Jury of One

by David Ellis

  Son. Just a word. It lacked feeling. Why? She had cared so much for this young man before she knew the truth. Why did she have to look at him differently now? Alex hadn’t lied to her. A crime of omission, perhaps, but how could she judge him for that? She’d left him at birth, given him up, and now she was irked at him for the manner in which he found her?

  She brought her hands to her face. She didn’t cry. She was less a crier than a weller, emotions rising to the surface with some ease, eyes filling, but tears rarely falling. A powder keg inside but a cool exterior. Could be a defense mechanism. She was looking at the boy as nothing more than a client because she needed to, right? She needed to keep the objectivity that would make her an effective advocate. Would she ever be able to embrace him for who he was? Or was it easier to feel connected when he was an abstraction, a genderless, nameless somebody with no faults or virtues?

  “For God’s sake,” she mumbled.

  She heard footsteps a moment later, and she got to her feet in the small room. Alex was escorted into the room, wearing the ever-present shackles and moving slowly.

  “We got the stuff from the F.B.I.,” she said quickly. “Lots to do.”

  Alex looked at her a second. “Okay.” He’d barely sat down, the prison guard hadn’t left the room yet, and they hadn’t even said hello. Shelly busied herself removing the folders from her bag. She knew what she was doing, as she had every time since she learned the news, using an excuse to avoid any personal interaction with him.

  She pushed a file in front of him as she continued to remove items. Alex opened the folder and held each photo in his shackled hands, as if seeing the concept of photography for the first time. He was the object of attention, probably something he was not accustomed to. Shelly had seen it before, in the children she had represented, a perverse enjoyment from all the fuss about them.

  “You hadn’t seen these?” she asked him.

  He shook his head no. “They told me they had me meeting with Miro but they didn’t say much more.” He continued through the pictures, an eager child.

  Shelly moved her chair so she could view the photos along with Alex. A number of grainy black-and-white, 5-by-7 photos, pictures taken in a park. Close-ups, though Shelly guessed the photographer was far away, probably across the street. One man sitting on a bench in a light jacket and slacks, leg crossed, heavyset, wearing a baseball cap and smoking a cigarette. Looking at these snapshots yesterday, she had matched up the face, out of context, with the newspaper photo and shuddered. It was Raymond Miroballi. The next one, Miroballi was standing by the bench, hands stuffed in a thick jacket as another person had approached, seen from the back. Shelly had recognized the long black coat and stocking cap. It was Alex.

  She watched Alex go through them and nod with recognition. Miroballi patting Alex down, making him remove his coat, hands tapping his ribs, his stomach, the insides of his thighs. Alex talking, one hand waving as he spoke. Miroballi, leaning into Alex, a finger jabbing the air, a close-up of his stern expression. Near the end of the set of snapshots, Alex was handing Miroballi a letter-sized envelope with a bulge. The first of this sequence showed Alex holding out the envelope; the second and third, Miroballi was looking around in different directions; the fourth one, Miroballi took the envelope; finally, Miroballi stuffed the envelope inside his jacket.

  On the back of each photograph in this series were the words RAYMOND MIROBALLI / ALEX BANIEWICZ, ABBOTT PARK, 11-24-03, 6:26 P.M.

  “So let’s talk about that meeting with Miroballi.”

  Alex looked at the photo and held his breath.

  “You’re giving him the money there,” said Shelly. “The envelope has cash?”

  Alex continued to stare at the snapshot. He slowly nodded yes.

  “He seemed upset with you,” Shelly observed.

  “Yeah, what was that—November? Yeah, that’s when he upped it to five hundred.”

  “Tell me about the conversation,” she said, scrolling through the photos again. Miroballi punching the air with a finger, a grimace on his face.

  Alex nodded at the photo. “He’s telling me he can mess me up good. A kickback of five hundred is nothing compared to going away for twenty to life.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I wouldn’t go alone.”

  She studied him. It was hard to imagine the Alex she had come to know, a gentle soul, talking tough. But it was his life he was talking about. His daughter’s future.

  Alex made a face. “He said I couldn’t prove a thing. Said the money couldn’t be traced.”

  “But you agreed to bumping up his fee?”

  “Said I’d think about it.” Alex shrugged.

  She looked at him a moment, then continued on. After the photographs was a typewritten report by F.B.I. Special Agent Constantine Padopoulos. It noted that Officer Raymond Miroballi ended his shift at 5:00 P.M. on the day of Monday, November 24, 2003, and left the police station in plainclothes at 5:22 P.M. He drove in his personal vehicle to Abbott Park, which he circled in his car three times before parking and getting out. At 5:52 P.M.—and this matched up with the photographs; Shelly went through them as she read the narrative, a process she had repeated over and over again into the wee hours last night—Miroballi sat at a park bench and waited. He was approached by an unidentified male, Caucasian, midtwenties, at 6:02 P.M.

  Unidentified. That confirmed Shelly’s assumption that the F.B.I. found Alex when they were looking at Miroballi. They knew about Miroballi before Alex. They caught her client because of the cop, in other words, not the other way around.

  The report continued. The federal agents followed Miroballi afterward as he drove in his vehicle to his residence on the city’s south side. The last of the photographs in this sequence showed Miroballi’s car parked on the driveway, up against a garage that was occupied in part by a second car and in part by assorted construction materials, a vanity sink lying on its side, a garden hose wound up and hanging on the wall.

  She braced herself as she considered Raymond Miroballi, family man. To his children he was probably a hero, a man who helped others, fought the bad guys. She imagined his wife, a woman she didn’t know, presumably satisfied with her husband’s stable income and their young children, who dreamed of more for them than she ever had, now wondering about the irreparable damage to their lives, lives without a father.

  Alex was next followed by the federal agents after a rather suspicious meeting with a police officer under surveillance. Alex was shown walking, getting on a bus, leaving the bus and walking again, pulling up the collar on his black coat, finally going into his home.

  A kid, really, with no idea that he was being watched by agents of the federal government. A kid who couldn’t see beyond the next week, the extra cash for his daughter. She looked at Alex in the pictures helplessly, begging him to turn back, quit the drug business, don’t let the government catch you and get yourself in a position that you have to defend yourself on the streets, in an alley—

  “They skunked me pretty good,” Alex conceded with a humorless laugh. He had been incarcerated for six weeks and the effects were clear. His neck and face were thinner, the veins in his arms more prominent. His eyes were perpetually rimmed in redness, a dark shade circled them. His hair was flat, looked greasier than before. His posture was less confident, an ever-present slope to his shoulders. They were slowly breaking him.

  She imagined Alex—her son, yes, her son—she imagined her son in the penitentiary, maximum security, an unfortunately handsome youth. He’d join a gang inside probably, for protection, assuming a white kid had a gang to join; she wasn’t familiar with the intricacies of prison affiliations. He’d probably enter into the drug trade in prison, maybe even start taking them himself. He would get hurt and hurt others. He would boast about how he killed a cop, a badge of pride inside.

  She looked away for a moment, as if Alex could read her thoughts. He wouldn’t stand a chance inside, not for the long haul.


  “So you two met again a week later,” she said, going to the next set of photographs. Precisely a week after the first meeting, on Monday, December 1, 2003, federal agents captured Alex and Miroballi meeting again, at the same time and place—Abbott Park. Again, Miroballi arrived first and sat at the bench. Again, he patted Alex down when he walked up. Again, the exchange between the two seemed heated. The conversation took less than twenty minutes, ending with the passing of another envelope.

  “November twenty-fourth and December first,” said Shelly. “Why two meetings within a week?”

  “I told him I’d think about the five hundred. So we hooked up again. He wanted to know what I decided.”

  “And?”

  “I told him okay. Five hundred.”

  “Pretty steep,” Shelly estimated.

  “You are correct about that.”

  “What else did Miroballi do or say?”

  “He was all nervous. He was like, ‘You keeping your mouth shut about this? You’re not playing games with me, are you, boy?’ Stuff like that.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I wasn’t saying a word to anyone. I mean, I didn’t even know about the F.B.I. at that point.”

  The perfect segue. The next set of photographs showed Mr. Alex Baniewicz walking through an alley behind his home, to his car parked at a spot next to a stand-alone garage. The date, inscribed on the back, was Friday, November 28, 2003. Alex opening the door of his car, apparently reaching under the cushion in the backseat, surreptitiously stuffing something into his jacket, and then leaving the alley for the bus.

  “That was after your first meeting with Miroballi,” she said. “Imagine their excitement.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t bust me then.”

  “They wanted to see where you’d go. They weren’t done yet.”

  The next set of photos showed the same thing, more or less. Alex removing packets of cocaine from the car, but this time not making it out of the alley. A special agent of the F.B.I. stopping Alex covertly. Escorting Alex to a car. This was the following Friday, December 5, 2003.

  “That was after your second meet with Miroballi,” Shelly said.

  “That’s when they were done,” he said without enthusiasm. He put a hand to his face. He’d probably replayed these events hundreds of times in his head, but it was another thing to see them. “They got me in a room. They did a real number on me, three or four of them. They said I was looking at ten years, minimum. They said since I took the drugs to school”—he worked part-time after school three days a week, including Friday—“that it would triple my sentence.”

  Shelly winced. She wasn’t intimately familiar with federal drug laws. The state’s drug law had an enhancement for selling drugs within a certain promixity to a school. No doubt, the federal one did too, but ten years’ minimum? They were blowing smoke. And that was permissible. Cops and federal agents could deceive a witness repeatedly as long as they respected Miranda. And in this context, the feds hadn’t even arrested Alex, much less attempted to use his statements at trial, so they had virtually no restriction on what they could do.

  “I was pissing in my pants, Shelly. I mean, they know how to scare. They had me eating out of their hand.”

  “It wasn’t an ideal situation,” she acknowledged. The first words of consolation she’d ever given him when it came to drugs.

  “I told them I’d help them catch Miro.”

  “So that was the first week of December.” She flipped the final file of photographs toward Alex and got out of her seat. She was never good at sitting for too long. Her mind worked better when she was moving.

  The final sequence showed Alex Baniewicz and Raymond Miroballi arriving separately—Miroballi first—at a diner on the corner of Forty-third and Green. The date was January 21, 2004. The photographer captured each of them entering the establishment and then sitting in a corner booth. The cameraman had zoomed in through the window and captured some good detail. Miroballi, at one point, jabbing his finger at Alex. At another point, slamming his hand on the table. “The last time I met with him,” said Alex, “they put us at the corner table.”

  “They,” Shelly repeated. “The F.B.I.? What do you mean, they ‘put’ you there?”

  “They told me that’s probably where Miroballi would be sitting.”

  Shelly looked again at the photographs. The diner was crowded. The F.B.I. probably had people populating some of the tables, and probably spoke covertly with the restaurant owner to keep the corner booth open. Easier to photograph, and more likely to give Miroballi the feeling that he was in a secure spot.

  “How’d that meeting go?” she asked.

  “I told him that five hundred a month was no good. I said two hundred—the original deal—had to be the plan.”

  “Why, Alex?” This took place after the F.B.I. had flipped Alex. Why would he play tough guy?

  “I figured he was suspicious,” he answered. “If I walked in there with a big smile on my face and five hundred in my hand, he’d know. So I acted like we were still negotiating. Reverse psychology.” He waved a hand, as if the notion had been silly. Or at least unsuccessful.

  “And Miroballi went along with that?”

  “He was a little too eager to please. He couldn’t have cared less about money. He just wanted to know if I was keeping my mouth shut. I’m telling you, Shelly. This guy was on to me. Either he knew or he suspected.”

  “Okay.” She looked at the photographs. “So between December first and January twenty-first, no contact?” she asked. “Nothing for seven weeks?”

  “Right.” Alex closed the file. “About seven weeks there, nothing. I see this guy probably twice a month every month, and then he disappears. You tell me, Shelly. Don’t you think this guy had figured out something was wrong?”

  Alex was making sense. She had been relieved to learn that the evidence obtained from the U.S. Attorney’s office corroborated his story. It didn’t prove much of anything for the purposes of the trial, but it was a start.

  “I imagine those must have been seven long weeks for you,” she said. “You’ve got federal agents waiting for you to lead them to Miroballi, and suddenly he takes a powder.”

  Alex shook his head. “You’d think they would know this stuff better than anyone. It’s not like I just see Miro on the street and toss the money in the air to him. It was secretive. And he was the one setting things up, not me.”

  “Miroballi dictated the time and place of meetings.”

  “Yeah. Sure. But they were getting pretty agitated. They were asking, ‘Why hasn’t he called?’ ‘Where’s Miro?’ ‘How come he’s all of sudden disappearing?’” Alex’s face colored. “They thought I told him.”

  Shelly stopped her pacing. “They thought you tipped off Miroballi about the feds?”

  Alex’s head inclined.

  It made sense now. The comments from the prosecutor Jerod Romero, from Special Agent Peters, about Alex’s reliability. Your client says a lot of things. Some may be true, a lot of them probably aren’t. And Shelly had always been a little surprised at their unwillingness to stand behind one of their witnesses.

  “The feds thought you double-crossed them,” she said.

  “I guess.”

  “Did you, Alex?”

  “Of course not. Shelly, the guy’s no dummy. You don’t think he’s on the look-out? I can’t tell you how, but he had figured it out.”

  Shelly sat down again, choosing the chair at the opposite end of the table. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Alex.”

  “But you need proof.”

  “Did you have any sense of whom Miroballi was working with? Other cops on the take?”

  He shook his head slowly. “If he had partners in this, I don’t know.”

  “What about his official partner?” she asked. “Sanchez?”

  “Don’t know anything about him. My guess was always that Miro was a lone ranger.”

  “That just doesn’t w
ork, though. The feds are looking at a ring, right? Not a solo practitioner.”

  Alex framed his hands. “It’s not like the feds told me what was going on. But I always had the sense that they couldn’t figure out how Miro fit in with everyone else. Like he didn’t make sense or something.”

  “Who were you talking to? Peters?” Special Agent Donovan Peters was the only agent she had spoken with.

  “Peters and this other guy. A younger guy. Rafey.”

  “Rafey.” She went to her notepad.

  “Rafael. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t his real name. Young guy. Midtwenties, probably. He was undercover. He was on the street as a junkie. Sounds like he was buying crack.”

  Crack. A crack cocaine ring was more likely than a powder cocaine ring, in this day, especially if the feds were involved. Another reason why Miroballi didn’t make sense.

  “Alex, I have to cut to the chase with you. We haven’t really covered it.” She settled her hands and took a moment. “It’s my policy to gather the evidence as best I can before asking you outright. I think we’re at that stage now. We’ve pleaded self-defense but I can withdraw that. It’s still an open field. But I have to tell you, there’s not a whole lot of suspects here. It was close to eight in the evening when this went down, and the streets were empty.”

  “Nobody was around.”

  “They haven’t found the gun and they don’t have hard evidence that you even fired a gun that night. All of that is good. I’d be happy to point the finger at someone else but—”

  “There’s no one else to point at.” He shrugged. “It was just him and me in that alley.”

  She ran her hands over the table and did not look at him. “Then we need to talk about it.”

  “It’s like I’ve told you. It’s him and me. He reaches for his weapon and I beat him to it.”

  “Did you have drugs on you?”

  “No, ma’am.” He opened his hands. “The feds had my drugs.”

  “You could have gotten more.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “Where was your gun?”