Mistaken Identity (46 page)

“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.

T
he 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.