“Do you know if Detective Della Porta was active in civic groups?” Hilliard asked.
“He surely was. Detective Della Porta donated his time to civic groups in his area of interest, which was boxing. He was like a big brother to plenty of boxers, and even managed Star Harald, who’s about to turn pro, if any of you heard of him.” Officer Reston turned to the jury and scanned their faces for verification. In the middle of the back row, a young black man raised thin eyebrows in recognition. He was Jamell Speaker, thirtysomething, shoe salesman; Bennie remembered him from voir dire.
“Officer Reston, I must ask you an uncomfortable question, one that will come at you from left field, as it did me. Was Detective Della Porta involved in drug dealing, in any way, shape, or form?”
The shock on the cop’s face was evident. His dark eyes flared in disbelief, then anger. His tight lips remained pursed, and the effect was that Officer Reston was too mortified to answer.
“Officer Reston, to the best of your knowledge, was Detective Della Porta involved in drug dealing?” Hilliard asked again.
“Of course not,” Reston snapped finally, his voice ringing with anger.
“To the best of your knowledge, did Detective Della Porta ever use illicit drugs himself?”
“No, sir.”
“Officer Reston, you have attended parties at Detective Della Porta’s apartment, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I don’t recall, but there were several, and they were more like get-togethers, not parties. Detective Della Porta had a lot of friends and we used to go over there after the tour, or after a match, to unwind. He liked to cook. He’d cook omelets for everybody on the three-to-eleven.”
“Did you ever see drugs of any kind in use or available at these get-togethers?”
“No, sir.”
“I thought as much,” Hilliard said quickly, with a pointedly contemptuous glance at Bennie. “Now, to May nineteenth of last year. Can you please describe how you came to arrest the defendant for the murder of Anthony Della Porta?”
Officer Reston testified, telling a terse version of the story his partner had, corroborating Connolly’s panicked flight, the sighting of the white plastic bag in her hand, and her confession at capture. Bennie listened without objection, sizing Reston up as a strong witness whose testimony would have to be attacked with some skill. But she wouldn’t go over the same ground as she had with McShea; she’d have to get tougher and Reston was the right witness to do it. He was less likeable than McShea, and she wouldn’t look like she was picking on him.
“I have no further questions at this time,” Hilliard said, and Bennie was on her feet.
62
Bennie began her cross-examination of Officer Reston at the podium, but wouldn’t stay there long. She wanted to get in the cop’s face, literally. “Officer Reston, you testified that you were a friend of Detective Della Porta’s, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“Hadn’t you been to get-togethers at his house?”
“Yes.”
“So you knew, didn’t you, that his apartment was on the second floor?”
“Yes.”
Bennie walked to the jury box and faced the cop. “And you had to be familiar with the layout of the apartment, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“So you knew that you entered into a living room, walked to the left through a bedroom, and at the end was a spare room used as a home office, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“So you knew the clothes closet was in the bedroom?”
“I assume.”
“You assume?” Bennie leaned on the jury rail. “The bathroom is in the bedroom, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“If you’d been to several get-togethers at Detective Della Porta’s apartment, having omelets and coffee, you probably used the bathroom.”
Reston paused, his eyes squinting slightly in thought. “Yes. Once or twice.”
“The closet is the only other door in the bedroom, isn’t it?”
“Yes, now that I think about it.”
“So you were familiar with where the clothes closet was in Detective Della Porta’s apartment, weren’t you?”
“I guess so, yes.”
Bennie leaned against the polished rail. “Officer Reston, weren’t you also familiar with the location of the house?”
“Yes.”
“In your visits to Detective Della Porta’s apartment, did you ever see that there was construction directly across the street?”
“Yes.”
“They’re building a very large apartment building?”
“Yes.”
“Were they building it a year ago?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you see, as well, the Dumpsters out in front for construction debris?”
“I guess, yes.”
Bennie braced herself. “Officer Reston, isn’t it true that you planted the bloody clothes in the Dumpster on Trose Street, to frame Alice Connolly for this murder?”
“Objection!” Hilliard shouted, rising and reaching for his crutches. “Your Honor, there’s no foundation for this question. Again, it comes out of left field, and is irrelevant and prejudicial.”
“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie said, as Bennie knew he would. She had gotten the statement before the jury, and they were rustling in their seats.
“Move to strike the question and answer, Your Honor,” Hilliard added, but Bennie faced the judge.
“Your Honor, there are no grounds to strike the question. It’s important for the appellate court to see this exchange, should we need to appeal this matter.”
“Motion to strike granted,” Judge Guthrie ruled, his blue eyes flashing behind his glasses. “Move to your next question, counsel.”
Bennie bore down. “Officer Reston, you testified that Detective Della Porta had many friends on the police force. Who were his other friends on the force, if you know?”
“Objection,” Hilliard said from a sitting position at the prosecution table. “The question is irrelevant, Your Honor.”
“Your Honor,” Bennie said, “it is highly relevant to the defense of this case that Detective Della Porta, Officer Reston, Officer McShea, and other members of the Philadelphia police were involved in a drug conspiracy.”
“Objection!” Hilliard barked. “Your Honor, that’s slander! Defamation of the rankest kind, and an obvious attempt to distract the jury from the real issues in this case.”
“Approach the bench, right now, both of you!” Judge Guthrie snapped, snatching his reading glasses from his nose and gesturing to his court reporter. “Kindly place this on the record.”
Bennie approached the bench, sneaking a glance at the jury on the way. The videographer looked worried for her. He was young and urban, and Bennie knew from experience that a juror’s willingness to believe police misconduct varied with generational, racial, and even geographic factors.
“Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie whispered hoarsely, “the Court has warned you not to follow this line of questioning. There is no evidence of a police conspiracy in this matter, none at all.”
Hilliard nodded vigorously. “In addition, Your Honor, the very insinuation is prejudicial. The jury is already looking for proof of a conspiracy that doesn’t exist. The only evidence of a conspiracy is counsel’s own testimony.”
“Your Honor,” Bennie said firmly, “it’s axiomatic that conspiracies, particularly official conspiracies, are difficult to prove.” She fought the irony of arguing the point to a judge who himself was a co-conspirator. “Cross-examination has always been the engine—”
“Please don’t argue Justice Holmes to me, Ms. Rosato.” Judge Guthrie strained to lean over the dais. “The Court recalls the quotation and though we find it compelling, it is not entitled to precedential weight. You transgressed with that drug reference within the jury’s hearing. The Court has already warned you about such re
ferences and it is within this Court’s powers to hold you in contempt.”
“I have to cross-examine this witness, Your Honor.” Bennie met his eye. “This is standard cross-examination in a conspiracy case.”
“This isn’t a conspiracy case, Ms. Rosato.”
“It’s a conspiracy case to me, Your Honor. Conspiracy to commit murder. The wrong person is on trial here, and I’m entitled to pursue and develop the defense theory of the case. It’s part and parcel of Ms. Connolly’s right to a fair trial.”
Hilliard scowled. “Smoke and mirrors aren’t a fair trial, Your Honor. It’s the antithesis of a fair trial. Evidence that is irrelevant, such as the kind of innuendo she’s peddling as theory, is absolutely inadmissible, for the very reason that it misleads and confuses the jury. This is a smear job, without any proof or specifics.”
“I have specifics, Your Honor,” Bennie argued, and Judge Guthrie’s wispy eyebrows arched behind his glasses.
“Specifics? Kindly let the Court hear them, Ms. Rosato. We’d like an offer of proof.”
Bennie gripped the dais. An offer of proof meant that she’d have to show her hand to Guthrie and Hilliard. “Your Honor, case law is clear that I can cross this witness in these circumstances without an offer of proof. I have a right to ask the question, then Mr. Hilliard can object if he wants. But I don’t have to offer the question first.”
“Well, well.” Judge Guthrie puckered his mouth, the slack tissue of his cheeks jiggling with consternation. “You’re refusing to make an offer of proof?”
“To you? With all due respect, sir.” Bennie shifted her focus to the court reporter, earnestly tapping out her statement on the steno machine. “I want it clear on the record that it is in the best interests of my client for the witness to hear the question before this Court does.”
Hilliard exploded, his large mouth agape. “What’s she insinuating, Your Honor? Is she accusing you of misconduct? Has Ms. Rosato lost her mind?” He looked genuinely shocked, and Judge Guthrie’s hooded eyes flickered with anger, then with something Bennie recognized instantly: fear.
The judge eased back slowly in his chair. “Ms. Rosato, the Court will not respond to what the prosecution so accurately calls an insinuation. Additionally, the record will show that the Court did not impede any exploration of putative official corruption. Please, go ahead and ask your question, but only if it contains such specifics. Mr. Hilliard, kindly take your seat.”
Bennie turned from the judge and knew without looking that the jury was anticipating her question, as was the gallery behind her. She blocked them all from her mind. This was between her and Reston. The cop straightened his tie and watched Bennie walk to the spot in front of him with wary interest. She wouldn’t get another shot. She had to aim for the heart.
“Officer Reston,” Bennie said, “when Officer Lenihan of the Eleventh District testifies that you, Officer McShea, and Detective Della Porta were involved in drug dealing, will he be lying?”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Hilliard thundered. “Move to strike that question! It’s irrelevant, prejudicial, and utterly without foundation! Who is Officer Lenihan? What does any of this have to do with Detective Della Porta’s murder?”
“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie said. He replaced his glasses, then addressed the jury, his mouth quavering faintly. “Strike the question from the record, and ladies and gentlemen, please strike the question from your mind. Ms. Rosato has no right to ask such a question without proof or evidence. Please remember that a question by an attorney is not testimony from a witness stand, and you may not consider it as such.”
The jurors looked grave, and a black man in the back row nodded in understanding. But Bennie could see their eyes trained on Reston, whose expression was dull with restrained fury. She had engaged the enemy. She didn’t know how far the conspiracy went or who was at the center of it, but she understood that she had provoked it, poked it like a tiger in a pen. But no cage could contain this beast, and sooner or later, it would strike back, defending its own survival.
If Bennie didn’t kill it first.
“I have no further questions,” she said. She turned her back on the witness, walked back to her chair, and sat down.
63
Surf caught up with Joe Citrone outside the Eleventh, just as he was pulling away. The asphalt of the parking lot behind the station house was a slick black and almost empty. Everybody on tour was out now or at lunch. Citrone had his new partner in the car, so Surf had to play it cool. He couldn’t rip Joe’s throat out, which is what he really wanted to do. “Joe, we need to talk,” he said casually.
“Can’t.” Citrone looked out the window of the patrol car, his hands resting on the steering wheel. The engine rumbled, jiggling beads of rainwater that warmed on the cruiser’s hood. “We just got a job.”
From the passenger seat, Citrone’s partner Ed Vega ducked his head, smiling under his mustache. “How’s it hangin’, pal?” Vega said.
“Good, good, Ed,” Surf said, drumming his fingertips on the wet roof of the car. “Gotta delay you for a minute, my friend. Your partner owes me some cash, and I’m seeing my girl tonight.”
“Gotcha, big guy,” Vega said, and Citrone frowned.
“Need it now?” Citrone squinted against the last of the rain that dripped through the window. The storm was dissolving to a fine, chill mist.
“Yeah, I need it now,” Surf insisted with a fake laugh, and opened the door. “Cough it up.”
“Relax, kid.” Citrone unfolded his long legs from the driver’s seat and got out of the car. Gravel crunched underneath his shoes, their patent polished to a high shine, and he slammed the car door closed. “Be right back, Ed.”
“This way.” Surf took Citrone’s arm and led him a distance from the car, out of Vega’s earshot. Vega could be undercover, for all Surf knew. That was how they got those cops in the Thirty-seventh, with a sting. Took down the whole district. Surf didn’t trust anybody anymore, least of all other cops.
“Get your hand offa my sleeve,” Citrone said when they were alone. He tugged his arm from Surf’s grasp. “I’ve had it up to here with you.”
“You’ve had it?” Lenihan’s temper flared. “You fucked this up so bad, none of us are going to get out of it.”
“You got a fresh mouth, Lenihan.”
Surf glanced at the patrol car and flashed a Boy Scout smile. “I told you this would happen. I told all of you, but you thought it was a big goddamn joke. We’re made, Citrone. Rosato was askin’ questions in court this morning. She’s on to us.”
“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know. You think you’re the only one with people in the courtroom?”
“I don’t need people. I was there myself.” Surf didn’t mention the bitch catching up with him outside the courthouse. He didn’t want Citrone to give him shit. “I heard it all.”
“Then you heard Rosato say you’d be testifying against Art.”
“What?” Surf looked at Citrone, shocked. “Me, flip on Art?”
“That’s not true, is it, kid? She’s bluffin’, isn’t she?”
“Of course she is.” Surf’s mouth felt dry. “I mean, of course it ain’t true. You kiddin’?”
“You shoulda stayed away.” Citrone shook his head as he reached into his back pocket, retrieved a slim calf billfold, and plucked out a new twenty from the neatly ordered bills. “Take this in case my partner’s watchin’. Then get lost.”
“Sure, I’ll get lost.” Surf snatched the bill from Citrone’s hand and pocketed it. “I’ll get lost when I get my cut of the half a mil.”
“It’s comin’.”
“Yeah, when is it comin’? I coulda taken my cut off the top. I coulda taken the whole fuckin’ pile, but I didn’t. I brought it to you like a good boy and you said to wait. Fuck, what am I waitin’ for?”
“The right time.”
“What’s that mean? Why can’t we divvy it up now? Then we can all get the fuck outta Dodge.”
“N
o.”
“Why not, Joe? Fuckin’ explain it to me, old man. You might have to say a whole sentence.”
Citrone’s eyes went flinty. “Every time there’s a meet, there could be a witness. Every time there’s a phone call, there could be a tap. Be patient ’til the situation is under control.”
“Like it was in control last week and the week before that? Della Porta was takin’ money from us, and you didn’t know about it. He was settin’ up that cunt.”
“All along, I knew.”
“So what, you knew? You knew” Surf’s temper gave way and he raised his voice. “You didn’t do dick about it, Citrone. That’s your MO. You know everything, but you don’t do anything.”
“Calm down,” Citrone said quietly, which only made Surf angrier.
“Fuck you. You act like you got muscle, but you got nothin’ goin’ on. Nothin’!”
Without another word, Citrone turned around and walked away, leaving Surf standing there in the rainy mist, alone with his fear and his rage.
64
Back at her office, Bennie’s associates yammered away while her tired eyes meandered over a print on the wall of the conference room: Max Schmitt in a Single Scull, Thomas Eakins’s portrait of the rowing lawyer who was the painter’s idol. She found herself looking at Eakins himself, unidentified in his own painting and sculling with effort in the background. Eakins had lived in Bennie’s Fairmount neighborhood, only a block from her, and his mother had had manic depression most of his life, too. Funny.
Bennie’s gaze wandered to the window. She wondered how Eakins felt when his mother died. Why didn’t he paint that? Or her? The night offered no answers, only darkness, and clouds obliterated the stars. Bennie had rowed on nights like this night, when the river flowed as black as the sky, carved into onyx ripples by the wind across its surface. On those nights she felt herself at the very center of a black sphere, suspended above and below a darkness without density.
“Bennie, do we have a blood expert yet?” DiNunzio asked, reading from notes on a yellow legal pad. Carrier sat to her left, swiveling side-to-side with nervous energy. To the right of the associates sat Lou, listening carefully, his chin grizzled gray and wrinkling into his hand.
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