Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

Alice waited until she was sure they were dead, then left the room and slipped back into her cell with Dexter’s help. She undressed in the dark to the sound of her roommate’s bogus snoring and eased silently into the saggy bed. Later she’d deal with Shetrell, pay her a little visit. It was too risky to do right now, and Alice felt tired. She was fake-sleeping by the time the sirens went off much later, signaling that they’d found the bodies.

Surf was hiding by the entrance to Della Porta’s rowhouse when Rosato ran out like a bat out of hell, the dog bounding beside her to the Ford. Shit! She hadn’t turned out the light upstairs so he didn’t know she was coming. He’d missed his chance to get her in the entrance hall. Fuck! Rosato was running so fast he didn’t run after her. She would’ve made him easy, maybe screamed.

Surf stepped behind the tree as the Ford roared out of the space. Then he darted to the TransAm, climbed in, and twisted on the ignition. He stopped abruptly. Hold on a minute. What was going on? Rosato hadn’t been in a hurry to get to Della Porta’s but she was in a real big hurry to leave. Why?

Surf peered over the rumbling hood of the car at Della Porta’s apartment. Rosato had left the light on. What was she doing up there anyway? Why did she run out?

Surf switched off the ignition and got out of the TransAm.

Bennie pulled up, confused by the sight. It was the dead of night, but the prison was alive with activity. Light blasted through its slitted windows into the night and alarms screamed from the watchtowers. Vehicles of all sorts clogged the entrance: black cruisers from the Department of Corrections, white squad cars from the city cops, news vans with tall poles for microwave transmission, and three fire rescue trucks. What had happened? An escape? A fire? Bennie steered into the parking lot with an excited Bear running back and forth on the backseat.

A Philadelphia cop came toward her. “Back it out!” he shouted over the din, waving her off with a black Maglite.

Bennie stuck her head out the window. “My client’s in there. I have to see my client. Lawyers on trial have twenty-four-hour access.”

“Not tonight, lady.”

“What’s going on? Has there been a fire?” Fright gripped her stomach. As furious as she was at Connolly, she didn’t want anything to happen to her.

“I said, back it out, lady!” the cop shouted, but Bennie pulled beside the entrance, yanked up the emergency brake, and leapt from the car. “Hey, wait!” the cop bellowed after her, but she ran toward the hubbub. Her breath came in ragged bursts and she realized she was afraid. She didn’t know why, or how, but she was afraid. There could have been a fire. The rescue trucks. Or a fight, a riot. She raced toward the crowd of officials and reporters, then shoved her way to the entrance.

“Whoa, there,” said a tall prison guard, blocking the front door with another guard in a black shirt. “Nobody’s going in here tonight.”

“But my client, my twin, is in there,” Bennie heard herself say.

“Sorry. We have orders not to let anyone into the facility. Even family.”

“What? Why? At least give me some information. What’s going on? Is it a fire, a riot?”

“A problem,” the guard said, glancing at the other.

“What kind of problem? Come on, tell me. Jesus, it’s all over the news, right?” Bennie gestured at the news vans, and the guard softened reluctantly.

“Knife fight. Two women inmates killed.”

“No!” Bennie cried. “Who? Do you have names?”

“Next of kin ain’t been notified, right, Pete?” He looked at the other guard, who shook his head. “Can’t tell you nothin’ ’til then. It’s procedure.”

“Just tell me, was Alice Connolly killed?”

“Connolly?” The guard shook his head. “That’s not one of the names. You’re okay.”

Still the news struck Bennie like a deadweight. She couldn’t understand the dull pain at the core of her chest. She should have been relieved, but she wasn’t. A knife fight. Something felt very wrong. “Who was killed? Tell me.”

“That’s all we can tell you. You want to see your twin, call in the morning and arrange it with the warden. They’ll be in lockdown all night. Open for business as usual tomorrow morning.”

Bennie turned away without a word. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t see. Television klieg lights were everywhere. Sirens blared. Reporters yakked into microphones. Bennie’s gut torqued with emotion. It was hard to breathe. She found her way to the fringe of the crowd. She gulped cool air and regained her footing.

A double murder, the night before Connolly’s trial. The same night after she and Connolly had talked. Holy God. Bennie squinted up at the brick of the maximum security institution. Red, white, and blue lights flashed on its façade like a carnival. THE OPPORTUNITY TO CHANGE glinted in the kaleidoscope of colors, and she remembered the day she met Connolly.

And then Bennie knew. Deep within, the knowledge grew without notice or warning and spread beyond logic and rationality. Her bones told her, rattling with the news, then Bennie’s very heart confirmed it. Connolly had killed tonight. Bennie knew it, sure as she lived and breathed. Her mind reeled and she found herself caught behind a TV crew. White lights flashed on, and she slipped from the glare as she heard a cameraman say, “Okay, Jim, on in five, four, three, two, one.”

“Jim Carson reporting, this just in,” said an anchorman’s voice. “The dead in tonight’s fatal stabbing have been identified as Valencia Mendoza and Leonia Page. Prison officials are investigating how…”

Valencia Mendoza. Valencia. Bennie didn’t need the report to confirm what she already knew. Connolly had killed Valencia. Bennie had raised Valencia’s name and only hours later Valencia was killed.

Bennie spun on her heels, TV lights blinding her and sirens screaming through her brain. She stomed back through the crowd, keeping her head low to avoid being recognized, and charged to the main entrance, where the same two guards stood in front of the main door, regarding her wearily.

“I have to see Alice Connolly,” Bennie said, finding her voice.

“Told you, lady. They’re in lockdown.”

“She’s my client and she’s on trial on Monday. She has a right to consult with her attorney, a constitutional right.” Bennie wasn’t certain of the legalities but she wasn’t about to be stopped. “You won’t let me in, I want to see the warden now.”

“He’s busy.”

“You’re refusing to let a criminal defendant consult with her attorney? You want to be responsible for that?” Bennie’s fierce gaze flicked from one guard’s black name-plate to the other’s. “Officer Donaldson and Officer Machello. Those names will look good in the caption. You guys ever been sued for infringing the civil liberties of inmates? Depositions, trial, it’s a lot of fun. Costs a fortune, too, but you gentlemen probably have trust funds.”

“We got orders,” the guard said flatly. “It’s not our decision.”

“Then why are you deciding?” Bennie asked, and the guards exchanged looks.

Bennie had never met with Connolly in the secured “no-contact room,” but the warden had ordered it given the crisis. The room was smaller than the standard interview rooms, telescoped down to cell size, and a dense bulletproof window divided prisoner from lawyer, for the lawyer’s protection. Bennie gave the scratched plastic a sharp rap with her knuckles. Tonight it would protect the inmate from her lawyer.

The room smelled rank and its white cinderblock walls were scuffed. A metal grate with chipped white paint ran under the bulletproof panel, to allow voices to go through but not contraband or weapons. Bennie stood on her side of the room, waiting for Connolly to be brought up. She’d waited for over an hour already, but the time hadn’t cooled her off. Instead she grew only more horrified. Connolly was a killer, and on Monday Bennie would be defending her on a murder charge. The thought turned her stomach. She paced the tiny room behind the plastic chair bolted to the floor on her side of the window. She was trapped in this case, against everybody’s better judgment. Someday she hoped for better judgment of her own.