“Yes.”
Bennie tossed the sweatshirt aside to signal to the jury how useless it was. She never was one for subtle cues. “I have no further questions,” she said, but Hilliard was already reaching for his crutches.
Dr. Marc Merwicke was the most respected of the city’s medical examiners, and Bennie wondered as Hilliard qualified him if his signature was the one on Lenihan’s false blood alcohol levels. But Dr. Merwicke’s appearance belied the suggestion that he could be capable of anything as exciting as a criminal conspiracy. Dressed in a gray suit and a solid tie of platinum color, Merwicke was about forty years old, with wet-down hair prematurely gray and a pallor that belonged in a morgue. Bennie felt a cold chill looking at him, thinking of her mother, then Lenihan. So much death; it was all around her. Her life was thick with it, as were her thoughts.
Hilliard asked a series of questions that took Merwicke through the autopsy he performed on Della Porta. Over Bennie’s objections, Merwicke launched into a complete and painstaking examination of grisly autopsy photos, wound site photos, and magnifications of exit and entrance wounds. They were projected on a large screen pulled down from the wall, like a macabre movie, and Bennie watched the librarian turn away and the back row of the jury shudder almost collectively.
Merwicke finally testified that the “shooter” — borrowing the term from police lingo — could have been a man or woman, but was a tall person. Bennie watched nervously as several of the jurors turned to size Connolly up. The jurors frowned further when Merwicke testified that hair and skin samples from the defendant matched several found on the sweatshirt, linking the blood-spattered exhibit to Connolly.
“I have one last question, Dr. Merwicke,” Hilliard asked, returning to the podium. “Does your office routinely perform tests for gunshot residue on the hands of murder suspects?”
“Yes.”
“Did you perform a residue test on Alice Connolly’s hands in this case?”
“No.”
“Why was that, Dr. Merwicke?”
“Lawyers,” the witness said flatly, and the jury laughed.
“Move to strike, Your Honor,” Bennie said, standing up. She didn’t understand the answer and she wasn’t about to lose the residue point. “A lawyer joke isn’t responsive, Your Honor.”
“Your Honor,” Hilliard said from the podium, “I was about to ask the witness to explain his answer.” Judge Guthrie nodded, and Hilliard asked the witness to elaborate.
Dr. Merwicke’s mouth tightened. “I meant that we can’t always perform the tests we need to because criminal defense lawyers obstruct our efforts.”
“Objection!” Bennie said, angry. “Move to strike that question and answer, Your Honor. There has been no evidence in this case that defense lawyers obstructed efforts to test Ms. Connolly’s hand and—”
“But they did,” Merwicke broke in, pointing a finger. “Alice Connolly’s first lawyers did. They filed a motion. They made such a stink, my office couldn’t get a sample. We had to take it to court, and by the time we could get a judge to rule, your client’s hands were clean.”
“Move to strike the testimony!” Bennie said, though it shocked her. There hadn’t been any motion about it in the Jemison file and she had been too busy to check the docket sheets herself. “Your Honor, the witness may not testify as to any decisions or filings by previous defense counsel in this matter. Ms. Connolly has a right to assert all protections due her under the Constitution.”
“Your Honor,” Hilliard argued, “defense counsel opened the door, with Dr. Pettis. The Commonwealth is entitled to elicit why a gun residue test wasn’t performed on the defendant’s hands, now that defense counsel made it an issue in her examination.”
“Quite right, the objection is overruled,” Judge Guthrie said. “I’ll not strike the testimony.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hilliard said. “Permit me a minute while I determine if I have any further questions.”
Bennie sank into her seat, her eyes on the jury. They had heard the whole exchange and it was devastating to the defense. She had screwed up the residue point. What had Jemison, Crabbe done? Opposed the residue test? Why? Because it would prove that Connolly hadn’t fired the gun? And why hadn’t their briefs or motion been in the file?
“I have no further questions, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, his tone ringing with confidence as he gathered his papers and took his seat.
Bennie rose, hiding her unease. She had to set it right, if possible. “Dr. Merwicke, I have only a few questions for you. You testified that no residue test was performed in this case, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“That test could have just as easily have shown that Alice Connolly did not fire the gun that killed Detective Della Porta, couldn’t it?”
“Well … Yes.”
“In fact, isn’t it true that if the residue test had been performed, and no residue was found on Alice Connolly’s hands, that would be proof positive that she was not the murderer of Detective Della Porta?”
“Then why would she oppose the test?” Merwicke’s eyes flashed with anger, and Bennie bore down.
“It’s a yes or no question, Dr. Merwicke. If no residue was found on Alice Connolly’s hands, it would prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that she had not fired that gun. Yes or no?”
“Yes. But then why—”
“Dr. Merwicke, do you know for a fact that Alice Connolly opposed it or do you know only that her previous lawyers opposed it?”
“I assume she would know—”
“You assume wrong,” Bennie spat back, and Hilliard half rose.
“Move to strike, Your Honor. Defense counsel is testifying.”
Judge Guthrie nodded quickly. “Sustained. Please strike that comment, Ms. Reporter.”
“No further questions,” Bennie said. She’d said it for the jury anyway. She could only hope it would mitigate the damage she’d just done. She sat down and caught Connolly’s expression. She looked as stricken as Bennie felt, and it wasn’t contrived. Connolly’s features, so like Bennie’s without makeup, were limned with the stark, cold fear of a woman who had glimpsed her own execution. It was as if Bennie were looking at her own death mask.
And she couldn’t turn away.
73
The defense team, including Lou, huddled back at the office over a dinner of take-out ribs at a walnut conference table dotted with crumpled paper towels. A paper clip tray had been converted to a water bowl and droplets of saturated fat floated on the water like oil in a gutter. “How’d we do today, Coach?” Judy asked, licking her fingers.
Bennie wiped her mouth with a napkin. “We took a big hit, thanks to me.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Mary said. Her eyes were tired from a predinner session at her computer, running down her assignment about Dorsey Hilliard. So far she’d had no luck. Hilliard had no unusual relation to Judge Guthrie, at least on reported cases online. He’d been before him in six cases; won three and lost three. “We just have to keep at it,” Mary said, more to herself than Bennie.
“Cheer up, Rosato.” Lou rolled his chair back and crossed his damp loafers. “At least we got a lead on Lenihan. Tomorrow I find Joe Citrone.”
Bennie shook her head. “Lou, we discussed this already. You’re not seeing Citrone. It’s too dangerous.”
“Oh, I forgot.” Lou saluted. “You order, and I obey.”
“Don’t do it, Lou.”
“I won’t, Ben.”
Bennie suppressed a smile. “I mean it. Go back to the neighbors, finish canvassing the neighbors. Find me one that saw a tall cop go into that apartment.”
“Whatever you say, lady, but Joe Citrone is tall.”
“Then show ’em pictures of Citrone. Find me a defense witness. It would make a nice change.”
“First thing in the morning, dear.”
“Lou, I mean it. That’s an order.”
Lou took another slug of Rolling Rock from a green bottle. His was the only
beer on the table with all the diet Coke cans. Lou loved beer, always had. It was his one vice, going back to when he was thirteen and his father gave him his first one. Ortleib’s, in the brown bottle, which they didn’t make any more. Ortleib’s was his favorite, classier than Schlitz, a real Philly brand. And Frank’s soda, too, that was from Philly. “If it’s Frank’s, thanks,” Lou said aloud, faintly buzzed, and Bennie laughed.
“Snap out of it, Lou.”
“I can’t. I saw a girl with a tattoo today.” Lou took another slug. “I’ve had all I can stands and I can’t stands no more.”
Judy laughed. “That’s Popeye, isn’t it? Popeye the Sailor Man. That’s what Popeye always says before he eats the spinach.”
“Good girl!” Lou raised his bottle in silent tribute. To Popeye. To Ortleib’s. To old-fashioned bakeries and his well-loved ex-wife.
Bennie smiled. “I remember Popeye.” Black-and-white cartoons flickered through her brain like a dime-store flip book. “He squeezes the spinach can and it pops open, right?”
Judy laughed again. “The spinach flies into the air with a really loud squirt, and Popeye catches it in his mouth. Then you see it go down his throat and his arms turn into anvils. Or they, like, inflate.”
Lou imitated her. “Right, they, like, inflate.”
“Shut up, you,” Judy said, and threw a straw at Lou, who ducked.
“Plus, girls shouldn’t have tattoos,” Lou shouted. “You hear me? No tattoos for girls! Only for sailor men!”
Mary clapped, suddenly lighthearted. Being a lawyer wasn’t so bad, at least one night a year. “Sailor men? Sailor men?”
“What’sa matter with sailor men?” Lou asked, and they all laughed, suddenly giddy.
Bennie grinned, looking around the conference table, watching them all relax for the first time in days. It felt good to her, too, to laugh and forget about postmortem reports and spattered blood and even about her mother. About Lenihan and Della Porta and Grady. Bennie had called him twice but he wasn’t at home and she guessed he was working late. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen each other, talked, or made love.
“Sing it!” Lou was shouting, and the associates began warbling the Popeye theme song, complete with fighting to the finish and eating spinach. Singing filled the conference room, and Bennie didn’t hush any of them. Let them get it out of their system. Then, like all sailor men, they’d have to take on the Blutos of the world.
Toot toot!
74
The next morning, Alice dressed for court in the small holding room. She hadn’t slept at all last night. Rosato wouldn’t return any of her calls and she had no contact with Bullock or the outside. She couldn’t tell which way the trial would go, but yesterday went terrible. Rosato should put her up on the stand. Alice could sell the story. She could sell anything.
She slipped into a gray skirt and yanked on a silk blouse. It would be a big day in court, the last day of the prosecution’s case. Alice had saved the gray suit for today on a hunch that Rosato would be wearing hers. In the photos Alice had seen, Rosato wore the gray suit for her most important appearances, with matching gray shoes. Connolly slipped her feet into an identical pair and clicked her heels together three times, like Dorothy in the Emerald City. “Get me out of this, motherfucker,” she said aloud.
She started brushing her hair. Rosato’s hair would be freshly washed, so Alice had made sure her own hair was clean and hung limp like Rosato’s. If Alice did her job right, she and Rosato would look exactly identical today. The guard knocked on the door. “Wait a goddamn minute,” Alice called out.
A few minutes later, she was walking handcuffed behind the guard, led through one locked door, then another, and through the narrow hallway to the courtroom. “Like a lamb to the slaughter, huh?” Alice said, but the guard shook his head.
“Trust in the Lord, Miss Connolly.”
Alice snorted. “Why? Will he work on contingency?”
The guard opened the door to the courtroom, and the first thing Alice saw was Rosato, sitting at defense table. And she was wearing her best gray suit.
Bennie ignored Connolly’s gray suit and scrutinized the Commonwealth witness as the court session got under way. Ray Munoz was short, about fifty years old, and muscular, a bricklayer before a back disability ended his working years. His brown eyes were set deep above heavy cheekbones and his demeanor was garrulous and unpleasant, as if the world hadn’t heard enough about his disintegrated disk. Hilliard brought the witness to the particulars. “Mr. Munoz,” he asked, from the podium, “please show the jury where your house is located on Trose Street. Use the pointer, if you would.”
“I’m right here, at 3016,” Munoz said, pointing at the exhibit of Trose Street. His black knit shirt matched his hair, which sprung coarse as a scrub brush from his scalp. “Lived in that house for three years. Since I came from Texas.”
“Mr. Munoz, are you indicating that you live five houses west of number 3006, on the same side of the street that the murder of Detective Della Porta took place?”
“Yeah, right.” Munoz pointed to the sidewalk in front of his rowhouse. “Now, it was right here that I saw the lady run by. I could see right out the window.”
“I didn’t ask you that question yet, Mr. Munoz,” Hilliard said, his tone reproachful, and Munoz frowned.
“Get to the point. I don’t get paid by the hour anymore, like you lawyers.” The jury laughed until Hilliard began coughing loudly.
“Excuse me,” Hilliard said. “Mr. Munoz, where were you before you looked out of your window?”
“I was readin’ in my living room.” Munoz set the pointer down. “I like to read the form after dinner.”
“The form, Mr. Munoz?”
“The racin’ form, son.”
The jurors laughed again, and Munoz sat taller in his chair, encouraged, like a bad boy acting out in class. Bennie would have laughed with them, but Hilliard stayed with his stern principal role. “Mr. Munoz, where were you while you were reading the racing form?”
“In my BarcaLounger, I was sittin’.”
“And where is your BarcaLounger, Mr. Munoz?”
“In front of the TV. Where else?”
Hilliard stiffened. “Where is your chair in relation to the living room window?”
“I got the BarcaLounger right next to the window. The window faces on the street. I sit by the window, for the light. Also the breeze. I don’t have air-condition.”
“So you were sitting in a chair by the window on the night in question. Was the window open?”
“That’s the only way I know to get the breeze.” The jury laughed, and Munoz grinned, fully playing to them now. “I ain’t kiddin’. You can sweat like a pig in this town. Worse than south Texas and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”
“Please, Mr. Munoz. Was there a screen in the window? And when you answer, please address me and answer the question by saying yes or no.”
“I was answerin’ yes or no.”
“No you weren’t, Mr. Munoz. Please say either yes or no, understood?”
Munoz cocked an eyebrow.
“The question is, was there a screen in the window?”
“’Course there was a screen in the window. That’s how I heard the noise. Sounded like a firecracker. I thought it was some kids, outside. You know, kids gettin’ ready for Fourth of July.” He glanced again at the jury and an older woman in the front row nodded in agreement. “You know, kids,” Munoz said again.
Hilliard looked up at the judge. “Your Honor, could you please instruct the witness to answer the question in the manner indicated? It would make the record much clearer.”
Judge Guthrie nodded curtly and turned to the witness. “Mr. Munoz, if you don’t mind, for the record.”
“If you say so, Judge,” Munoz said, glowering at Hilliard so fiercely that Bennie realized the prosecutor had made his first, and probably only, mistake of the trial. He had just turned a direct examination into a power str
uggle. The jury looked uncomfortable in their seats, a captive audience to the exchange.
“Mr. Munoz, do you know what time it was when you heard the noise you mentioned? As I said, please face me and answer yes or no.”
Munoz stared at the prosecutor. “No.”
“You didn’t look at your watch?”
“No. How’m I doin’, counselor?”
“Fine, Mr. Munoz,” Hilliard said, consulting his notes. “Now. There came a time when you looked out the window. Mr. Munoz, do you know how long after you heard the shot that you looked out the window?”
“I’m suppose to answer yes or no?”
“Yes. Answer yes or no, please.”
“Yes.”
“How long was it between the time you heard the noise and the time you looked out the window?”
“Yes or no?”
Hilliard inhaled audibly. “Obviously not.”
“Okay, you gotta tell me how you want my answer, or I don’t know. I’m not as brilliant as you. For the record.” Munoz smiled, and so did two of the jurors, but Hilliard gripped the podium and stood straighter.
“Mr. Munoz, how long was it between the time you heard the firecracker noise and the time you looked out the window?”
“A little while.”
“Mr. Munoz, can you describe the time any better than ‘a little while’?”
“You want me to answer yes or no?”
“Yes, please!”
“No.”
The jury stifled smiles, and Hilliard wiped a hand over his lumpy scalp. If he had hair, he’d be pulling it out. “Mr. Munoz, tell this jury exactly what you saw when you looked out your window.”
“I tol’ you, I saw a lady runnin’ by. I saw her face and her hair, goin’ right by my window.”
“So you got a good look at her?”
“Objection,” Bennie said, half rising. “The prosecutor is testifying, Your Honor. The witness didn’t say he got a good look. In fact, the witness hasn’t even said who ‘her’ is.”
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