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.
r /> “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.