Mistaken Identity (40 page)

“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.

J
udy, 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.