mouth, set low above a receding chin, twisted with suspicion when he saw Bennie with Lou.

“Why’d you bring her?” the cop asked with contempt.

“I told her not to come,” Lou said. “She don’t listen.”

“I’m the one Lenihan tried to kill,” Bennie told the cop. “I’d like to know why, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t know why,” the cop said. He wore a black nylon jacket with the collar turned up. His pants were dark, as were his shoes. “Either of you carryin’?”

“I am,” Lou said, and the cop stepped forward and patted him down.

“Checkin’ for a wire,” he said, and when he was finished, turned to Bennie. “Lady, you’re here, you’re gettin’ patted down.”

Lou groaned. “That ain’t necessary, buddy. I vouch for her.”

The cop shook his head, a single swivel of the baseball cap. “Sorry, I can’t take chances.”

“Fine,” Bennie said uncomfortably. The cop’s hands quickly traveled her body and she talked her way through it. She did the same thing at the gynecologist’s. “What do you know about Anthony Della Porta’s murder?”

“Nothin’,” the cop rasped. Bennie smelled cigarettes on his breath as he finished the pat-down and turned to Lou. “Why is she askin’ me questions? I thought I was talkin’ to you. You’re Jacobs, right?”

“Sure, buddy. Lou Jacobs.”

“You’re the one from the parkin’ lot. Shootin’ your mouth off. Looked like you was havin’ fun.” The cop emitted a snort, and Lou laughed with him.

“Time of my life.”

“You got it. We ain’t dead yet.” The cop’s smile faded. “I asked around about you. They say you’re okay.”

“I’m more than okay. Who are you anyway? What’s your name?”

“You gotta know that? Maybe we’re all better off I don’t tell you.”

“Have it your way. Why’d you call?”

“There was this job, last year. It was at the projects, in town. A small-time rock dealer named Brunell, nothing special. A snitch told me about Brunell, so I ran it down. My partner and I get there, we’re makin’ the collar. Brunell is comin’ along, no problem. We got him unawares and the dope is in plain view. Ziplocs on the coffee table, pipes and paraphernalia all around. You know, Lou.”

“Sure.”

“So we’re about to take him in and the door opens and in comes Citrone and his partner. Not the new one, Vega. Latorce, the old partner, a black guy. You know him?”

“Never met him, but the name sounds familiar.”

“So Citrone comes in and throws us out, just like that. ‘Get the fuck out,’ he says. Latorce don’t look too happy about it.”

“What did you do?”

“We got the fuck out. I figured Citrone wanted the collar, I know he’s got seniority, but my partner, he was scared. He said he’d heard shit about Citrone, we should get out and shut up. So we did.” The cop paused to wet his lips. “Then we get out, and I figure the report will come in any day. Only it never comes in. There’s no report, no collar. Brunell wasn’t booked and that’s not the worst of it.” The cop looked around, making sure they were alone. The street was black and still, the drizzle steady. “A week later, Latorce gets killed.”

“Bill Latorce?” Lou remembered the name then. He’d seen it in the obits. “He was killed in the line of duty. He responded to a 911 call, a domestic.”

“Bullshit. Latorce goes in first, figures it’s hubby knockin’ the wife around. No report of a gun, nothin’, so Citrone, he’s takin’ his time gettin’ out of the car, which already ain’t procedure. Latorce knocks on the bedroom door and catches one in the head, point-blank. What’s the odds a cop that experienced would fuck up a domestic like that?”

“Cops make mistakes,” Bennie said, and the cop’s head snapped in Bennie’s direction.

“What do you know, honey? I know, I’m a cop, thirty-two years on the force. You learn a lot over time on this job. Latorce was no dummy. If he thought somethin’ was goin’ down, the hubby had a gun, he wouldn’ta gone in by himself. Latorce got killed because he didn’t like what went down with Brunell the week before. Somethin’ went wrong, with me and my partner bein’ there. So Citrone set him up.”

“Jesus,” Lou said. A bad feeling started in his stomach and seeped into his blood. “His own partner.”

“You got it.” The cop shifted his feet as if it were a winter night. “Listen, I gotta go.”

“Sure,” Lou said, but Bennie spoke up.

“Do you know anything about Della Porta’s murder?” she asked.

“No.”

“You know anything about cops named Reston or McShea?”

“Never heard of McShea. Reston, he used to be in the Eleventh.”

“Was he dirty? You ever hear anything about that?”

“No, I wasn’t in the Eleventh when he was there. I transferred from the Thirty-second.” The cop glanced over his shoulder. “I gotta go. Don’t screw me, Jacobs. I’m givin’ you this to get those suckers. Don’t name me, man.”

Lou nodded. “Got you covered.”

“See you.” The cop walked off stiffly, his pants legs flapping, his Phillies cap down, and in the next second he’d disappeared into the darkness of the slick city street.

80

Several hours later, Judy had fallen asleep in the chair beside Mary, who had skimmed almost three hundred cases, each going back in time earlier than the last. Though she hadn’t read each one completely, Mary had gotten a thorough overview of Dorsey Hilliard’s career as a prosecutor. He had won many more than he lost and his legal arguments were right on the money. He’d never been found ineffective as a lawyer, the most common grounds for collateral appeal, and many of the judicial opinions referred to the clarity of his closing, which didn’t bode well for the Connolly case.

Mary had found endless cases that Hilliard had tried and several in which he had appeared as a witness, to testify about the effectiveness of other counsel. She had even found a civil case he had brought against an insurer on his own behalf, for expenses relating to physical therapy for his handicap. The insurer had balked at reimbursing Hilliard, and at twenty-one years of age he had sued them for it and won. Mary found herself cheering inside. Hilliard hadn’t even been to law school at the time. How long had he wanted to be a lawyer? How long had he lived with his disability?

Mary remembered the little boy on the white pony, being taught to ride by her classmate. His dark eyes, waiting for her answer. He understands more than you and me, Joy had said. Mary sensed that she had let him, and Joy, down, but part of her wasn’t ready to let go of the law. It wasn’t that she enjoyed being a lawyer, but she had become intrigued in this case after they’d attacked Bennie. It was that part of Mary that made her punch the ENTER key and read on, into the night.

81

“Mike and Ike still behind us?” Bennie asked, boosting herself up in the passenger seat to check Lou’s rearview mirror.

“Sit down, they’re back there.” Lou braked at the light in his Honda. Rain pelted the windshield but the wipers didn’t clear the view, and he switched on the defroster. “Told you it wasn’t a setup. Cop spilled his guts.”

“You don’t know that, Lou. It could still be a setup.”

“How?”

“It could have been bad information to throw us off. Or get us killed.”

Lou looked over. “Come on, it was legit.”

“Also, somebody could have been watching us.”

“Nobody was watching us. We woulda seen it, or the cop would have.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bennie snorted. “We had Mike and Ike following us, and your cop friend didn’t pick them up.”

Lou moaned, even over the sound of the defroster. “Christ, Rosato, check it with Mike and Ike. They woulda seen if somebody was watching us.”

“Somebody could still be watching us.”

“You drive me nuts. You’re gettin’ paranoid now.”

“Maybe because a cop tried to kill me, and my Ford is dead.”

Lou didn’t say anything for a minute. “I think we got some good info there. He was a real stand-up guy, that cop.”

“Yeah, but it won’t help the case.”

Lou glanced over. “Nothin’ you could use? Latorce was killed the same way Della Porta was, a shot to the head.”

“That doesn’t get you far, you know that.”

“What about the fact that the Brunell collar never happened? Can’t you use that, to show evidence of corruption?”

“By Citrone, who, on this record, has nothing to do with Della Porta’s murder? No, in a word.” Bennie peered through her window, watching the traffic. Windshield wipers flapped on overtime and the asphalt street glistened. The rain was endless, and since Harting’s testimony, Connolly was lost.

“You’re worried.”

“An understatement.”

“I’ll run down the Brunell lead.”

“No, it’s dangerous.”

“What if there’s a connection between Brunell and Reston? That would be likely, since Reston was in the Eleventh.”

“It’s too dangerous. It’ll come too late anyway.”

“I’ll make something happen.”

Bennie looked over. He sounded like her. “You can’t fix everything, Lou.”

“Rosato, shut up.” Lou sighed, and the Honda accelerated smoothly. “Where you goin’, back to the office?”

“No, I’ll work at home.

“Your boyfriend will like that.”

Bennie felt a twinge. “If he’s awake, which I doubt,” she said, and looked out the window into the rain.

82

Mary checked her desk clock. It was five-thirty in the morning, almost dawn. The sky was a grayish-blue outside her window and she could already see the beginning of the city’s stirring. She kept her eyes on her computer screen. She was down to the last ten cases. Judy had gone home a long time ago to get ready for court, but Mary would shower and change at the office. She hit the key and skimmed the ninth case from the last.

Hilliard trying a case for aggravated assault. It had to be his first major case. A barroom fight. One guy slashing another, too close to the jugular for a lesser charge. Nothing untoward about the case, and Hilliard won. Good. By now, Mary was on the prosecutor’s side, picturing him as a handsome young black man, arguing from the heart, propped up by crutches that scarcely seemed necessary. She hit the key for the eighth case.

Almost fifteen years ago. A simple assault. Hilliard wins. Nothing strange in the case. Nothing connected with Guthrie, Burden, or Connolly at all. Mary sighed. She’d been here before. Fruitless all-nighters. She was even out of gum. She hit the key for the seventh case, then skimmed it. Then the sixth, and the fifth, and so on down.

LAST CASE, read the screen.

Mary blinked. It was hard to believe she was at the end. The last of a thousand-odd cases. Only an idiot would come this far. She hit the key and the case popped onto the screen. Its date was in the sixties, a full twenty years before the previous case. Hilliard would have been a toddler then, if not a kid.

Mary shook her head. A computer glitch. Dorsey Hilliard would have nothing to do with such an old case. “Commonwealth v. Severey,” read the caption, and Mary skimmed the headnote summary with disappointment. The defendant, Andre Severey, had been convicted of murder in the death of a kid stepping off a SEPTA bus. Severey had been aiming at a rival gang member on the street, and a stray bullet had killed one child and wounded another.

Mary sat up in her seat, her body tensing as she read. The bullet had cut the spinal cord of the wounded child, who had lived only a block away. Mary’s eyes raced to the end of the sentence. The child’s name was Dorsey Hilliard.

Mary sat still at the keyboard. My God. That was how Dorsey got his injury. She hit the key for the next page, though she guessed what she’d find. Under the prosecution was a single name:

Henry R. Burden, Esq.

Mary read it over and over but it didn’t change. It had to be Burden’s first case in the district attorney’s office; he was only an assistant then. What did it mean? Burden had convicted the man who put Hilliard on crutches. Gotten a life sentence, without parole.

Mary thought about it. Severey was convicted of murder, though it smacked of overcharging. It was a heinous crime, but not premeditated enough. Was Hilliard beholden to Burden for the conviction? Mary felt she would be. Was there a connection here that was germane to the Connolly case?

Mary reached for the phone to call Bennie. Then she thought a minute. It was early to wake Bennie up, and Mary had one short assignment to go. It was a legal research question, slightly off the point, but Mary had a hunch it might come in handy. Fueled by adrenaline, she let the receiver go and hit the key to begin a new search.

83

The courtroom fell silent as Shetrell Harting entered, took her seat in the witness box, and was reminded by the judge that she was still under oath. “I understand, Your Honor,” Harting said, settling her slim form into the black bucket seat.

“Ms. Rosato, you may begin your cross-examination,” Judge Guthrie said, without looking up, and Bennie strode to the podium, instinctively wanting to keep the inmate at arm’s length.

“Ms. Harting, you are currently an inmate at county prison, is that right?”

“Yeah.” Harting had changed her outfit and wore a light, white cotton sweater with her blue jeans, but her expression remained as remote as yesterday.

“And you testified yesterday that you were serving time for possession and distribution of crack cocaine, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“That conviction wasn’t the first time you’ve broken the law, was it?”

“No.”

“You have another conviction, two years before that, also for drug dealing, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And several before that, for solicitation.”

“Uh, yes.”

“In fact, three times in a two-year period you were convicted for solicitation, is that right?”

“Yes.”

Bennie checked the jury, alert this morning, listening tensely. The videographer had edged to the front of his seat, as had the librarian. They wanted to see what Bennie could do to Harting, which only confirmed the lawyer’s theory about the impact of her testimony. “Now, Ms. Harting, you testified yesterday that you and Alice Connolly were friends, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you testified about a conversation you had with Alice Connolly after computer class one day.”

“Yes.”

“And you testified that Alice Connolly told you that she had killed Detective Della Porta, is that right?”

“Yeah, I said that, but I’m thinkin’ I should tell the truth today.”

Bennie blinked. “Pardon me?”

“I’m goin’ to tell the truth today.”

Bennie thought she’d misheard. “The truth?”

“I mean, that was wrong, what I said yesterday.”

Bennie fumbled for her bearings. “You mean that Alice Connolly did not tell you that she killed Detective Della Porta?”

“Yeah.” Harting’s eyes flickered a flat green. “Alice never tol’ me nothin’ like that.”

Bennie hid her bewilderment. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Judge Guthrie cocking his head, his reaction restrained, and most of the jurors looked confused. Dorsey Hilliard’s face morphed into a horrified mask. She remembered what DiNunzio had told her this morning about Burden’s prosecuting the man who had injured him, and concluded that Connolly was payback for the conviction.

“Ms. Harting,” Bennie asked, “do you mean that your testimony of yesterday, that Alice Connolly told you that she had killed Detective Della Porta, was false?”

“Yes. I lied on her yesterday.”

“Objection!” Hilliard said, snatching his crutches and rising to his feet almost before they were completely supporting him.

“On what grounds?” Bennie asked.

Hilliard looked over, his mouth open slightly. “The question was leading.”

“It’s your witness,” Bennie shot back. “This is cross, remember?”

“Order!” Judge Guthrie barked, reaching for his gavel. “Mr. Hilliard, please take your seat. Ms. Rosato, please address your questions to the witness.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Bennie said. She had no idea why Harting was recanting, but she had to pin down this testimony. “Ms. Harting, were you lying when you testified that Alice Connolly told you she killed Anthony Della Porta?”

“Yes.”

“Were you lying when you testified that Alice Connolly said she thought she’d get away with the murder because she was too smart for everybody?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. Harting, is it your testimony today that everything you said on this stand yesterday was false?”

Judge Guthrie leaned toward the witness, his mouth set in a grim line and his forehead wrinkling deeply. For the first time in this trial, his plaid bow tie looked askew. “Ms. Harting, it is incumbent upon the Court, since you appear without counsel in this matter, to inform you that perjury, which is the making of a false material statement under oath, carries a heavy penalty in Pennsylvania. Do you understand that, Ms. Harting?”

“Yeah,” the witness answered, and blinked once. It was the only reaction evident on her face. “Alls I said yesterday was a lie. I lied on Alice and I’m sorry.”

For a minute Bennie had no idea how to follow up. So she asked the only question she wanted answered, which had to be on the minds of the jurors. “Ms. Harting, there is one last question. Why did you lie yesterday?”

“Because I wanted Alice to go up for the murder. We was never friends. She did somethin’ bad to me, somethin’ real terrible, between us. I wanted to get her back, so I called up the D.A.” Harting paused. “But las’ night in bed I thought about it and I prayed to my Lord Jesus and I knew I couldn’t go through with it. I’m sorry. I truly am.”

Bennie didn’t believe a word of it. Something must have changed Harting’s mind about testifying against Connolly. Someone had gotten to her, overnight. Who? Connolly, or someone sent by her. Bennie felt torn, sickened. Harting’s testimony today was the truth, but it had come the wrong way. “I have no further questions,” she said, and returned to her seat without looking at Connolly.

Hilliard took the podium and swiped his head with an open palm. “Ms. Harting, I must say, I am absolutely astounded at your testimony this morning.”

“Objection,” Bennie said. “The prosecutor may not comment on the testimony, Your Honor.”

Judge Guthrie shifted forward in his chair. “Mr. Hilliard, please.”

“Yes, sir,” Hilliard said, sighing theatrically. “Ms. Harting, is it your testimony today that everything you said yesterday was a complete and utter fabrication?”

“Objection, asked and answered,” Bennie said, and Judge Guthrie groaned.

“Sustained. Mr. Hilliard-”

Hilliard raised a hand. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. This comes as such a shock.”

Bennie stifled her motion to strike. Hilliard’s histrionics were futile. The prosecutor was in a terrible bind and he knew it. There was no quicker way to lose a trial than to have a star witness recant.

“Ms. Harting,” Hilliard said, “you took an oath to tell the truth yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. Harting, did you understand you took that oath yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t tell the truth yesterday?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Even though you swore on a Bible, before your Lord Jesus, when you took that oath to tell the truth?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I truly, truly am.”

Hilliard nodded. “When you got up on the stand this morning, the judge reminded you that you were still under oath, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“So that means you took an oath to tell the truth today, do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“So you took an oath to tell the truth yesterday and you took an oath to tell the truth today. How do we know you’re telling the truth today?”

Bennie rose. “Move to strike this line of questioning, Your Honor. The prosecutor is harassing his own witness.”

Hilliard straightened his broad shoulders at the podium. “Your Honor, in view of the morning’s events, the Commonwealth requests permission to question Ms. Harting as a hostile witness.”

“Granted.” Judge Guthrie shifted back in his chair.

“Ms. Harting,” Hilliard said, rapid-fire, “were you lying yesterday or are you lying today?”

“I’m tellin’ the truth today, I swear it.” Harting turned her body toward the jury, though she didn’t make eye contact with a single juror. “I am tellin’ the truth now, I swear to you. I prayed to Jesus, and he helped me. I done wrong in my life, I know, and I wanted to get Alice back, but it was wrong and I want to do the right thing-”

“Ms. Harting,” Hilliard interrupted. “Look at me, not the jury, and please answer my question, and my question only.”

At her chair, Bennie could barely listen to the exchange. How had Connolly gotten to Harting, from a holding cell? Had she sent Bullock to the prison last night? He could have represented that he was an attorney and gotten in even after hours. But the prison logs would show a lawyer visit and they could be checked with a phone call. Bennie guessed Hilliard’s thinking tracked hers, because he scribbled a note and handed it to an associate, who scooted from the courtroom.

Hilliard resumed his questioning. “Ms. Harting, you say that you prayed to Jesus. Do you attend chapel regularly in prison?”

“Not regular.”

“When was the last time you attended chapel in prison?”

Shetrell’s eyes fluttered. “I pray in my own way.”

“In your own way?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said. “This is harassment.”

Hilliard pursed his lips. “I’ll withdraw the question, Your Honor. Ms. Harting, what did you do after you left court yesterday?”

“I went back to the house. To prison.”

“What did you do there, Ms. Harting?”

“Same thing as always.” Harting shrugged, her shoulders knobby under the thin T-shirt.

“Which is what, Ms. Harting? Do enlighten us.”

“Looked at some TV, sat on the unit, then went to sleep.”

“Ms. Harting, did you discuss your testimony with any of the other inmates at the prison?”

“No.”

“Did you receive any visitors with whom you discussed your testimony?”

“No.”

“Did you receive any visitors at all last night?”

“No.”

“Did you receive any telephone calls last night?”

“No.”

“So, Ms. Harting, it’s your testimony that you have not discussed this case or your testimony with anyone since yesterday?”

“No, that’s not what I said. I did discuss my testimony with someone.”

Judge Guthrie looked over. Bennie tensed. Hilliard looked relieved. “Who did you discuss your testimony with, Ms. Harting?” he asked eagerly.

“My Lord Jesus,” Harting answered, with absolute conviction.

Suddenly the D.A.’s associate appeared at the door in the bulletproof shield and was admitted by the deputy. In his hand was a crumpled slip of paper. The associate handed the note to Hilliard, whose face remained impassive. Bennie held her breath. Wanting the truth to come out; not wanting the truth to come out.

“Your Honor,” Hilliard said. “I have no further questions.”

Bennie sat astounded. The OV logs hadn’t shown a visitor? So how had Connolly reached Harting? Had she bribed the guard who kept the logs? You know how much money is in drugs? You can buy girls, boys, guards, and cops. The words echoed in Bennie’s mind as court recessed for the lunch break, the jury was guided out, and Connolly was escorted from her seat without looking back.

84

Low-rise projects squatted near Philadelphia’s business district, ten blocks from City Hall. Their crumbling brick towers stood out in a skyline rejuvenated by the modern geometry of the Mellon Bank Center and the neon spikes of Liberty Place. The mirrored skyscrapers uptown caught the sun like a butterfly in hand, but the projects swallowed it up, superheating the apartments inside. The windows that hadn’t been punched out like black eyes were flung open. At each corner of the building were caged balconies, and Lou noticed a line of laundry drying inside one of the cages.

He was sitting in his Honda, parked across the street from the building where Brunell lived. Lou had found the address by looking Brunell up in the phone book. The man had four phones, all listed. It was easier to call the bad guys than the good guys. Lou watched patiently, scoping out the scene before he went upstairs. The foot traffic in and out of the building was steady, and Lou saw all types go in: young black men, white women, businessmen, and pregnant mothers. One kid, no more than twelve, went sailing into the building’s entrance on a skateboard, baggy shorts flapping low on his hips. Different as they were, all entered the building and left again fifteen to twenty minutes later. Lou couldn’t prove that they were there to buy drugs. He couldn’t prove the sun was hot either.

He got out of the Honda, crossed the street, and asked the first person he saw if she knew Brunell. “Up on eight, 803,” the older woman said. She seemed resigned to being asked and evidently wasn’t worried that Lou was a cop. The drug dealer did business as openly as Woolworth’s. How much could that kind of security cost? Half a mil, under the friggin’ floor?

Lou found the elevator near the front entrance but it hadn’t worked in ages. The call button had been yanked out of its plate and the doors spray-painted with graffiti. He looked around for a stairway. The hall was filthy and reeked of urine. Bags of trash had been set outside apartment doors, contributing to the foul air, though in front of one door sat a tied stack of papers for recycling. Television blared through walls so thin Lou could identify Rosie O’Donnell’s laughter. A hip-hop beat pounded from behind a closed door, making him yearn for Stan Getz.

Lou spotted a broken EXIT sign on the wall and followed it around the corner to the stairs. The stairs, concrete with scored metal on the steps, were dark with grime. Cigarette butts and a dead Elmo toy littered the narrow passage. Eight floors. Lou sighed and took the first step.

“I’m here to see Pace Brunell,” Lou said, talking through the closed door to the apartment. He was trying to catch his breath from the walk upstairs, staring at the painted-on 803 in cockeyed black letters.

“Come on in,” said a man’s voice. The door swung open onto a well-built young man with light-blue eyes, densely coiled reddish-brown hair, and a dotting of tiny freckles across his cheeks. His wide nose and broad lips suggested an African-American heritage, but his skin was white, even pale. He wore a T-shirt and baggy blue basketball shorts that said NOVA.

“Are you Pace Brunell?” Lou asked.

“Sure am.”

“Lou Jacobs. Like to come in if I can.”

“Step into my office,” Brunell said breezily, then closed the door behind Lou, who glanced quickly around. A saggy tan couch sat in front of a teak coffee table, but the furniture wasn’t what Lou noticed right off. Wrinkled stacks of fifties, tens, and twenties sat on the table, at least thirty thou to Lou’s eye. Goddamn Sam! Next to the dough was a digital money-counting machine like they have in Vegas, press a button and it fans out money like cards. Coke packets wrapped in cellophane and twisted shut at both ends lay scattered on the table like hard candy.

“See somethin’ you like?” Brunell asked, and Lou shook his head slowly.

“You know, they used to put cigarettes on coffee tables, in china boxes. Very classy. You could lift off the top and there were the Camels. Or Pall Malls. Or Old Gold. It smelled like tobacco when you opened the box.”

“Cigarettes will kill ya.”

“I know. I miss ’em every minute.”

Brunell smiled and flopped on the couch. His gym shorts rode up, revealing a long scar on his thigh, knotty with keloids. “It’s Friday, you know. I’m busy before the weekend. You a buyer or what, pop?”

“No,” Lou said. “I came to talk about Joe Citrone. You know him.”

“Shit, I knew you was a cop.” Brunell slapped his leg in self-admiration. “You from the Eleventh, too?”

“No, I’m retired. I know Citrone protects you, your operation.”

“This ain’t a shakedown, is it?”

“At my age? No. I’m trying to find out why a cop named Bill Latorce got dead. I think it has something to do with Citrone.”

“Now, why you think that?” Brunell said, his smile vanishing.

“I heard it, over the shuffleboard courts. You remember Latorce, a black cop? He was working with Citrone, keeping you in business.”

Brunell stood up quickly. “Time for you to go, buddy.”

“But we’re having such a nice talk. I think we’re, what do they say, bonding?”

“You’re crazy, old man.” Brunell crossed the room, opened the door, and in one smooth move, yanked a matte-gray Glock from the back of his shorts and aimed it at Lou. “Get the fuck out.”

Lou eased out of the chair and went to the door. The sight of the gun wasn’t good for his heart, but Brunell wasn’t stupid enough to kill him. “You remember my name, Brunell?”

“Lou the Jew, motherfucker.”

“Get it right when you call Citrone. Tell him I’m the one from the parking lot, at the Eleventh.” Lou walked out, and Brunell slammed the door behind him.

85

The press attacked Bennie the moment she pressed through the courtroom doors, shining TV lights in her face and shouting questions in her ear. “Ms. Rosato, what do you have to say to Ms. Harting’s testimony?” “Ms. Rosato, were you shocked by this turnaround?” “How’s your twin?” Bennie shielded her eyes and fought her way down the marble corridor, with Mike and Ike running interference. “Thanks, guys,” she said, as she slammed the door to the courthouse conference room closed, to face two jubilant associates.

“Bennie! We scored, do you realize that?” Judy exulted from her customary seat, and Mary applauded, a standing ovation. Her face was flushed with excitement.

“It’s over!” Mary said. “Way to go.”

“Cool it, guys,” Bennie said, sitting down wearily.

Judy’s brow buckled with bewilderment. “Bennie, will you at least smile? Shetrell Harting was the big bang and she just went bust. Hilliard is dead! The prosecution is dead!”

Bennie looked up. “Question number one, why did Harting recant?”

“Who cares? She did!”

“Question number two, what if our client got to her?”

Judy fell abruptly silent, but Mary looked positively stricken. “Did she?”

“I think so, I just can’t figure out how.”

Mary sank into her chair. “I don’t think it was anything Connolly did, Bennie. Harting was believable, at least I believed her. She started to do something, then she thought better of it. She bit off more than she could chew. Haven’t you ever done that?”

“Yeah, this case.” Bennie smiled bitterly.

“Why do you think Connolly got to her? Do you have any facts?”

“What you just saw was too good to be true. You know the expression, DiNunzio.”

“Yeah.” Mary’s father always used to say that. “So what do we do?”

“I’m thinking about that,” Bennie said, but Judy, standing above them both, planted her hands on her strong hips and frowned.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Bennie, you lectured me at the crime scene on how a defense lawyer isn’t supposed to seek justice, he’s supposed to get the defendant off. What happened to that?”

“Get the defendant off within the rules, Carrier. Witness tampering is not a trial strategy. I don’t like benefiting from obstruction of justice. I play fair.”

“But it’s not about you, Bennie. You’re not the one who’s benefiting, Connolly is. It’s not you on trial, it’s Connolly.”

“I know that,” Bennie said, though a sinking feeling told her she hadn’t been thinking that way. Separating her identity-and fate-from Connolly’s was growing impossible.

Judy leaned forward urgently. “Besides, you don’t know Connolly had anything to do with Harting’s recanting. They were incarcerated in separate places. All we know is, Harting recanted. We just got a break. We have an obligation to use it.”

“An obligation?” Bennie laughed, but it sounded like a hiccup. “I see, not only is it okay to exploit it, we’re obligated to exploit it.”

“For sure. We have a duty to represent Connolly to the best of our ability. Zealously. You know what the canons say. You taught me that, remember?” Judy looked like she expected an answer, but Bennie regarded her associate through the haze of a growing headache, so Judy continued. “Look, Hilliard just took a huge blow. If you consider the Harting fiasco, it’s really borderline whether he’s proved his case. I don’t think we should go forward and put on a defense. I think we should rest, right here. Right now.”

“Put it to the jury, now?” Bennie asked, struggling for clarity. For the first time in her career, she was at a complete loss during trial. Bennie always knew what to do in court; it was the life part that stumped her. And this was both. “Wait a minute, slow down. You don’t make a move like that so fast. I mean, I’ve never done that.”

“Review the case so far, then,” Judy said, and summarized the testimony witness by witness, her enthusiasm gathering momentum. When she was finished she sat convinced, waiting for the word from Bennie. “Well, Coach?”

Bennie sighed, tense. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. If we put up a case, the jury will forget about Harting and we’d give Hilliard the time to rehabilitate his case. And Guthrie the chance to torpedo me. Maybe we should take it to the jury.”

Mary, sitting between the two lawyers, looked from one to the other in amazement. “Are you two really considering not putting on a defense in a death penalty case?”

The question, put so starkly and simply, set the issue in relief for all of them. They were silent for a moment, each left to her own thoughts, and conscience. “Be right back,” Bennie said abruptly, and got up.

“What did you do to Harting?” Bennie demanded.

Connolly scoffed on the other side of the bulletproof glass, in the gray suit she had worn for the second day in a row. “I didn’t do anything to Harting.”

“You got to her, I know you did. How did you do it?” Bennie leaned forward, bracing her hands on the skinny metal ledge between them. “Did you send Bullock to promise her the world? How did you keep him off the OV logs? Money buys guards, isn’t that what you said?”

“You’re outta your mind, Rosato.” Connolly sat straighter, annoyed. “Harting wouldn’t do jack shit for me. I killed her girlfriend, remember?”

“So why did she recant?”

“Why are you asking me?” Connolly threw her arms into the air. “How the fuck do I know? Why’d she make up the story in the first place?”

Bennie stopped short, then eyed the face that looked so much like her own. Why’d she make up the story in the first place? Suddenly she realized how Connolly had gotten to Harting. “You didn’t get to her last night,” Bennie said, thinking aloud. “That’s why it didn’t show in the OV logs. You went to her after you killed Mendoza and Page. You made the deal before the trial. You had it rigged-the testimony and the recanting-from the beginning.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Connolly said evenly. Her expression betrayed nothing, but Bennie didn’t need confirmation.

“You told Harting to come forward during the trial. You told her to call the D.A.’s office and offer herself up. You fed her enough information to make it credible to the jury and to me. You knew Hilliard would see a slam-dunk surprise witness. You knew when Harting recanted it would screw up the prosecution’s case.”

Connolly smirked. “Don’t try to guess how cons act, Rosato. You’re an amateur. Shetrell was trying to kill me, why would she make deals with me?”

“Because you made it more profitable to side with you than kill you. What did you offer her? A cheaper supply? You in business on the outside and her in business on the inside?”

Connolly’s eyes narrowed. “Why the fuck are you here? Shouldn’t you be working on my defense?”

“What defense? My associate thinks you don’t need one.”

“I agree,” Connolly said quickly, and her reaction clarified Bennie’s thoughts.

“Oh, really? Most defendants in a capital murder case would be shocked if their lawyer was considering not staging a defense. Something about lethal injections makes a defendant hedge his bets.”

“I’m not most defendants.”

“Yes, you are. You just anticipated that I’d think of it. You knew that when Harting recanted, we’d have a shot at taking it straight to the jury.”

Connolly laughed. “More than a shot. I watched the jury when Harting flipped. If you harp on it in your closing argument, I’ll get off.”

“I gather I have your permission to rest, then. Legally it’s your call.”

Connolly paused. “If you think it’s the right thing to do, sure.”

“It certainly suits my needs.” Bennie stood up. “I don’t want to defend you anymore.”

“You’re not trying to kill me, are you?” Connolly laughed again, and for the first time it sounded nervous, but Bennie felt too furious to reassure her.

“It’s settled, then. We go right to closing arguments. By the way, make sure you listen to my closing. I couldn’t control you getting to Harting, but I sure as hell can control what I do about it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Connolly asked, but Bennie was already out the door.

86

Judge Guthrie was reading the pleadings index as the jury resettled into its numbered seats. “Call your first witness, Ms. Rosato,” he said, and Bennie rose to her feet at defense table.

“Your Honor, the defense has chosen not to present any witnesses because the prosecution has not proven its charge of capital murder. The defense moves for a directed verdict of acquittal.”

Surprise crossed the judge’s refined features, and the lid of his pleadings index dropped closed. “Ms. Rosato, are you saying the defense is resting at this point?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Bennie watched a ripple of excitement run through the jury, and she knew that behind her the gallery would be reacting, too. “My motion is outstanding, Your Honor.”

“Denied,” the judge ruled. Judge Guthrie looked at Dorsey Hilliard, who was hustling to his feet on his crutches. “Mr. Prosecutor, are you prepared to proceed to your closing argument?”

“Of course, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, too quickly to be credible. He collected some papers hastily, either for show or security, since Bennie doubted he’d have written his closing already, and he walked to the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hilliard began, “this is sooner than I expected to be speaking to you, but just the same, I’m delighted with the opportunity. You have been attentive and responsive throughout our testimony, and I thank you on behalf of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. We thank you also for your common sense and your sound judgment, which is what you will need when you go into the jury room to deliberate today.

“You heard the defense attorney tell you in her opening argument that the prosecution case against the defendant is circumstantial, as if ‘circumstantial’ is a dirty word. I beg to differ. Murders are rarely committed in broad daylight, in full view of an array of witnesses. In fact, most murders take place without an audience and between people who know each other. People who loved each other, and who fight.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said. “None of those facts are in evidence in this case.”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie ruled, unexpectedly to Bennie, though he knew the bell couldn’t be unrung.

“The circumstances of a murder can easily and, quite reliably, point to the killer. Officer Sean McShea and Officer Arthur Reston caught the defendant running from the scene of the crime, and she confessed and attempted to bribe them in order to avoid being brought to justice. Mrs. Lambertsen saw the defendant running from the scene, after she heard the defendant fighting with her lover and after she heard a gunshot. The fact that Mrs. Lambertsen may have been somewhat unsure as to which exact minute she saw the defendant run by is of no legal or factual significance.

“You also learned from Dr. Liam Pettis that the blood spatter on the sweatshirt was consistent with the officers’ testimony, and Dr. Mark Merwicke told you, over defense counsel objection, that previous defense counsel had prevented the Commonwealth from testing the defendant’s hands for residue from firing a gun.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said, rising, and Judge Guthrie shook his head discreetly.

“Overruled.”

Hilliard held up a finger. “A word about the murder weapon. The gun. Judge Guthrie will charge you that you’re not to speculate in the jury room as to the facts of this case, and so I suggest to you that the fact that the murder weapon was not recovered is not the result of mysterious scheming of a cabal of police officers. The truth is simpler than that: we aren’t perfect. We’re not TV cops. We don’t always find the murder weapon. It happens more than we care to admit and certainly we wish it were not so.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said. “Again, assumes facts not in evidence.”

Judge Guthrie shook his head. “Overruled. The Court can take judicial notice of the fact that murder weapons are not always recovered.”

Hilliard glanced at the dais, then focused on the jury. “You will hear much, when defense counsel addresses you, of conspiracies and cabals. Of plots and schemes. Of drug deals, of crooked cops. It reminds me of Alice in Wonderland. Remember the walrus, scamming the oysters? “The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things; of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.’ ”

The jury smiled, and the librarian in the front row mouthed the passage with Hilliard.

“The defense has to say something to respond to the wealth of state’s evidence, so they say what they think you’ll respond to, a buzzword. Conspiracy! Conspiracy? Are we talking UFOs and little green people? Are we talking grassy knolls and lone gunmen? Are we talking Washington bigwigs and sleazy payoffs?” Hilliard paused. “The defense underestimates you, my friends. I have every faith, and every prayer, that when you retire to the jury room to deliberate, you will see through the stories of cabbages and kings and find the defendant guilty as charged, of capital murder. Thank you.”

Hilliard left the podium, and Bennie stood up, feeling the full onus of the risk she had taken in not presenting a defense. There was no buffer between her and the verdict; no testimony to point to, not even physical evidence. It wasn’t between her and Hilliard anymore, or her and Judge Guthrie, or even her and Connolly.

It was between Bennie and the jurors. It was a relationship, a compact between them. It would happen now or it wouldn’t happen at all. She felt a shiver shoot up her spine and approached the jury.

87

To Lou, nothing was right about the scene. The sun shone too brightly. The afternoon was too pretty. The cop was too young, and he was killed trying to murder a citizen. The Eleventh was at the cemetery in force, a blue square of dress uniforms, but the inspector hadn’t made his typical cameo and neither had the mayor. Lou stood with the press about fifty yards away from the flag-draped casket; even the reporters looked second-string. Lenihan’s death wasn’t front-page news anymore, and Lou would have missed the obit if he hadn’t been looking for it.

It made Lou feel sad, like he’d lived too long. He didn’t want to see a world where drug dealers did business in the open and cops murdered their own partners. His eyes hurt suddenly, it was so goddamn bright, and he looked at Lenihan’s mother and father, crying behind their son’s casket. Then he spotted Citrone standing behind Lenihan’s mother and his heart hardened. The cop was in full dress uniform and the badge on his hat caught the sun; he reminded Lou of a toy soldier, tin on the outside and hollow on the inside. Lou wondered if Citrone had gotten the call from Brunell yet.

Standing beside Lou, a young reporter coughed, then lit a cigarette. The acrid cone of smoke disappeared into the fresh air. Lou scanned the rest of the uniforms and found Vega the Younger. He was hoping to see either McShea or Reston, but they were too smart to show up. Crap. He wanted to get them so bad he could taste it. Not for Rosato, not even for himself, but for reasons that had to do with the way things used to be, with Stan Getz behind “Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars” and bakeries that put cellophane hay on the cookies.

The reporter beside him coughed again, louder this time, and Lou looked over. “You gotta quit smoking, kid,” he said. “Now they got the patch, they got gum. I had to do it with one of those plastic cigarettes, like a smacked ass.”

“What do you know?” the reporter snapped.

“What do I know?” Lou repeated slowly. He considered spanking the kid but then got a better idea. “Let’s see, I know that cop over there, his name is Joe Citrone.” Lou pointed, and the kid followed his fingers. “He’s filthy as the day is long. He’s buddy-buddy with two other cops, named Sean McShea and Art Reston-”

Another reporter turned around at the names. “Did you say something about McShea and Reston? Those cops who testified in the Connolly case?”

Lou nodded. “The very same. McShea and Reston aren’t from the Eleventh, but they and Citrone, that tall cop behind the family, they’re all in business together, running a drug business.”

“Drug business?” asked another reporter, turning around, joining the group forming around Lou.

“They take and sell the drugs from busts and protect dealers like Pace Brunell, down in the projects. Wait, it gets better. Citrone is responsible for the murder of his partner, named Bill Latorce, who was supposedly killed in the line of duty. One of you smartasses oughta be looking into why a domestic got an experienced cop dead, you ask me.”

The reporters started interrupting, but Lou put up his hands. “My advice to you is to get on this story right away. It’ll be the story of the decade. Probably win a Pulitzer. Does anybody say ‘scoop’ anymore?”

Then Lou turned to the kid next to him, whose cigarette hung by its paper from his open mouth. “Put that in your pipe and smoke it,” he said, and walked away.

88

Bennie stood in front of the jury and paused before she began her closing, to calm her nerves and gather her thoughts. Again, she decided to go with the truth. It was all she had.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I made the highly unusual decision not to put on a defense case for Alice Connolly, because I do not think the Commonwealth proved its case of murder beyond a reasonable doubt. I do not share the prosecutor’s lofty regard for circumstantial evidence, especially in death penalty cases. The prosecutor soft-pedaled that fact in his closing, but I stand here to remind you: the Commonwealth ultimately seeks the death penalty in this case. Keep that in mind at all times. Let it inform your judgment. How sure do you have to be to send a human being to her death? Sure beyond any reasonable doubt.”

Bennie paused to let it sink in, and the faces of the jurors were properly grave. “Yet the Commonwealth hasn’t provided you with anywhere near that quantum of proof. Nobody saw the crime being committed, and contrary to the prosecutor’s assertion in his closing, there are many murders that take place in front of witnesses. You can read in the newspaper every day accounts of drive-by-”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Hilliard barked. “There is no record evidence of such shootings.”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie ruled, but Bennie didn’t break stride.

“There are no witnesses to this killing, at least the Commonwealth could not produce one, and there are many other facts that the Commonwealth didn’t prove, all of which add up to more than reasonable doubt. First, the Commonwealth didn’t produce the murder weapon. The prosecutor wants you to forget about the gun, but can you, fairly?” Bennie stepped closer to the jury rail. “Remember their theory of what happened that night. They posit that Alice Connolly shot the deceased, changed her clothes, and threw them in a Dumpster to get rid of the evidence. If that’s the truth, why wasn’t the gun in the Dumpster with the other evidence? Are you supposed to believe that Alice kept the gun with her? Why would she do that, when she had disposed of far less incriminating evidence? And if she did keep it, why wasn’t it found on her?”

Bennie paused, hoping her words had an impact. “It doesn’t make sense because it isn’t the truth. The truth is that Alice Connolly never had the gun. The real killer had the gun and kept it because it would show his fingerprints, and not Alice Connolly’s. As you heard Dr. Liam Pettis testify, the gun could prove that Alice did not kill Anthony Della Porta-”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Hilliard said. “Ms. Rosato misstates Dr. Pettis’s testimony.”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie ruled, before Bennie could argue, but she had too much momentum to stop now.

“Let’s consider the laundry list of other facts the Commonwealth didn’t prove. One, the Commonwealth didn’t prove motive. A fight? Every couple has rough patches. I myself haven’t spoken to my boyfriend in days, but I’m not killing him.” The jury smiled, and Bennie forced one, too. “Secondly, the Commonwealth didn’t prove how the blood spatter got on the sweatshirt. Third, the Commonwealth didn’t prove what time Alice ran by Mrs. Lambertsen’s door. Fourth, the Commonwealth didn’t prove it was Alice who ran by Mr. Munoz’s window. Who can forget Mr. Munoz?”

The videographer laughed, as did the young black man in the back row. It was Mr. Speaker, the talkative one. Bennie smiled in spite of the tightening in her chest.

“Unlike the prosecution, I don’t think conspiracy involves little green people. You know that there are many crimes that take more than one person to commit. Think of the Mafia. Think of the Oklahoma bombing. Those are criminal conspiracies, and you don’t have to believe in little green people to know that conspiracies are real.” Bennie made eye contact with the jurors, and an inquisitive tilt to the librarian’s chin encouraged her, so she went for the jugular. “Ladies and gentlemen, the defense believes there is a police conspiracy behind this murder which included Officers McShea and Reston, and that members of this conspiracy murdered Anthony Della Porta-”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Hilliard shouted. “There’s no evidence in the record to support these allegations! The only evidence in the record is that Officers Reston and McShea were the arresting officers. Anything else is an unfair inference from the record and pure conjecture on the part of defense counsel!”

Bennie pivoted angrily on her heel. “Your Honor, this is proper argument in a closing. The jury may draw reasonable inferences from the Commonwealth testimony, including what the defense elicited on cross-examination. If I can give the jury an alternative scenario-”

“The objection is sustained.” Judge Guthrie’s mouth closed firmly, setting his jowls like a French bulldog. “Comment no further on the arresting officers, Ms. Rosato, and resume your argument.”

Bennie was dumbfounded. “Your Honor, is it your ruling that I can’t present my theory of the way I believe this murder was committed? I’m not bound to the prosecution’s theory. That denies the defendant the right to a fair trial.”

Judge Guthrie frowned deeply. “You may present an alternative scenario, counsel, but there is no record evidence that any specific police officers were involved in Detective Della Porta’s death. You may not confuse or mislead the jury in closing argument. You can present your theory without mention of any purported role of the arresting officers. Please proceed.”

Bennie swallowed her anger, thought on her feet, and faced the jury. “Consider this, then. Consider that someone-we don’t know who-comes to Detective Della Porta’s apartment about fifteen minutes before eight o’clock on the night of May nineteenth, fights with Detective Della Porta, and shoots him point-blank. The killer wants to frame Alice Connolly, so he runs to the closet, which he knows is in the bedroom, grabs one of Alice’s sweatshirts, and dips it in Detective Della Porta’s blood in a typical spatter pattern he has learned something about. Somewhere. Then he leaves, unseen, and plants the bloody sweatshirt in a nearby Dumpster, knowing it will incriminate Alice.”

Bennie spoke urgently to the jury now. She had to make them understand. “Picture that Alice comes in and discovers Detective Della Porta lying dead on the floor. Terrified that the killer is still in the apartment, she panics and runs for her life. Remember, there are ten to twelve minutes between the sound of the gunshot and the time Mrs. Lambertsen sees Alice run by. That’s more than enough time, isn’t it?”

The videographer inched forward on his seat, but the librarian hung back.

“Think about what I’m saying, ladies and gentlemen. If you can understand how someone else could have killed Detective Della Porta and framed Alice for it, then you cannot, under the law or in good conscience, convict Alice Connolly. And I suggest to you that Alice is being framed-by a police conspiracy.”

“Your Honor, objection!” Hilliard said, and Judge Guthrie leaned across the dais with a deep frown.

“Sustained,” he ruled. “Ms. Rosato, I warn you.”

Bennie bore down. She couldn’t win if Guthrie tied her hands, and she had to win. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, reflect for a minute on the testimony of Officers McShea and Reston. They said they were in Detective Della Porta’s neighborhood, halfway across town, while they were supposed to be on duty. Does it ring true that a cheesesteak was the reason they left their district?”

“Objection!” Hilliard shouted. “Your Honor!”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie said, reaching for his gavel and holding it poised over the dais. “Ms. Rosato, you may not refer specifically to the arresting officers.”

Bennie turned on him, gritting her teeth. “Your Honor, is it your ruling that the defense cannot argue that the arresting officers lied on the stand? The jury is always free to disbelieve the officers, as it is any of the Commonwealth witnesses.”

“Ms. Rosato.” Judge Guthrie set his gavel down. “You may not argue that the police officers were involved in the underlying murder. Any inference the jury would draw in that regard would be unreasonable and speculative. Move on, counsel, before you are cited for contempt.”

Bennie ignored the threat. “Ladies and gentlemen, isn’t it at least possible that Officers McShea and Reston were on the scene because they were the ones who shot Detective Della Porta-”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Hilliard said, reaching for his crutches and standing now behind counsel table. “Defense counsel is boldly flouting your rulings, Your Honor!”

Judge Guthrie banged the gavel. Crack! “Ms. Rosato, this is your final warning. The very next improper reference and you will be held in contempt!”

Bennie told herself to calm down, but she couldn’t. Her adrenaline pumped, her heart thumped hard. She was fighting for Connolly’s life. The responsibility hit like a freight train. She ignored judge and prosecution, in favor of the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, think critically about the Commonwealth testimony. Nobody but the arresting officers heard any alleged confession. Nobody but the arresting officers heard any alleged bribe. Nobody but the arresting officers saw a plastic bag. Only the arresting officers testified to these points and that was because they lied to you.”

Bennie rested her hand on the polished jury rail, its support unexpectedly inadequate. “The Commonwealth’s case rests entirely on those lies and it will ultimately collapse of its own weight. I didn’t even think it was worth responding to, and this is a capital murder case in which the defendant is-”

Bennie caught herself. She was going to say “my twin.” She tried to keep a lid on her emotions, then realized she was struggling to suppress the truth. Her own truth. She flashed on the first day she met Connolly, then finding her father’s cottage. Reading her mother’s note; the drop of blood in the crevice of her arm. And then Bennie knew. She finally let herself acknowledge it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, in my opening argument, I told you I did not know whether Ms. Connolly is my twin. Well, that is no longer true.” Bennie’s voice grew hushed and she felt suddenly as if she were talking to herself, instead of holding the most intimate of conversations with total strangers, in open court. She was thinking clearly, standing in her own truth. “Though I have no proof, I know that Alice Connolly is my twin, as surely as I know that she did not commit this murder-”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Hilliard said, rising on his arms. “Move to strike! I demand that Ms. Rosato be cited for contempt.”

Crack! Crack! Judge Guthrie pounded the gavel to the desktop, them slammed the gavel down, handle and all. “Ms. Rosato, I’ve warned you and you’ve disregarded my warnings. I find you in plain contempt of court! Mr. Deputy, take Ms. Rosato into custody!”

In the jury box, the librarian gasped, the videographer looked stunned, and the other jurors looked equally shocked. Judy and Mary leapt to their feet. Connolly stood up, openmouthed, before an astonished courtroom as a shaken Bennie was taken roughly away.

89

The deputy in the courthouse holding area had seen many a strange sight in his cells, but he’d never seen a sight as strange as this one. He looked through the bulletproof window of his station at the two cells, each holding a pretty blonde in a gray suit. Each woman sat on the white bench in her cell, rested her chin on her hands, and crossed her legs left over right, at the knees, the same way as the other. But though the women looked and acted like twins, it was obvious they were barely friends.

The guard peeked again. Their heads were turned away from each other, in opposite directions, like newspaper photos of couples in the middle of a divorce. One twin faced the stainless steel sink in the left corner of her cell, and the other faced the stainless steel sink in the right corner of hers. The guard forgot for a minute which broad was the defendant and which the lawyer, then gave up trying. As far as he was concerned, the Lord would be the judge of them both.

“Now what happens?” Connolly asked. She stared straight ahead, not looking at Rosato. Her voice, curiously devoid of emotion, carried through the white-painted bars between their holding cells.

“I’m not sure.” Bennie shrugged listlessly.

“Does the case go forward with us sitting here?”

“No. I’m dispensable, but you have a right to be present at your own trial. The judge will calm down and let me out with a fine, or he’ll stay pissed, have Carrier take over the case, and leave me locked up. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The case is going to the jury.”

Connolly nodded. “What the fuck happened to you out there?” she asked after a minute.

Bennie rubbed her face. Her skin felt oddly strange to the touch. “I lost it, I think.”

“In my case, you lost it?”

“Why would I lose it in anybody else’s case? I got another twin?” Bennie looked over with a slightly crazy grin, and Connolly rolled her eyes.

“Right.”

“There you go.” There was nothing else to do but laugh, and Bennie did, briefly.

Connolly raked her hair back. “So, am I fucked?”

“You mean, did I just lose it for us?”

“I mean did you just lose it for me.” Connolly’s voice grew quiet, her features still.

“No, I don’t think so. I got my closing out, and the jury didn’t like what Guthrie just did. He overplayed his hand. I think the defense is in good shape. In a funny way, what just happened in there could help.”

“Why?”

“The jury won’t forget it. Also, I was right. I was telling them the truth, and they can feel that. I could feel it.” Bennie thought a minute. “It happened.”

“What happened?”

“I can’t explain it, I just feel it. Sometimes I get the feeling, like a little click during a closing, and sometimes I don’t. This time I felt the click.”

“Are you ever wrong, when you think you feel it?”

“Sure.”

Connolly blinked. “You’ve been wrong?”

Bennie leaned her head back against the unforgiving wall of cinderblock. “Sure. I’m human.”

Connolly fell momentarily silent. “You didn’t mention Shetrell in your closing.”

“Harting? No.”

“You did it for spite.”

“No, not for spite. I might be your twin but I won’t be your accomplice.”

Connolly slumped slightly and rested her hands between her legs. “You really into this twin thing, huh?”

“That we’re twins? Yeah.”

“You got all blubbery out there. I thought you were gonna cry like a baby, right in front of the jury.”

Bennie smiled sadly. “Are you surprised by that, that I might shed a tear about you being put to death?”

Connolly snorted, then looked away.

“It doesn’t mean anything to you, our being twins, does it?” Bennie asked, and watched as Connolly’s eyes focused out the door, to the guard’s station.

“What if we’re not twins, huh? Remember that DNA test we took? What if it comes back and says we’re not twins?”

“It can’t. It won’t. I know that now. I think I always did. Our father-”

“Our father what?” Connolly turned and looked directly through the bars at Bennie. Her eyes were so angrily blue, Bennie drew back. “Our father who art in heaven?”

“Winslow.”

“Winslow? Who knows if he’s our father?” The sudden sharpness in Connolly’s voice echoed throughout the hollow cells.

“I went to his house, in Montchanin. He was away, but I found his clippings. Of me, of my career. There’s books of them.”

“So maybe he’s a freak, ever think of that?” Connolly didn’t wait for an answer. “There’s a lot of freaks out there. They hear voices, they think the FBI is following them. They think they’re married to rich guys. They think they’re Mel Gibson. They think they’re friends with Steven Spielberg or that he’s their real son. You don’t know about these people, girl, but I do. You don’t live in that world. I do.”

Bennie shook her head, no. “There’s that picture you gave me, of him holding two babies.”

“So maybe one was a friend’s baby, for fuck’s sake, or maybe both. Do they look alike to you? You can’t tell a friggin’ thing from that photo. I don’t believe the guy for a minute. I thought he was a crackpot.”

“I found a Dear John note, from our mother, leaving him. He even came to her funeral.”

“So what? So maybe she left him when she had you. It doesn’t mean we’re twins. Maybe you’re his kid, not me.” Connolly grew louder, almost shouting in the cells. “Or maybe it’s the other way around, huh? Maybe he’s some freak and I’m his real daughter, but I grew up to be a dope dealer. So one day he’s watching the TV and he sees you, a big success. We look alike and he gets it into his head that I’m like you. That I’m really your twin. That we’re both his kids, his twin girls. So he comes to me and tells me my twin will help me.”

Bennie tried to wrap her mind around the situation. When they’d first met, Connolly had tried to convince Bennie they were twins. Now that Bennie had finally come around, Connolly was trying to convince her they weren’t. The reversal made her head spin. “Why are you saying this?”

“What?”

“You’re trying to convince me I’m not your twin.”

“I’m just saying I don’t think we’re twins, is all.” Connolly’s features returned to their familiar lines, and her tone went cold. “I don’t need a twin. I don’t want a twin. If I get off when this is over, I don’t want a twin. Got it?”

There was a loud rap at Bennie’s door and the guard’s face loomed at the bulletproof window. “Will the real Miss Rosato please stand up?”

“I’m Rosato.” Bennie stood up as the guard slid a key into the locked door to her cell.

“Judge wants you in the courtroom. Said you don’t need no cuffs.”

“What a guy.” Bennie walked out into the hallway, which was barely wide enough to fit one person and flooded with harsh fluorescent lighting. The guard moved next door and unlocked Connolly’s door with an expert twist of the wrist.

“This could be my big chance, Rosato,” Connolly said loudly. “I could tell the guard that I was really you. Then you’d be the one on the hot seat, and I’d go free no matter what the verdict.” Connolly stepped into the tight hallway and offered her wrists for cuffing. “How about it? Would you trade places with me now? Would you bet your life on this case?”

“That’s enough of that talk,” the guard said gently, but Bennie felt too stricken to speak.

Would you bet your life on this case?

Bennie felt like she already had.

As soon as the door to the courtroom opened, Bennie caught sight of Judge Guthrie, who had evidently regained his judicial temperament, for his features seemed composed and his manner calm. The jury was sitting in their paneled box, and a chagrined Dorsey Hilliard was in place at the prosecutor’s table. At the bar of court, Carrier and DiNunzio sat on the edge of their chairs, visibly concerned.

Bennie entered the courtroom, and the gallery reacted instantly, fidgeting in the pews for a better look. Reporters wrote furiously in their skinny notebooks, next to sketch artists who drew so deftly they appeared to be scribbling. Mike and Ike sat wedged among them, unhappy as linemen benched in the playoffs.

“Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie said, “please approach. Mr. Sheriff, please escort the defendant to her seat at counsel table.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Bennie said, her tone professional as she faced the dais and looked Judge Guthrie in the eye. Behind her, Connolly was escorted to counsel table.

“Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie began. “The Court found you in contempt for disobeying my order during your closing argument. However, after vigorous argument by one of your associates, the Court finds it would be in the interests of justice for the matter to proceed.” The judge nodded grimly in the direction of Carrier and DiNunzio, and Bennie thanked God for Carrier. “You are hereby released from your incarceration and fined a sum of five hundred dollars. Your associate has already paid the sum on your behalf, to the Clerk of Court. Are you finished with your closing argument?”

“I am, Your Honor.”

“Then take your seat, counsel, while we continue this final phase of trial. Mr. Hilliard, you may have rebuttal.”

Bennie returned to counsel table and checked the jury’s reaction. They seemed subdued as a group; the librarian didn’t look at her, and even the lively videographer seemed impassive. Would you trade places with me now? Would you bet your life on this case? Bennie had felt the click during her closing, but she’d been wrong before.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury” Hilliard said from the podium, and began his rebuttal, repeating that the jury couldn’t infer a police conspiracy from the absence of the murder weapon. He concluded quickly and when he was finished the jury looked somber. Bennie wasn’t certain what conclusion to draw from their grave faces; in her experience, jurors usually grew serious when the time of decision was at hand. She wished she could argue again, but the defense didn’t get the second shot the Commonwealth did.

Judge Guthrie proceeded immediately to charge the jury, reading them a lengthy recitation of the relevant points of law both sides had submitted, while Bennie sat quietly, only half-listening, slowly realizing that the case was ebbing out of her control. Usually it came as a relief to Bennie when the power, and the ultimate responsibility, shifted from her to the jury. In the past it had meant her job was finished, and after the verdict, she could return to her life. She’d loll around in bed with Grady, then get up and work on the house. She’d visit with her mother, sit with her in the elegant hospital until she’d dozed off.

But when this trial ended there would be none of these things. Nothing but a vacuum, and that was the best-case scenario. What if they lost? Bennie shuddered as the jury filed out to begin deliberations, disappearing through the paneled door. Departing to decide Connolly’s fate, leaving Bennie with nothing but emptiness, and fear.

90

The lawyers awaited the verdict back at the office, and Bennie helped the associates gather the trial exhibits and return them to the file. It wasn’t the type of clerical task she usually performed, but she knew they’d need her help and part of her wasn’t ready to let go of the associates. Trying this case together had brought them closer, like soldiers in the war, and Bennie knew this war wasn’t over yet. If Connolly were convicted, there was still the penalty phase of the trial to go, with Bennie putting up the expert and fact witnesses that would be Connolly’s last hope. “You got the psych expert lined up, right, Carrier?”

“All taken care of. Ready on phone notice.”

“Good. You got the assistant warden?”

“Only the assistant’s assistant. She’ll say that Connolly was the model inmate, conducted the computer class, and showed rehabilitation potential.”

Bennie kept her own counsel. With what she knew, eliciting that testimony would be like suborning perjury. She turned to DiNunzio. “Any luck finding anybody who knew Connolly growing up?”

“No. I made a bunch of calls and got zip.”

“No family left at all? Not even cousins or something?”

“None.”

Bennie considered the implications. She and Connolly were all each other had left. “You checked on family friends and neighbors?”

“I found an acquaintance who knew her from high school. She said Connolly was always an outsider. Maybe that would help. She said she’d testify. If we need her, I can take her.”

“You’ll do the direct exam, DiNunzio? No jitters?”

“Not after my contempt argument.”

Bennie smiled, surprised. She had assumed that Carrier had handled the argument. “You mean you argued that, to Judge Guthrie?”

“Yes,” Mary said, and couldn’t hide a proud smile. “I got you out of jail. Almost free.”

“How’d you handle it? Were you nervous?”

“It didn’t kill me, so I must be stronger.”

Judy nodded happily. “She was awesome. She had the case law ready as soon as they took you away. It only made sense for her to argue it, not me.”

Bennie didn’t get it. “You had contempt cases ready? Why? How?”

“I thought you might get into trouble down the line. I would have, in your position. As nuts as my twin makes me, she’s still my twin. So I found a few cases this morning.”

Bennie laughed, a brief break from the tension. “Well, thanks. You done good.” Then her thoughts returned to Connolly. “So we don’t have much for the penalty phase, is what I’m hearing. Wonderful.” Bennie thought of trying to contact her father. He could tell the story of how he had abandoned Connolly, help her in a way he’d never helped before. She shook it off, then unaccountably, thought of Lou. “You didn’t hear anything from Lou, did you?” Bennie asked, and Mary shook her head.

“No, not since this morning.”

“He hasn’t called in?”

“I checked the messages.”

Bennie’s mouth made a grim line. “I don’t like the sound of that. He should be here. Did he tell you where he was going when he left court?”

“No, he didn’t say.” Mary frowned, and locked eyes with Bennie.

“Five more minutes, I call his house again.”

Mary nodded. “I’ll remind you.”

“Where do you want these?” Judy asked, holding a file of trial notes.

Bennie looked up from her work. “Stick ’em in the last folder.”

Judy wedged the manila folder into the last red accordion file. Fifteen accordians sat in three rows of five on the conference room table, their manila folders straight. Almost all of the exhibits and transcripts cluttering the conference room had found their way into one of the accordians. Bennie wondered if anything else in her life would come back together so easily.

“How long do you think the jury will be out?” Judy asked, stuffing the correspondence file away.

“Not tonight, either way.” Bennie checked the small desk clock sitting behind the telephone. 4:32. Only five minutes since the last time she’d looked. “They haven’t been sequestered that long, so they’re not that antsy, and it’s a major case. They’ll sleep on it, then decide tomorrow or the next day.”

“Sunday? You think they’ll go ’til Sunday?” Judy rubbed her neck. “It’s not like there’s a lot of physical evidence to go over. Either they believe the cops or they don’t.”

Mary nodded. “People don’t like to work on Sundays. I bet they’ll come back tomorrow, then go home and rest on Sunday.”

Judy squinted outside the large windows of the conference room. The sky was gorgeous and sunny, the humidity mercifully low. “It’s supposed to be a nice weekend. They get the weather report, don’t they?”

Suddenly the intercom buzzed on the credenza, startling Bennie, who reached for it. The associates froze where they stood. It would be Marshall, the receptionist. “Rosato,” Bennie said when she picked up. “Are they back?”

“No, relax,” Marshall said. “Turn on the TV. The news is on Channel 10, and we’ve been getting tons of calls. Something’s happening out there.”

“Thanks.” Bennie hung up and leaned over to switch on the small color Trinitron in the corner of the conference room. “It’s not the jury, it’s the TV.”

“What?” Judy said, as she and Mary gathered around.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Bennie said, turning up the sound.

On the screen flashed a series of still photos of police officers hurrying from a cemetery. A voice-over said, “The funeral service of Officer Lenihan was disrupted by reporters today, and Philadelphia’s top cop has requested that immediate action be taken against members of the press.” The next scene was a head shot of the Police Inspector, his distinguished features marked with undisguised scorn. “I’m shocked by what I heard happened today,” he said. “It is an absolute abomination that Officer Lenihan’s family was disturbed in their most difficult hour, by a media that seems to know no bounds and have no decency.”

A woman TV reporter stuck a bubble microphone in the Inspector’s face. “Do you have any comment about the allegations of corruption against certain members of the Eleventh and Twentieth Districts, Inspector?”

“We have no further comment at this time. An investigation of the districts has been commenced today and will be fairly conducted. Thank you.”

“Specifically, are you aware that certain allegations have been made involving members of the police force taking cash payments for protecting drug dealers?”

“I repeat, I have no comment on the particulars,” the Inspector said, and walked off-camera as the TV reporter turned and flashed a capped smile.

“That’s all from the Roundhouse. Back to you, Steve.”

Bennie switched off the television to the sound of the associates laughing and clapping. “Did you hear that?” Judy said, delighted, and Mary’s face lit up.

“The word is out! How did that happen?”

Bennie looked grim. “A sailor man we know?”

“Lou?” they both said in unison, but Bennie’s eyes were pained. Lou wasn’t as young as he thought and whatever he was doing would threaten some very dangerous characters, enemies known and unknown. If they were going down, it wouldn’t be without a fight.

“Where the hell is he?” Bennie asked, but nobody had the answer.

“Enough with the lecture,” Lou said, exasperated, in his chair, but Bennie wasn’t finished.

“Lou, the trial may be over, but the conspiracy isn’t. They have a business to run, a very lucrative business. You’re hitting them where it hurts, threatening not to let up even after the case is over. They’ll take you out, Lou. They will.”

“Let them try,” Lou scoffed, and winked at Mary, who sat off to the side, looking worried nonetheless.

“Bennie’s right, and not just because she’s the boss,” Mary said. “They tried to kill her. They’ll try to kill you.”

Lou sighed. “Is this what I came back for? To get nagged? At least men lawyers don’t nag you.”

“Fine.” Bennie stood up. “I’m not going to nag you about it. For the next couple of days, you take Ike.” She gestured to the opposite conference room, where the bodyguards thumbed through the newspapers. “I’ll keep Mike.”

Lou looked over his shoulder at the bodyguards. “Split up the kids? Bennie, we can’t do that.”

But Bennie wasn’t laughing.

They worked into the night preparing the death penalty phase of the case, transforming the conference room into a telethon headquarters. Bennie worked the phones and interviewed potential character witnesses, and the associates and Lou called any leads they could reach. No new witnesses could be raised, and the phones outside the conference room’s private lines rang until all hours. It was the press, but Bennie wasn’t answering. She had to focus on this last part of the trial. It was hard enough, working on the assumption that Connolly had already been convicted of capital murder.

“I’m whipped,” Mary said, brushing her hair from her eyes, and Judy looked tired.

Even Lou, previously battery-powered, had come down from his high. He hung up the phone from his last call, beat. “Let’s call it a night.”

“Agreed,” Bennie said. “You all go home. Come back tomorrow morning, around seven.”

“What about you?” Judy asked, picking up her bag.

“I’m staying for a while,” Bennie said. She was exhausted, but she had paperwork to prepare. “I have a few things to finish up. Lou, you and Ike take the girls home, and you keep Ike.”

Lou folded his arms. “No, I’ll put the girls in a cab with Ike, who will take the girls home and come back for you. I’ll take care of my own ass.”

“Lou, we’re not discussing this again.”

“You’re right, we’re not. You’re nagging, and I’m ignoring you. It’s my marriage all over again.” Lou stood up and gestured to the bodyguards across the way, who slipped into their sportjackets.

“Lou-”

“Oh, will you shut up? See you tomorrow. Let’s go, kids.” Lou left the conference room and met Mike and Ike in the hallway.

“Shit,” Bennie said, and went after him. She had hired the guards, she could direct them. “Ike,” she said, pointing, “you go with Lou. You follow him home whether he wants you to or not, and you sit outside his house if you have to. Keep him alive tonight, so I can kill him tomorrow. Understand?”

“No can do,” Ike said. “Lou’s not the client, you are.”

“What?”

“We can’t protect Lou. We have to stay with you. It’s in the contract.”

“What contract? I didn’t sign any contract.”

“Our contract with the security company, and the security company’s contract with the insurance company. We’re only insured to protect you. If something goes wrong, we have to be with you or our company gets sued.”

Bennie laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

Mike shrugged shoulders like the continental shelf. “That’s what they told us. Stay with the designated client.”

Lou smiled. “See? It’s lawyers, Rosato. They complicate everything. Can’t even jump off a diving board anymore because of lawyers. Lady lawyers, probably. They nag you, then they sue you.” Lou hit the elevator button in a jaunty way, and the doors opened. He stepped inside and took the associates in with him. “Come, ladies. I left my car at home, I’ll escort you home in a cab. See ya, Rosato,” he said as the doors shut.

“He’s so damn stubborn,” Bennie said, staring at the closed aluminum doors, and Mike nodded.

“They all are.”

“Who? Old people?”

“Men,” Mike answered, and Ike looked over.

91

Judy and Lou dropped Mary off in the cab, then continued down Pine Street in silence. Judy looked out the window, too sleepy to make conversation, which was fine with Lou. He unbuttoned his jacket and relaxed in the torn seat. His car would have been comfier but he’d left it at home in case it had been made at the cemetery or the police station.

Lou watched the cardboard tree swing from the rearview mirror. Funny. All the cabs had those trees, but none of them smelled like pine. The air in the cab stank of cigarettes regardless of the round NO SMOKING sticker, and in the light from the car behind, Lou could see greasy smudges on the plastic separating them from the young driver.

Lou looked idly out the window. Antique shops lined the narrow street, and it was too late for anyone to be on the sidewalks. The cab stopped at a traffic light, and Lou read the sign of one of the shops, MEYER amp; DAUGHTER. A skinny wood chair sat in the window. “That an antique, Judy?”

Judy nodded. “I bet it’s early American. That’s all they have in there, real Colonial pieces. The chair probably cost a thousand dollars.”

“Get out. Hardly wide enough for a tush.”

“Colonial tushes were smaller.”

“Ha!” Lou shook his head. “I love it. For old chairs, we pay through the nose. For old people, we can’t be bothered.” The cab lurched forward, its interior brighter than before from headlights behind. The car in back of them was tail-gating. But why, at this hour of night? With no other traffic? Lou stiffened instinctively and twisted around.

The sight shocked him. There was a patrol car on their bumper. The lights on its roof blazed to life, filling the cab with red, white, and blue. Patrol car number 98.

Fear jolted Lou to alertness. It was Citrone, alone. No siren to attract attention. A cop on a night stop could get away with anything. Lou had seen it happen.

The cab was slowing down, and Lou pounded on the plastic divider. “Keep driving!” he ordered. “Go, go, go!”

“You nuts?” the cabbie asked, recoiling. “It’s the cops.”

Judy looked back at the lights, the patrol car. “Lou?” she asked, panicky.

“Stay calm,” Lou ordered. He would’ve locked the doors but he wanted Judy out of the picture. The cabbie pulled to the curb and got out. A white spotlight seared through the back window. Beside it stood a tall silhouette whose arm ended in a gun. Citrone was coming at them. Lou’s heart fluttered. He was packing, but couldn’t chance anything until Judy was free.

“Get out of the car!” Citrone shouted. He pulled open the back door and yanked Lou out of the cab, jamming the revolver into his sternum.

“Relax, Citrone.” Lou flattened against the cab, momentarily breathless. The gun bored into his chest. In a second he could be dead. He’d had a good run, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. But there was Judy. “I’ll go with you. Leave the kid.” Lou took a step forward, but Citrone drilled him back with the gun barrel.

“Get out of the car, counselor!” Citrone called to Judy. “Make it fast!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Judy said, her heart in her throat. She slid from the backseat and gasped when she saw the gun. She edged away reflexively, her back bumping into the cab, staring openmouthed at Citrone. His face became angles and shadows in the blinding light. His eyes were merciless black slits. He would kill them both. Judy struggled to think through her terror.

The astonished cabbie put up his hands. “I stopped at the light, Officer, I swear. I came to a full stop.”

Citrone’s gaze darted sideways while he kept the revolver flush against Lou’s shirt. “Get lost or you’re dead,” he told the cabbie. “Come back for the car.” The driver’s eyes went wide and he ran off, his legs pumping.

“Nice police work,” Lou said. “Now let the kid go. She won’t say anything.”

“Let her go? She attacked a cop on a routine traffic stop. The cab had a broken taillight.” With a swift kick Citrone shattered the cab’s brake light. Red plastic shards clattered onto the street.

“Come on, Citrone,” Lou said. “Everybody knows about the parking lot at the Eleventh. They gonna believe you killed us on a routine stop?”

Citrone laughed quietly. “Me, kill you? I’m not even here. My friend should be along any minute. A state trooper.”

Judy forced herself to think. Citrone would shoot them as soon as the trooper got there. What could she do? She didn’t have a gun. Then she remembered the boxing she’d watched at the gym. She had surprise on her side, if not expertise. Suddenly she lowered her stance, planted her feet, and threw the first punch of her life, aimed point-blank at Citrone’s jaw.

“Ahh!” Citrone cried out. The blow landed badly, but knocked the cop off-balance. The revolver went off with an ear-splitting crack!

“No! Lou!” Judy screamed as Lou’s shoulder exploded into bright red blood and tattered fabric.

Lou didn’t feel the pain. He threw himself against Citrone’s arm and grabbed his wrist, struggling to shake the gun free. It clattered to the street while Lou pinned the stunned cop to the wet asphalt. Judy watched dumbstruck, then realized she had to act. She ran for the gun, snatched it off the street, and raised it with both hands. Her right hand throbbed from the punch, but she looked down the gun’s sight to Citrone and braced herself.

“Freeze, Citrone!” Judy shouted, her voice strong with newborn authority, and Lou was already rolling off of the crooked cop, leaving him exposed in the gutter.

“I’ll be all right,” Lou said, drowsy from the anesthesia. It would hurt if he could feel anything, but he couldn’t. He’d never caught one in all his years on the force. His retirement, he had to get shot. Like a schmuck. He eased back on the thin hospital pillow. The bullet had been removed and his shoulder packed and splinted. Nagging him from the foot of the bed, like three harpies, were Judy, Mary, and Rosato.

“You’ll be fine.” Bennie patted his foot. “Because I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Me, neither,” Mary said. “Not until the entire Eleventh District is behind bars.”

“We got ’em, didn’t we?” Lou smiled, his words faintly slurred.

Judy grinned. “Oh yeah, we’re all over the television.” Her right hand was bandaged and sore. She had broken a finger punching Citrone, who didn’t have a scratch. Judy needed remedial boxing. “They’ve stepped up the investigation of the Eleventh.”

Bennie nodded. “It’s only a matter of time before they call in McShea and Reston, and the cops start diming on each other. The D.A.’s office will make the best deals with whoever comes forward first. The cops know the drill.”

Still, Mary couldn’t feel happy about it. “Not a great way to do it, though, Lou. Putting yourself in harm’s way.”

Lou chuckled softly. “Talk to Judy. She threw one of the worst punches I ever saw.”

Judy bowed. “Thank you, thank you.”

“She saved my life,” Lou said, his sentence trailing off. He wanted to thank her, but didn’t have the strength to hug her. It was probably for the best. You weren’t allowed to hug women anymore. It was against federal law.

“Told you I could box,” Judy said. “I’m going twice a week, after this verdict is in.”

The verdict, Bennie remembered. She’d been so worried about Lou that she rushed from the office and hadn’t thought about it since. Remarkable, considering that the Connolly case had occupied her every thought for days. Lou’s surviving the attack had dealt a deathblow to the conspiracy and it would all come tumbling down, starting with Citrone on up, with luck extending even to Guthrie and Hilliard. But the jury would be deliberating under sequestration, isolated. They wouldn’t know the police conspiracy had been proved true. They’d return with the verdict, innocent or guilty.

When?

92

Bennie got the call from the Clerk of Court at 10:15 the next morning, and the defense team was at the Criminal Justice Center barely ten minutes later. The lawyers and bodyguards emerged from two cabs, their faces taut as the cab doors opened and the press swarmed, swinging boom mikes overhead. Bennie screened it out. All she could think about was the verdict.

“Get out of my way!” she shouted at the mobbing reporters. She plowed through the crowd and trusted that Mike and Ike had the associates covered. They fought their way into the courthouse, into the elevator, and finally down the hallway to Courtroom 306. The lawyers pushed through the gallery to the bulletproof shield. For the first time Bennie felt relieved to have the goddamn wall of plastic between her and the rest of the world.

On the silent side of the barrier, Judge Guthrie sat atop the dais, apparently reading documents. Courtroom personnel bustled about, getting ready for the verdict. A woman hurried by with what Bennie recognized as an Order Sheet, remanding Connolly to the custody of the prison system until the date of her execution. Bennie looked away and reminded herself the order was just a contingency. Like her, the court had to prepare for either verdict. She put her briefcase down on the counsel table, her mouth dry.

Dorsey Hilliard walked through the glass door, then approached Bennie. He balanced on his crutches as he offered her a hand. “Whatever happens, Bennie, you’ve been a worthy adversary,” he said.

Bennie’s throat caught. Her twin’s life was on the line, she had almost been killed, and Lou lay wounded in a hospital. “Go straight to hell, asshole,” she said, and Hilliard withdrew his hand as if bitten. The exchange was gaped at by spectators, captured by sketch artists, and noted by the reporters, to be the subject of a hundred questions later. Bennie put it all from her mind and sat down to wait for Connolly. It wasn’t long.

Connolly came through the paneled door of the courtroom, led by the guard, and Bennie felt a painful tug inside. What the tug was, she wasn’t sure. Sympathy? Affection? Loathing? She didn’t know, but the connection was there, undeniable. They had both chosen the gray suit, for God’s sake. But if Connolly felt any connection, it didn’t show. Her eyes were slightly sunken, her face drawn, and she walked in a stilted fashion toward her seat at defense table. She sat beside Bennie without looking over, so Bennie stared straight ahead.

“Mr. Deputy,” Judge Guthrie said, his lined features tense. “Please call the jury.”

The deputy retrieved the jury, and everyone in the courtroom craned their necks to see them as they filed in, searching their faces for clues as to the verdict. But the jury entered the courtroom on the final day as they had on the first, with their heads lowered and their eyes avoiding contact with anyone. The videographer looked grave and the librarian remained businesslike, her lips pressed together.

Bennie took it as a bad sign. Jurors looked solemn when they were about to deliver bad news. A hush fell over the room, even the jaded courtroom personnel grew still, and Hilliard shifted forward in his seat. Bennie didn’t miss the gesture. He was eager. He thought he had won a conviction. Bennie felt sick to her stomach.

“Madam Foreperson,” Judge Guthrie said, reading from a slip of paper on his desk. “I have received a note indicating the jury has reached a verdict. Is that correct?”

The librarian stood up, resting a hand on the jury rail. “It is true, Your Honor.”

“Is this a unanimous verdict, Madam Foreperson?”

“Yes, it is, Your Honor.”

“May I have the verdict slip, Mr. Deputy?”

Bennie watched almost breathlessly as the deputy walked to the librarian, took the slip of paper, and handed it up to the judge on the dais. Judge Guthrie opened the paper without betraying its verdict, his actions prescribed by law and tradition. Then, wordlessly, the judge handed the paper back to the deputy, who returned it to the librarian. “Will the defendant please stand?” Judge Guthrie said, his voice echoing in the stillness of the courtroom.

Connolly rose in tandem with Bennie. Bennie couldn’t breathe and couldn’t see. The courtroom, the judge, and the world seemed to fall away. She imagined she could hear the pounding of her own heart, then of Connolly’s, beating in time with hers.

“Madam Foreperson, will you please read the verdict?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” The librarian cleared her throat and read from the sheet. “We, the jury in the matter of The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania vs. Connolly, find the defendant, Ms. Alice Connolly, not guilty of murder.”

Bennie’s knees buckled at the words and at first she couldn’t believe her ears. What had they said? Had they said not guilty? A shout went up behind her, then a whoop she recognized as Mary’s but which sounded far away. Bennie saw Hilliard’s face drop into his hands. Only then did it hit her.

They won.

They won. Connolly was acquitted. It hit Bennie like a wave, flooding her heart with relief. But not happiness. Happiness was reserved for the truly innocent, and Bennie knew it when she felt it. She couldn’t bring herself to face Connolly. She wasn’t completely sure why.

Hilliard was rising to his feet. “I request that the jurors be polled, Your Honor.”

“Certainly, Mr. Prosecutor.” Judge Guthrie faced the jury, as did Hilliard and everyone else in the courtroom, including Bennie, who sat down at counsel table. Polling was more than a formality, she’d seen it disturb jury verdicts before. “Juror Number One, is the verdict the Court just read your verdict?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Juror Number Two, is the verdict the Court just read your verdict?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Judge Guthrie asked each juror in turn, and as each answered in the affirmative, Bennie began to relax into her chair. Her breathing returned to normal and the courtroom came back into focus. She looked at Connolly, who looked pale and shaken as they locked eyes. Bennie imagined the expression mirrored her own, this time not by contrivance. Finally Judge Guthrie polled the last juror. “Juror Number Twelve, is the verdict the Court just read your verdict?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Judge Guthrie nodded quickly. “The Court accepts the verdict of this jury, it having been duly impaneled, having heard the testimony and the evidence, and having duly deliberated. It is hereby the Order, Judgment, and Decree of this Court that the defendant is found not guilty of the crime of capital murder, as charged. Ms. Connolly, you are released from custody, effective immediately.”

Connolly nodded, but said nothing, even after a year in custody for a crime she didn’t commit. Bennie could understand it, somehow. She felt her eyes brimming and blinked the wetness away.

Judge Guthrie finished the formalities. “Members of the jury, the Court thanks you very much for your service to the Commonwealth. Please leave your plastic ID holders on the jury rail. You are hereby discharged from your secrecy and you may discuss this matter with anyone, including its particulars. Likewise, you are free not to discuss this matter and may decline any requests for interviews that will undoubtedly come your way.” Judge Guthrie picked up his gavel and struck it down lightly. Crack! “Court is now adjourned.”

Bennie stood up, watching in a daze as Judge Guthrie left the courtroom, then Hilliard. Both of the associates rushed up, hugging her and shaking Connolly’s hand stiffly.

“Get me out of here,” Connolly said, speaking finally to Bennie, who was already opening the door in the bulletproof shield, preparing for the media as it surged forward to meet them.

93

Bennie had no comment for the excited press and managed to get through them and into the backseat of a cab with Connolly. She put Mike up front with the driver to intimidate the reporters banging on the cab doors and filming through the windows. The cab could barely inch forward in the crush. “You have my permission to run them over,” Bennie said, and the cabbie grinned.

“I read all about you in the papers, Miss Rosato. You, too, Miss Connolly. Congratulations, you all must be real happy.” The cabbie hit the gas and the cab took off. “So where you ladies goin’ to celebrate?”

“The train station,” Connolly answered quickly, and Bennie looked at her in surprise.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re leaving right now?”

“I told you I wouldn’t be hanging around.”

“I didn’t think you’d leave right away.” Bennie felt confused, her emotions bollixed up. She didn’t know what to say, she felt too full to say anything, somehow. The cab left the throng at the Criminal Justice Center and stopped at the traffic light. Ahead stretched the wide avenue that was John F. Kennedy Boulevard, which ended in Thirtieth Street Station, a massive edifice in Grecian style. It loomed so close. Only five minutes from the courthouse, with no traffic. Bennie found her voice. “I thought you’d want to… come by the office.”

“I think I should get outta town. I heard about what happened to your investigator last night.”

“But you’re safe with me. I’ve got Mike here, under contract.” Bennie gestured at the front seat. “We even have insurance companies on our side.”

“No, I have to go.” Connolly looked out the open window as the cab traveled smoothly up the boulevard, her blond hair blowing willy-nilly in the humid air.

“But we didn’t get time to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Connolly said as the cab approached the train station.

“How can you say that? I mean”-Bennie glanced, embarrassed, at the cabbie and Mike, who were pretending not to listen-“we haven’t even gotten the blood test back yet. Don’t you want to wait until that comes back?”

“Will you give it up?” Connolly turned on Bennie, her brow knotted with contempt. “I told you, I don’t want a twin, I don’t want a sister. Thanks for getting me off, but don’t act like I owe you. I don’t. I have to go.”

“Where?” Bennie asked, stung.

“None of your business.” The cab entered the drop-off area and braked, and Connolly opened the cab door and climbed out. “Bye,” she said abruptly, slamming the door closed.

“Should I walk you-”

“No, go!” Connolly waved without missing a beat, she then turned away, jogged across the drop-off island, and disappeared through the entrance to the station.

Bennie sat in the cab, frozen despite the heat, watching the doors of the train station swing closed. It was so strange and sudden; Connolly’s departure was as unexpected as her arrival. She didn’t have money; she didn’t have her effects. How would she get a train? And Bennie didn’t know exactly why, but she wasn’t ready for Connolly to go just yet. She flung open the cab door. “I’ll be back,” she called out.

“What?” Mike said, surprised. Then he got out of the car and went after her, but Bennie was already flying into the station.

Bennie spun around in the cavernous concourse, her pumps pivoting on the marble. The walls extended almost a hundred feet high, ending in a ceiling patterned with squares of carefully restored molding. Elongated frosted windows cast muted lighting on the lobby floor. The concourse was almost completely empty. The line at the information desk held only two students with backpacks; there was no business travel on Saturday afternoons and few tourists arrived by rail. Connolly wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Where could she be? The ticket counter, of course. Connolly would need to buy a ticket, first thing. Maybe she’d had it planned? Reserved, somehow?

Bennie ran across a floor polished to a high sheen and hurried to the ticket windows. NEXT AGENT AVAILABLE, read the lighted sign over the bank of windows. The white-shirted agents were helping customers. Connolly wasn’t among them. Maybe she was using a ticket machine. Bennie scanned the machines in the area, then the telephones. Connolly wasn’t in sight. How could she have gone so fast? Then Bennie thought of it. The ladies’ room! She took off for the bathroom, behind the ticket counters.

Bennie chugged inside the rank washroom, her pumps clattering over the black tile floor. She looked under each closed stall door but didn’t see any familiar gray pumps. She went back to the mirrors at the bathroom entrance. “Excuse me,” she said to a businesswoman applying blusher. “I’m looking for a woman, my twin. She looks exactly like me. Did she come in here?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Thanks,” Bennie said, and took off. Maybe Connolly was in one of the stores ringing the main concourse. She could be buying coffee, a snack, a magazine, gum even. With what money? Bennie hustled across the lobby, noticing that she’d picked up Mike after the ladies’ room.

The large bodyguard jogged to Bennie’s side, his jacket open and his tie flapping. “Are we having fun yet?” he asked.

“I’ll check McDonald’s, you check the bookstore.”

“Can’t do that. Have to stay with you. The contract.”

“Then put on the afterburners.” Bennie scooted into McDonald’s, but Connolly wasn’t there. She checked the bathroom, then hustled through a large bookstore, a video store, a food market area, even a flower shop, all with a barely winded Mike in tow. Connolly wasn’t in any of them. Bennie double-checked the gates that went to New York, Washington, and Boston. Even the suburban lines running west and north. No Connolly.

Bennie ended up, exhausted and panting, in the center of the concourse in front of a marble statue. Her suit was damp with sweat and she raked hair from her eyes. She whirled around one final time. The lobby was completely empty. Connolly wasn’t up, down, or around. Maybe she had simply run through the station and been picked up by someone. “I can’t believe it,” Bennie said, as Mike came jogging up on the other side.

“She’s gone,” he said, finally panting.

“She can’t be.”

“She is. We looked everywhere.”

“We’ll wait. She’ll show up. She has to.”

“No, she doesn’t.” Mike laid a heavy hand on Bennie’s shoulder. “Listen, I’ve been in security a long time. Before that I did private detective work. I can tell you, if somebody don’t want to be found, they won’t be.”

“We could wait.”

“She won’t show up.”

“Shouldn’t we wait?” Bennie’s eyes stung. Inside she felt a sort of panic. “Mike?”

“Time for you to go home,” the bodyguard said. He looped a strong arm around Bennie’s shoulder and guided her out of the train station.

94

Bennie opened her front door and was greeted by an exuberant dog and the aroma of fresh coffee. “No jumping, no jumping,” she said to the golden clawing her suit, but her heart wasn’t in it. In her hand was the day’s mail, which she had retrieved from the slot when she unlocked the front door. There were the usual catalogs, bills, and a People magazine, but it was the last business letter that made her breath catch in her throat. The envelope was business white and it had the name of a lab printed in the upper left corner. The lab in Virginia. It was the DNA test results. They’d come in today’s mail. After Connolly had vanished.

“Bennie?” Grady’s voice came from the dining room, over the whine of an orbital sander losing power. He appeared after a minute in a gray T-shirt and jeans, with a coffee mug in hand. He set it down the moment he saw Bennie’s face. “Honey, you okay?”

Bennie faced him, uncertain. She hadn’t seen Grady in so long she’d almost forgotten what he looked like. Mostly he looked appealing. Curly fair hair, round gold glasses, an intelligent smile. A puzzled expression, but distant. “I think I’m okay,” she said, and he cocked his head.

“You won the case. Congratulations.” Grady’s arms flopped at his sides, but he didn’t move to kiss her. “I was thinking maybe we could go out. Celebrate. Get reacquainted.”

“Look.” Bennie held up the mail. It was hard to speak. The dog danced at her feet, then plopped his butt sloppily on the plywood floor, his tail thumping hard. “The DNA test.”

“You’re kidding.” Grady brushed his hand on his jeans, leaving sawdust handprints on his thighs. “You want me to open it for you?”

“No.”

“You sure you want to know?”

“Sure.” Bennie looked at the envelope in her hands. “I didn’t go through all this not to know. Right?”

Grady nodded. “Sit down, then.”

Bennie looked around. The room was a dark shell of lath and plaster. Tile for the new kitchen was stacked in boxes in the center of the plywood floor. “We don’t have a chair.”

“An excellent point.” Grady pulled over a box of tile, and Bennie sat down. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Bennie tore open the envelope. A single sheet of paper was inside, reminding her of the verdict sheet earlier in the day. In court she had known what she wanted the verdict to be. This time she was less certain. Bennie extracted it from the envelope and opened it up.

“Well?” Grady asked, standing apart from her, his hands resting on his hips.

“I can’t tell.” Bennie squinted at the paper, which contained a large table. Twin Analysis, said the title. There were five entries of what looked to Bennie like gobbledygook, in columns on the left. CRI-pS194, CRI-pL427-4, CRI-pL159-2, CRI-pR365-1, CRI-pL355-8, p144-D6. The numbers swam before her eyes. At the bottom of the page was a doctor’s hasty signature, over a line that read MOLECULAR DIAGNOSTICS LABORATORY. “Christ! I can’t understand it.”

“Let me see.” Grady stood behind her and scrutinized the paper over her shoulder. “It isn’t very clear, is it?”

“You’d think they could make it easier.” Bennie read across the columns of four-digit numbers, under Sample A and Sample B, and noticed something striking. The numbers matched. She read them again, her heart pounding.

Grady looked up from the paper. “You’re twins. Lord, you’re really twins.”

Bennie swallowed hard. She had known it inside, but confirming it boggled the mind. “I couldn’t get this yesterday?” she said, her voice almost a cry. “Why didn’t I tell them to fax it? She’s gone now. Connolly’s gone.”

“What?” Grady asked, and Bennie told him the whole story, while he settled onto the plywood floor, Indian style, and listened quietly. He fetched coffee for her, and Grady interrupted with only a few questions, managing to learn more than she wanted and even more than she understood. By the end of the conversation, Bennie felt better, but restless. “So, do you think I should try to find her?”

“Connolly? No.”

“But she’s my twin. I know it now, for sure. She should know that, too.”

“It doesn’t sound like she cares, hon. She treated you terribly. You almost got killed because of her, and she dumped you at the station. Why would you want to seek her out?”

“Because she’s my sister.”

“And what of it?” Grady asked softly.

“She’s my family, my blood, and right now, she’s the sum total of it.” She gulped her coffee, not wanting to cry.

“You know what I think, Ben? I’m not like you, with this blood thing and all. Maybe it’s because I’m not Italian, I don’t know.” Grady pulled his legs up to his chest, looping long arms around his knees. Bear slept soundly next to him, curled into a cinnamon-colored doughnut on the plywood. “I have a different view of family than you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“My brother is a jerk, you know that. A materialistic, mean-spirited jerk. He’s not family to me, even though he’s my only brother.”

“That’s not good.”

“It’s the way it is.” Grady shrugged, his fingers still interlaced. “I don’t feel tied to him just because he’s my blood and shares my genes. Who’s your family? Family is who you feel close to, who you love, and who loves you in return. Gives to you. You aren’t stuck with the family you’re born with. At some point, you grow up and choose your family, Bennie. You make it.”

Bennie fell quiet, considering it briefly. The only sound in the room was the dog’s snoring. “I don’t buy it. I like that bright-line test. Either you’re blood or you ain’t.”

“I know you do, but it doesn’t work, does it? It gets you into trouble I needn’t detail.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying ‘I told you so’?” she asked, and Grady laughed, which reminded her of how much fun it was to make him laugh. But you had to talk first to do that, and be around each other. Could they be, again? “So who’s my family, under the new improved definition?”

“You tell me. It’s your family.”

Bennie thought a minute. “I guess Hattie, my mother, and you. Not Connolly? Not my father?”

“Neither, not in my definition.”

Bennie swallowed, hard. “At least he kept clippings about me and came to my mother’s funeral. And we know he didn’t leave her, she left him. We don’t know much about him to judge him so harshly.”

“Maybe you should find out.”

“Maybe I should.” Bennie set her coffee mug on the floor and stood up. “Can I borrow your car?”

Grady laughed in disbelief. “Now?”

“Can you think of a better time than now?” she asked, and Grady knew any response was futile.

95

It was dusk when Judge Harrison Guthrie set sail in his sixteen-footer, the Jurist Prudent. Other sailboats and motorboats were coming in as he set out. To a man, their skippers were burnt from a full day of sun. “Don’t stay out too long, buddy,” someone shouted to him, boozy, from a motorboat. The judge waved back dismissively. He didn’t know the man’s name. He hadn’t made any friends at the marina, or on the bay, for that matter. He liked his solitude when he sailed and the only friend he needed was his wife, Maudie.

The judge tacked the Jurist Prudent into the breeze, a mild gust puffing eastward across the bay. The mainsail luffed as he turned, then snapped as it filled with wind. His wrinkled hand gripped the heavy line with the strength of a much younger man. He’d left the city after the Connolly verdict, stopped home only to change into his clothes and kiss Maudie good-bye. One solid peck on the cheek, like a rubber stamp. He’d been tempted to kiss her on the mouth, but it had been so long since he’d done that she would have found it odd. Then he’d driven down for a quick sail, as was his habit on the weekend. Maudie didn’t suspect anything.

The judge looked at the sky, his hand on the tiller and the boat parting the water with ease. The western half of the sky, where the weather came from, was darkening quickly. Nimbus clouds gathered, a deepening gray tinged with soft black at the fringe. The judge could smell the water hanging in the air and feel its dampness on his cheek. A storm was coming, but he anticipated it with a kind of hope.

Maybe there would be lightning. The judge knew a fair amount about lightning, had even studied its history. In early times it was believed to be evil spirits, and villages had rung church bells to ward it off. Later, lightning was assumed to be fire; finally Ben Franklin proved otherwise. Its anatomy was remarkable, too. A ribbon of pure electric energy, three to four miles long, but only an inch in diameter.

The judge’s watery eyes searched the sky, growing darker. The storm clouds collected, milling together like old friends. The wind picked up, filling the sails and testing their thick cloth. Judge Guthrie wasn’t afraid. He would leave Maudie well provided for, and the children and grandchildren. He had done good work as a lawyer, filed papers to be proud of. Then he had become a judge, the capstone of his legal career. Any of the opinions, concurrences, or dissents that bore his name would stand forever. Making law for all time; making legal history. Judge Guthrie had always written with that in mind, deciding cases under the law, with fairness, decency, and justice. There had been only one exception.

The Connolly case. The judge had been indebted to Henry Burden and it would have been dishonorable to turn him down once the inevitable request had been made. The judge knew that the prosecutor, Dorsey Hilliard, owed a debt to Henry Burden as well, but at least the prosecutor had been acting in faith with his sworn duty as he fulfilled Burden’s bidding. The judge had not. For the first and only time, Harrison Guthrie had opposed the law.

The judge’s hand held fast to the tiller and didn’t waver, even as his thoughts darkened like the clouds. He had made rulings contrary to law, for the purpose of achieving the wrong result. He had violated his oath and he had disgraced the bench. Even if his misdeeds never came to light, Judge Guthrie knew what he had done. He had acted in combination with murderers, causing death and mayhem. He had profaned the name of justice and transgressed as surely as the robbers, murderers, and miscreants who stood before him day after day. Even Judge Guthrie conceded he should pay for what he had done. No one was above the law, and especially not a judge.

And so Harrison Guthrie judged himself, in the end, and sailed swiftly into the darkness.

96

Star connected with a right cross that split the skin under Mojo Harris’s eyebrow like a boiled hot dog. Yeah! Star thought. Sweat poured from his face and chest. He danced backward, light on his feet. It was late in the sixth and he was a round away from winning. The crowd knew it, too. The Blue Horizon rocked with shouting and cheering.

Harris staggered back and blood bubbled instantly to the cut. It gaped open, skin flaps flopping on each side. Star would have punched Harris again but the ref rushed between the fighters and steadied Harris’s bruised face while he squinted at the cut. “Can you see, Mojo?” the ref shouted over the crowd noise. “How many fingers I got?”

“Two!”

“Then box!” the ref said, and Star lunged forward, swinging. He didn’t want the fight stopped, nobody did. Star knew he’d fought the fight of his life. He’d beaten Harris on points so far, each round but the third.

Ring! went the bell ending the sixth, and Harris’s arms dropped. He was whipped, dead on his feet. Star glared at Harris before Harris hustled back to his corner. Star was tellin’ Harris he was licked. Tellin’ him that he, Star Harald, owned this ring now. That the next time Harris came out, Star would pound his eye ‘til it fuckin’ exploded.

“Star, come on back!” Star’s corner shouted. It was Browning callin’ him in. Star stayed in the ring, lettin’ Harris know. Servin’ notice, demandin’ respect. The crowd roared at the grandstanding and Star gulped it down like cold beer. His first professional fight, an eight-rounder, and he was about to win it. A TV camera focused on him and reporters took notes. Star felt the best he had ever felt in his life. Except Anthony wasn’t here to see it.

“Come on, Star!” Browning yelled. “Come on back! You only got a second, man!”

Star looked at the crowd, standin’ up for him. The men clappin’, hands over their heads, the women givin’ him the eye. Their faces, all excited, so close to the ring he could make them out. Everybody from the gym was there. Mr. Gaines, Danny Morales, and his foxy wife. Everybody but Anthony. It killed Star when he shoulda been the happiest. Where the fuck was that squirrel with the hair plugs? Star scanned the crowd and found the dude. He was in the back, his head wrapped in goddamn bandages. Makin’ sure Star kept up his end of the bargain. Harris in seven. Dude better have kept his end.

“Star! Come in, get your ass back here! Get your fuckin’ ass back here!”

Star turned and sauntered back to his corner, the crowd on its feet, going crazy for him. They were seeing history and they knew it. Years from now they could say they were at Star Harald’s first professional fight. He wouldn’t be fighting at the Blue anymore, he’d be at the Convention Center or Bally’s. Bruce Willis would sit ringside and the TV cameras would be pay-per-view. Star’s purse would go from twenty grand to twenty million.

“You got him, man!” Browning shouted as Star sat down in his corner. “You opened him up! When you get back out there, stay upstairs. Circle to the right. Look for a right cross behind your left!”

Star tuned out Browning. His thoughts were on that bitch. She better be dead. He spit his mouthguard into a hand covered in a latex glove while another glove wiped sweat off his face and squirted water into his mouth. A third set of gloves smeared Vaseline on his eyebrows, but Star waved them off. Harris wasn’t going to be landing anything in the seventh. Star would knock him out in the seventh.

Ring! It was the round bell. Star got off the stool and jumped to get his blood moving. Loosen up. A gloved hand popped in his moutlhguard.

“You know what to do, Star!” Browning started up again. “Finish him off, man! He don’t want no more. Can’t take no more. Finish him the fuck off!”

Star charged out of his corner, gloves up, light on his feet. He went straight at Harris, who backed off, his left high, tryin’ to protect his eye. Star waited for his moment. Harris didn’t throw anything, just danced back like a pussy, gloves in front of his cut eye. Fresh red blood drippin’ like tears in a line down his cheek.

The crowd screamed for the knockout punch. They smelled the blood. They knew it was comin’. Star had to throw it. Harris blinked blood out of his eye and backed into the ropes. The cut was so bad the ref would call the fight any second. Star pushed Harris against the ropes, throwing left jabs. Had to get Harris lookin’ for the left, so he could throw the right into the cut. Star stayed patient. It drove the crowd crazy. The TV cameras rolled.

Suddenly Star found another way. He caught Harris with a left uppercut to the gut. Harris dropped his right arm, covering up. His left was still high, but he was open. The crowd screamed as Star followed with a left hook to the temple. Harris took one step back, then slumped forward to his knees. The ref waved Star to a neutral corner, but Star didn’t move. It was too sweet a sight. Mojo Harris kneeling unconscious in front of him.

The ref shoved Star to the corner and started his count. By the time he got to three, it was over. The ref waved the fight off, a knockout, as Star threw his fists into the air and roared.

After the fight, Star gave interview after interview, talkin’ to the newspapers, Ring magazine, and even a guy from Sports Illustrated. There were so many reporters, Star couldn’t even make it into the locker room. He stood outside, jawin’ into microphones with white boxes showing the stations. USA, ESPN, KYW. Browning yapped more than Star did, actin’ like Don King while other managers sucked up. They was comin’ to Star now, but the boxer didn’t want to see ’em. Only dude he wanted to see was that squirrel with the hair plugs.

“Star, yo!” said a voice behind him, and Star finished signing another autograph and turned around. It was the squirrel wearin’ head bandages that made him look like a dothead. In his hand was a black Adidas gym bag. Make sure it got done.

“Get your ass inside,” Star said. He opened the dressing room door, shoved the dude, and shouted at his people to clear out. He locked the door behind them and faced the dude alone. “You do that bitch?” Star demanded.

“Man, you were unreal! I never saw a fight like that! You could take anybody! You could be the champ!”

“I am the champ, motherfucker! Answer me. Tell me that bitch is dead.”

“She’s dead, man. She’s history, and you just made me and my boss a shitload.” The dude was smilin’ like an idiot, but Star wasn’t.

“How I know you did her? You bring the proof?”

“Sure. I got it, just like you said.” The dude reached into the gym bag and brought out a crumpled paper bag with a greasy stain on the bottom. “Here, look.”

Star leaned over and peeked into the bag. The sight turned his stomach. In the bag was a mess of blond hair matted with blood and stuck to a bloody scalp. The skin on the scalp was so white it coulda been a doll’s. The smell was disgusting, like fresh road kill. Star pushed it away. “Get that outta my face, asshole.”

“You said, show me.” The dude closed the bag fast and stuck it back in the gym bag. “You wanted proof.”

Then Star realized something. “How’m I supposed to know it’s Connolly’s, asshole? Could be somebody else’s hair, any bitch’s hair.”

“Shit, ’course it’s Connolly’s. Dyed blond and all, just like you said, Star. Look, man, even got the black roots.” The dude reached in the bag again, but Star reared back with disgust.

“Get that shit outta my sight!” Star waved at the bag and watched as the dude put the bag away. It had to be Connolly’s, didn’t it? Connolly was dead. The bitch was dead. They had held up their side of the bargain, and Star had done more than his part. He’d won by a TKO in the seventh. It made him feel good, where his heart ached.

Finally there was an end to it. Star had gotten justice, for Anthony.

And he was on his way to the top.

97

Bennie didn’t reach the cottage until dark. If she hadn’t been there before, she never would have found the place. She pulled Grady’s old Saab up to the fork in the road and took the unpaved driveway to the cottage, where she found herself in luck. A light was on inside the house, shining gold through the trees. Winslow was home. Bennie would get to see him. Meet him. Her father.

She cut the Saab’s headlights, leaving on the low beams as she drove closer. Rocks and gravel crunched under the car’s tires. A rusty red pickup stood out in front of the cottage, and Bennie parked next to it. She cut the ignition, got out of the Saab, and walked slowly up to the house. On the way she found herself patting her hair and smoothing down her suit skirt. Might as well look nice.

Bennie stood in front of the screen door, summoning her nerve. From beyond the lighted screen came the unmistakable sound of a man humming. Bennie felt oddly delighted. Her father was humming. What was the tune? She inclined her head toward the screen, and a brown moth fluttered away on dusty wings. She didn’t recognize the song, then the humming stopped abruptly.

“Ay? Somebody there?” asked a voice. Elderly, uncertain, even frightened. It touched her unexpectedly.

“It’s me. Bennie Rosato.”

“Wha?” There was the sound of a dry cough, then footsteps shuffling softly. In the next minute a long figure filled the dark door and opened it wide.

“Hello,” Bennie said, backing the form into the dim room until the lamplight illuminated Winslow’s face. His mouth was full, and his face was lean, lightly tanned, with feathery crow’s-feet. His eyes were large, round, and as sharply blue as Bennie’s. They struck her at once as so familiar, even behind their drugstore eyeglasses, that she impulsively threw open her arms and gave him a hug.

“No!” he shouted, throwing off her arms and recoiling suddenly, knocking an astonished Bennie almost off-balance.

“I’m sorry,” she said, flustered. She wasn’t even sure what had happened, his response had been so immediate, so violent. Bennie’s face flushed with embarrassment and a sort of shame. She didn’t even know why she had hugged him in the first place. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Winslow patted his chest, over a buttoned-up blue workshirt, as if he’d just received a shock.

“I was only-”

“Quite all right.” His wrinkled hand fluttered against his shirt, then moved to right his glasses, though they weren’t crooked. “It’s all right. It’s fine. My. Well.” Winslow coughed again and focused on Bennie. “So, we meet,” he said without ceremony, and Bennie nodded.

“Yes. We do.” She was trying to recover from her faux pas. “Starting off on the right foot,” she said, laughing uncomfortably.

“I thought you might come, when it was over. I didn’t know you’d get here before I left. I was hoping you wouldn’t.” Winslow turned slightly, and Bennie looked down. On the floor stood an ancient tan suitcase, its leather dry and cracked, with a stand-up handle, and next to the suitcase sat a large cardboard box of books. She couldn’t help but notice his scrapbooks weren’t going with him. She had so many questions, she didn’t know where to start.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“South.” Winslow eased his glasses up his long nose with an index finger, its nail dirty.

“Is that all you’re taking?” She was thinking of the clippings, and the note from her mother. Had he even noticed it was gone?

“I must keep packing, if you don’t mind. My books.” He walked to the bookshelf and ran his fingertips over the books’ spines. He stopped when he got to one, tapped it thoughtfully, and slid it off the shelf. Then he went to the box and eased the book into it, spine up. “I must take as many of my books with me as possible.”

“Is this a vacation or what?”

“No, I just came off one of those, though it wasn’t much of a respite, was it?” Winslow smiled tightly, though his voice remained curiously humorless. “You won the case.”

“Yes, I did. How did you know that?”

“I was there.”

“Where?” Bennie blinked, amazed. “I didn’t see you.”

Winslow returned to the bookshelf, the second shelf this time, and after a brief examination, selected a volume and walked back to the cardboard box with it. “That’s why I put Alice onto you,” he said, without looking up from his task. “I knew you’d win.”

“How did you know that? I didn’t know I’d win.”

“Oh, I know all about you. You and Alice. I take care of you both.”

“You do?” Bennie would have found it funny, if it weren’t her life. “How? I never met you before.”

“I take care of my girls. I step in when I’m needed.”

His girls? Bennie didn’t reply. “Alice and I are twins, right?”

“Yes, quite right.” Winslow peered at the shelf and slid out a book, then put it back. “No, not Robert Penn Warren. I can’t take the Warren. Oh, well.”

“My mother left you.”

“A long time ago.” Winslow picked a book off the shelf, rubbed nonexistent dust from the cloth cover with his fingertips, then brought the volume back to the box. “Only room for one more.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Seemed to think I wouldn’t make a good father. Always told me that.” He snorted softly, his head bent as he wedged the book into the box. He had a growing bald spot and his hair, once blond, had thinned to gray and was slicked down, curling over his tight collar. “She had lots of ideas like that. Her own ideas.”

“Was she right?”

“Ask her.”

The statement, coldly delivered, struck bone. “You know I can’t do that,” Bennie said, dry-mouthed.

“No, and so you’ll never know. It’s a lot more complicated than you think, not that it matters now.” Winslow straightened up, went back to the bookshelf, and removed one more book. He seemed to know which one he wanted, and he placed it in the box with an attention Bennie found infuriating.

“I think it matters. I want to know. How could my mother give up a child? How did she do it, even, and how could you let her? Why didn’t you fight for us, or at least take Alice?”

“You’ve made a success of yourself, and Alice is out of jail. All’s well that ends well. Help me with these books, would you? Pick the box up from your side and put it on the couch.” As if he hadn’t heard her, Winslow bent over and lifted the box, but Bennie snatched it from his hands and stood back in anger.

“Stop and answer me,” she said. The heavy box pulled at her shoulders, but she was strengthened by a bitterness she didn’t know she harbored. “Why didn’t you take Alice? Why didn’t you try to see us?”

“Give me my books.” Winslow stretched out his arms, callused palms up.

“Answer me first.”

“Give me my books.” His voice went stern and hard. “My books!”

“Here.” Bennie shoved the box at him, and he stooped slightly as he absorbed its impact. He struggled to set the box down on the couch, a fact Bennie noted with only a smidgen of guilt. “You have your books, now answer me.”

When Winslow straightened, his face was red with effort. “You’re angry.”

“An understatement.”

“You expect me to justify myself,” he said, though his tone remained harsh. “You think I don’t care for you, or Alice.”

“Right. It’s a matter of fact, as the lawyers say. You weren’t there for us and you didn’t try to be.”

“You didn’t need me. You were doing fine. You never gave anyone any trouble. But Alice I had to watch more closely. She would fall in with the wrong men. I had to step in. When I was needed, I was there.”

“What do you mean?”

“When she was sixteen, there was a young man… well, I stepped in. I took care of her. She never knew it was me, I wasn’t looking for credit. I saw the situation that arose, and I dealt with it.”

“How?” Bennie didn’t understand, but she didn’t like the sound of it. “What are you talking about?”

“The details aren’t your concern. I dealt with the situations that arose. When her most recent situation arose, I dealt with that, too.”

“What recent situation?” Bennie asked, too edgy to be exasperated.

“With that detective, that Della Porta. He was bad for Alice. A hypocrite, a thief. The worst of a bad lot.” Winslow shook his head righteously, but Bennie felt stunned.

“What are you saying?”

“I saw that Alice was falling in with Mr. Della Porta and those others. You were right about them. You figured it out. They were selling cocaine and they involved Alice in their dirty business. They corrupted her.”

Bennie listened, astounded.

“I went to try to convince Mr. Della Porta to let Alice alone. He wouldn’t listen. He refused to let her go. He called me names. He called Alice filthy names, too. Filthy. He said she did horrible things, things I knew no daughter of mine could ever do.”

Bennie thought back to the trial. The fighting that Mrs. Lambertsen had heard. It hadn’t been Della Porta and the cops. It had been Della Porta and her father.

“So I shot him. I didn’t plan to. There was no other way. He would have ruined her. He’d choke the life from her if I let him. Like a weed.”

Bennie felt a wrenching deep within her chest. She wasn’t sure if she could speak. She didn’t try.

“Don’t let it upset you, child. He was destroying Alice. I had to take care of her. I’m her father.”

Bennie shook her head, uncomprehending. “You killed a human being.”

“For Alice, I did it for Alice. To save her.”

“Save her? You put her on the hook.”

Winslow’s upper lip twitched slightly. “I didn’t know she’d be charged with the murder.”

Bennie could barely imagine it. “But you let your child be charged with a murder you committed.”

“That’s why I showed myself. Told her to call you. I knew you’d prove her innocent.”

“But what if I hadn’t?” Bennie exploded, bewildered. “I almost didn’t, don’t you realize that? It took everything I had-everything-and I almost got killed! You killed a man. You almost killed both of your children!”

Winslow looked at her without batting an eye. “If you hadn’t won, I would have come forward. They wouldn’t have sent Alice to jail then.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? They wouldn’t have believed you. I barely believe you!”

“Oh, they would have believed me. I kept the gun. The murder weapon.”

The statement shocked Bennie into silence. The only sound in the still cottage was the shallow huff of her own breathing.

Winslow closed the box and looked to the window. “Too bad it’s dark outside, I’d show you my garden. The foxglove is in and the rudbeckia just blooming. It took decades to make that garden. It needed to be weeded, tended. Gardens, they need tending.”

Bennie’s mind reeled. She felt almost dizzy, sick to her stomach. She didn’t know what to do, what to say. She had wondered about her father her whole life but couldn’t bear to be in his presence a moment longer. He made her skin crawl. He was crazy, insane; he had to be. She swallowed her rising gorge, turned on her heel, and hurried to the door of the cottage. She banged open the screen door, heard it sham behind her, and didn’t look back. She ran to the Saab, twisted on the ignition, and drove off in a cold, scared sweat.

It took Bennie all the way to the Pennsylvania border to calm her stomach and begin to understand her reaction. It only became clear because the farther she drove from Winslow’s cottage, the easier she breathed. Her heart rate returned to normal. Her viscera stilled. Her tongue tasted vaguely of bile, but she gritted her teeth, stiff-armed the Saab, and steered into the night, racing to lay down as much mileage as possible between her and Winslow.

A lifetime of distance.

Bennie’s hair whipped from her face and she hit the gas. The Saab responded as soon as its winded turbos allowed. The car was almost ten years old and Grady had bought it used, but he took care of his car. She thought about Grady then. He took care of things he loved, like his ancient Saab, and her. He made Bennie coffee, held her when she needed it, even backed off when she didn’t. Grady was a caretaker of things that caused trouble, talked back, and fell into foul and selfish moods. Of things that could hurt and wound. Of things imperfect.

Of human beings.

Bennie floored the gas pedal when she spotted the orange lights of the airport that marked Philadelphia’s southern perimeter. Oil refineries encircled the airport and spewed billows of pollution into the summer night. The air hung a hazy orange and smelled like dry-cleaning chemicals. Still, Bennie felt the urge to go faster, to get to Philly. To a city that smelled like a catalytic converter. To a house that had boxes for furniture and exposed lath for wallpaper. To a man who loved her and took care of her when she needed it. To a dog that would never, ever come when he was called.

Bennie wanted to go home. So she drove as far as she could from her father, as fast as she could go, and sped home, there to meet her family.

For the first time.