Mistaken Identity (18 page)

“That’s lame,” Judy scoffed. “Connolly and Della Porta weren’t even married.”

Bennie checked her impatience. “We have to develop it, find out a little more. We don’t have to convince the jury that this lawyer did it. We just have to make it colorable, give it some weight. Make it plausible enough for reasonable doubt.”

“That’s what I meant.” Mary nodded. She could always take credit, couldn’t she? This was America, and it was her right as an employee. “So, do you want us to try and identify this lawyer?”

Bennie shook her head. “No, I have something important I want you two to do. What do you know about boxing?”

“Boxing is cool,” Judy said. “I watch it on TV sometimes.
Tuesday Night Fights.”

“Good.” Bennie relaxed. Carrier could be a tiger if she was working on something that interested her. “How about you, DiNunzio? You a fight fan?”

“Boxing?” Mary wrinkled her nose. “I think it’s disgusting. People trying to give each other concussions. I’ve never watched a fight past the first round.”

“You’re about to become an expert. I want you to go to the gym where Anthony’s fighter trains. I want you to see if he’s talking to the D.A. Find out if he’s testifying.” Bennie scribbled an address on a yellow Post-it and handed it across her desk to Mary, who took it reluctantly.

“But I’m supposed to be interviewing Della Porta’s neighbors. There’s so much work—”

“Carrier can’t go alone, not to this neighborhood. You’re going with her, for protection.”

“Protection? Me?”

Judy grinned. “Kapow!” she shouted, throwing an imaginary punch.

T
he gym was in North Philadelphia, far from the glistening business district. Going north on Broad Street, the white marble of City Hall was replaced by the red plastic of Kentucky Fried Chicken, the dark glass of vacant storefronts, and the fake wood paneling of check-cashing agencies with lines around the corner, like opening day of a first-run movie. Unemployment was higher in this area and the evidence was on every street corner, where the homeless shook McDonald’s cups of change. And if the City Hall area was spotless, the result of hard work by a privately funded team of uniformed cleaners, the north end of town was littered with newspapers, coffee cups, and cigarettes. This was why they used to call the city “Filthydelphia,” but nobody was hiring green-uniformed elves to clean this part of the city, and never would.

Judy surveyed the scene from the window of the cab. They sped by a used-car dealership, whose banner of yellow glitter caught the sunlight like fool’s gold.
REVIVAL TIME
read a sign on one of the many churches that dotted the street. Judy wondered what the church was like inside. “You know, Mare, we should get up here more often.”

“Why?” Mary asked. Her head was buried in the Connolly exhibits, which she read as the cab lurched from one stoplight to the next. “We don’t have enough to do?”

“Work isn’t everything. We should get out a little. See things that are different. A different way of life.”

“Catholics aren’t interested in different, okay?”

“Come on—”

“In fact, we hate different. Different threatens us.”

Judy smiled as the cab pulled up in front of a concrete building about ten stories tall. The upper floors looked dark and vacant, but the first floor was a block-long expanse of glass. A wire cage covered the glass and had trapped every passing handbill and hamburger wrapper. The cabbie, a young man with a shaggy red beard, snapped down the meter’s red flag. “That’s ten bucks, even,” he said over his shoulder.

Mary cracked the window. “This is it?”

“Sure. It’s one of the best gyms in Philly.”

“There’s no sign.”

“Don’t need no sign. It’s almost as famous as Smoke’s.”

“Smoke’s?”

“Smokin’ Joe Frazier’s.” The cabbie glanced at Mary in the rearview. “Philly’s a great boxing town, you’ll see. How long you girls here for?”

Mary bristled. “Take that back. I’m a native Philadelphian.”

Judy handed the driver the fare. “We’re tourists, up here.”

“Thanks,” he said. “You want I should come back, pick you up? It’s a bitch to get a cab this far up.”

“I knew that,” Mary said.

“I’ll get her out now,” Judy told the cabbie, who laughed.

Two muscular black men were sparring in a ring that was the heart of the gym. Red leather headgear obscured their features and sweat glistened on their shoulders as they hustled around the blue canvas, behind ropes covered with red and blue velveteen. Centered over the ring hung four strips of fluorescent lights, illuminating the dark faces of the men who stood around. They cheered or winced at each punch, alive with the thrill of the match. The harder the punch, the more animated they got, but Mary flinched as she watched. To her, boxing was assault and battery with tickets.

She looked away, around the gym. Glossy mirrors covered the walls and wrinkled boxing posters blanketed any leftover space. Speedbags hung like teardrops of leather from plywood stands and a brown heavy bag spun slowly on a chain in the far corner. Boxing gloves of gold and silver hung on the far wall; the air smelled of perspiration, stale cigarettes, and filth. Mary hovered behind Judy’s broad shoulder. “We don’t belong here,” she muttered. “We’re lawyers. We should be making commercials.”

“Stop complaining. We’re on a secret mission.”

“We’re the only whites and the only women. How secret can it be?”

“Follow me.” Judy pushed her way to the middle of the crowd to get a better view of the fight. She felt instantly intrigued by the skill of the contest, the movement of the fighters, the whistle of gloves through the air. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the ring.

Huddling behind her, Mary squinted at the ring, where one boxer slugged the other so hard his head snapped back like a bullwhip. She gave up being adult, much less professional, and covered her eyes. “Did he kill him?”

“Not yet.”

“I hate this. Let’s run away.”

“No.”

“I’ll meet you outside. In the suburbs.”

“You will not.” Judy grabbed Mary’s hand and scanned the crowd for Star. She picked him out quickly, recognizing him from the posters around the gym. Starling “Star” Harald was larger in person than his photo, if that were possible. “There he is.”

“Where?”

“The hulk in the back row,” Judy said, and Mary looked. Star was huge, almost superhuman, even at a distance. He wore a black silk shirt with a black sportjacket that was big in the shoulders even without shoulder pads. He stood apart from the crowd and there was an aloof air about him—the aura of a star, but a dark one. Mary thought he’d be handsome if he weren’t so remote, but emotional distance was probably a job requirement for a man who could kill with his fists. “Now can we go?”

“No,” Judy said over her shoulder, and felt Mary’s hand clutch her dress as she made her way around the ring through the crowd, ignoring stares both curious and lecherous. It was less noisy in the back row, and Judy wedged boldly next to Star. “Are you Star Harald?” she asked. “My name’s Judy Carrier.”

Star’s expression remained unchanged, his concentration riveted on the sparring match in the ring.

“My friend and I are lawyers in the murder case involving your manager, Anthony Della Porta. We represent Alice Connolly.”

Star didn’t even like the sound of the bitch’s name. He kept his eyes on the fight.

“Anthony Della Porta was your manager, wasn’t he?”

Star didn’t answer. The kid in the red shorts was throwing his jab but he couldn’t connect. Kid didn’t train hard enough. Kid had no discipline. No respect for himself.

“Did you know the woman Della Porta lived with? Her name was Alice Connolly.”

Star didn’t say anything. The kid’s trainer should tell him to move his fuckin’ feet, but he didn’t know shit. Even Browning, the fat fuck Star just signed with, knew more than him. Star folded his arms and his biceps bulged under the custom jacket.

“I see you have muscles. Do you have manners?”

Star snapped his head around and his eyes bored into Judy. He wasn’t Tyson, so he didn’t tag her, but he thought about it. “I talk if I want to talk.”

Mary tugged at Judy’s dress for a warning. Antagonizing a prizefighter didn’t seem like a good idea, but Judy was from California, where they did self-destructive things all the time.

“Fine,” Judy said. “I’ll ask a question, and you answer if you want to answer. Did you know Alice Connolly?”

“I know she killed Anthony, tha’s all I have to know,” Star said matter-of-factly, and Judy hid her alarm at his response.

“How do you know that?”

“I jus’ know.”

“Did Della Porta tell you anything that would make you think that?”

Star shook his head. He didn’t like the chick calling Anthony by his last name.

“What makes you say Connolly did it?”

Star didn’t say anything. Bitch was givin’ him attitude. He watched the kid in the ring stagger back to his corner.

“Did you tell the cops what you think?”

Star shook his head, no.

“Why not?”

“Didn’t ax.”

Judy thought for sure the cops would have interviewed Star. His manager had been killed and the police didn’t question him about it? “The D.A. didn’t ask you to testify? Will you testify?”

Star shook his head again. Testify, go to court. Shit. He had the situation under control. He hadn’t got the word it got done yet, but he knew it would be. Without another word, Star turned his back on the lawyer and walked away, into the throng.

Judy moved to follow him, but Mary held her in place with a fistful of shirt. “This is me, saving your life.”

“But he’s getting away.”

“That’s because he’s bigger and faster than you.”

Judy watched Star disappear into the locker room. “He can run but he can’t hide.”

“He can do what he wants. That’s why they call him a heavyweight. Now let’s go,” Mary said, and pushed Judy safely toward the exit.

B
ennie had squandered an hour wrangling on the telephone with functionaries from the bar’s licensing authority before she reached the aforementioned Mr. Hutchins. “Look, Mr. Hutchins,” she said, “you require twelve credit hours a year, is that right? Ten hours of substantive courses and two of ethics.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” said Mr. Hutchins, a nice man if you liked those just-following-orders types.

“And I’m in Group Four, so I should have had my credits completed by August.”

“Last August.”

“Okay, last August.” Whatever. Nit-picker. “I paid the hundred dollars for the extension. So what’s the problem?”

“The problem, Ms. Rosato, is that the extension brought you only to October of last year. We have received no notice since that time that you have fulfilled your remaining two ethics requirements. Therefore you were placed on inactive status.”

“I didn’t receive notice of this action. You can’t take my license without notice.”

An official
click-click-clicking
of computer keys came over the line, and Mr. Hutchins said, “Our records show you were sent notices of your delinquency in November, March, and June.”

Bennie took a slug of coffee, but it didn’t work. Life was tough when you were totally in the wrong. “So what do I have to do to get my license back?”

“You have to take the required courses immediately, then apply for reinstatement.”

“I can’t do that. I’m kind of busy right now.” Bennie rubbed her forehead. “Why me, that’s what I want to know. I can’t be the only lawyer behind in her ethics credits. Can you check that?”

“Yes, I suppose I could. If I wished to.”

“Don’t you wish to? Procedures are important, Mr. Hutchins. Rules are important.” Bennie almost gagged. “Don’t you want to make sure your agency is following its own rules? It’s a question of administrative integrity.” There was silence on the other end of the line except for
clicking.
“I bet I’m not even the only one as far behind as a year, am I?”

“Well, no, you’re not.”