David Ellis - Jury of One

“You sell drugs,” she said to him. “You don’t walk around with a roll like that working part-time at McHenry Stern.” It was always best to say it as fact. If she had a dime for every denial she’d heard from a young client on issues of drugs and weapons, she could retire from the nonprofit legal profession.

“Your client was carrying drugs and a weapon in a gym bag,” said the detective. “Officer Raymond Miroballi, a guy I’ve met, by the way”-he met her eyes when he said this; a cop shooting was personal to any detective, even more so if he was an acquaintance-“Officer Miroballi approached your client and your boy ran. Eventually he’s cornered in an alley and your guy shoots the officer in the face. We have the officer’s blood on your client’s clothes and hair.”

No. Not this fast. Blood was found, maybe, but not blood that could be identified as belonging to the slain officer or anyone else, for that matter. Not in less than a day. This guy was jobbing her.

“We have another cop who’ll positively I.D. your client. And we’re scooping witnesses right now from the area. Eyes and blood, Counselor. He’s done. Finito. So tell your client that if he helps us, maybe he can avoid the gas chamber.”

She took all of this without comment. There was no need for debate, and the police wouldn’t turn over evidence to her this quickly anyway, so she saw no need for a fight. In any event, Shelly knew that there was probably a strong case against Alex Baniewicz.

“You make it sound so bad.” Alex grimaced but did not contest the accuracy of her statement. He was different, Shelly thought, more comfortable with himself, more willing to open himself to Shelly than most teenage clients she had. “I mean, it’s not like you think.”

They were at a celebratory dinner-Alex’s idea-after Shelly had represented him at his disciplinary hearing. As it turned out, Shelly felt that her presence had hardly been necessary; the school administrators were quite fond of Alex and simply wanted to give him a brief, in-school suspension for his hallway fight.

“What’s it like, then?” she asked. “How is your method of drug dealing different from everyone else’s?”

Shelly expected hemming and hawing, rationales and excuses, reluctantly imparted nuggets of information. But Alex, without hesitation, laid out his story for her. There were a couple of guys at work, he said-professionals, investment bankers at McHenry Stern, where Alex worked as a runner, a mailboy. “Smart, educated, rich guys,” he said. “More money in a week than I’ve ever seen.” They partied, these gentlemen, did some cocaine on the weekends as recreation. “Five, six grams a week, tops,” Alex promised. “It’s side money for me. That’s it. It’s not like I work the streets or anything. I don’t sell it to junkies or children or anything. I’m, like, a middleman.”

“That’s an awful risk,” Shelly said, “for a little side money. What do you need that money for?”

“For Angela,” he answered easily.

“Angela’s your girlfriend?”

“Angela’s my daughter.”

The door to the room was solid wood, inscribed with the block letter C. Detective Montes pushed it open and allowed Shelly in. The detective walked over to a wire cage inside the room, where Alex Baniewicz sat on a steel bench bolted to the floor. The bench was centered so that one couldn’t use the wall as a backrest. There was little opportunity for comfort, which, apparently, was the point.

When Alex stood, she got her first full look at him and drew back. It was what she expected but it wasn’t, in some way; maybe there was no way to prepare oneself. His face, typically cast in an amused grin, was now clouded in grief and pain. Everything, in fact, was off-the coloring of his face, the life in his eyes, the line of his mouth, his posture. He was pale. His hair was oily and disheveled. He hadn’t shaved, probably hadn’t bathed since his arrest. He looked entirely out of place.

Little outward signs of a physical struggle. His cheek was bruised, his hands were scraped, but that wasn’t bad for someone accused of shooting a cop. Shelly thought that she’d like to see his ribs. Cops greatly preferred the midsection. Less visible and easier to explain away. That was one of the advantages of a one-piece jumpsuit like the one Alex wore-it would be difficult to take stock of bruises to the body. She could imagine their reaction when they came upon Alex, the boy they were sure had killed one of their own. She’d heard each officer was entitled to one “free one” if a suspect fled or resisted, a pop to the side of the head or the stomach; her mind raced at what might be fair game for a suspect who shot a cop.

“If we could get some privacy,” said Shelly to Detective Montes.

The detective reached for Alex and put him in a chair, locked his handcuffs down onto a small metal ring bolted to the steel table. “I’m ten feet from this door,” he cautioned. She wasn’t sure if the point was to warn Alex or assure Shelly.

She took the other chair, across from Alex. She fought back emotion, looking at a shadow of the boy she’d grown to like so much. A boy with so much potential, a young father with plans for college, a job-so much hope, suddenly looking at no future at all.

He was stopping. He’d promised.

“Alex,” she said softly. “You didn’t talk to them, did you?”

He shook his head no, without looking at her. That was something at least, that Alex had kept his mouth shut. Most of the kids Shelly represented were accustomed to talking their way out of jams and took every opportunity to explain their situation to the police, almost always worsening their position in the process. She recalled Simien Carlyle, who at age fifteen was the driver for three older boys who held up a convenience store and shot one of the clerks in the process. Simien explained to the police-truthfully, in Shelly’s opinion-that he didn’t know his co-conspirators had a gun, much less that they planned to use it. By the time Shelly reached the boy, it was too late to explain to him that, by virtue of the law of accountability, Simien’s admission to being the driver was the same thing as admitting he’d pulled the trigger.

“Not a word?” Shelly confirmed. “There was never a tape recorder or video camera? You never talked even to someone in another cell or anything?”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Alex, looking at her. “I’ve seen enough television.” He smiled briefly, and Shelly’s heart ached. This boy did not belong here. Not this one.

Shelly didn’t know where to start. Her throat was full. She swallowed hard and thought about what she could say. Her options ranged from asking him how he was holding up to offering him a mint. Nothing seemed to make sense.

“I’ll help you any way I can,” she said quietly.

Alex remained still, his eyes downcast. When he spoke, his voice was drained of the typical resonance, the enthusiastic inflection. It was the shaky, weakened, deflated voice of a boy who had been beyond terror and back. “Talk to Ronnie,” he said. “And Mary Ellen. Can you do that? Tell them I’m-basically okay. Ronnie must be flipping out.”

She had so many questions. He was walking the streets with drugs? A weapon? He shot a police officer?

“Do you want to tell me?” she asked.

“Not now.” That was not a surprising answer. Not now had become Alex’s slogan of late, at least with Shelly. She didn’t know what had happened. They had been friends. He had confided in her. He was going to quit. He was going to find a way to support his daughter and attend college at the same time. And then-nothing. He shut her out. Didn’t return phone calls. Heartfelt, probing conversations replaced with distant small talk. What had happened over the last few months? Could she have helped him? Could she have prevented this?