Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

Judy stiffened at the rebuke, and Mary looked down at her salad.

Bennie regretted her sharpness and tried to explain. “The cops are keeping an eye on us, to see how close we’re getting. If Lenihan heard the cross of McShea, he’ll think we’re a lot closer than we are. That’s good. I’d like the rats to run scared and see what they do. It’ll give me more leads to follow. But I want to do it, not you. Or DiNunzio.”

Judy sat down, mollified. “You think Lenihan took the money?”

“Probably. I don’t know why he’s not halfway around the world by now.”

“The bonehead factor?” Judy offered, and Mary shrugged.

“Maybe he just can’t imagine leaving Philadelphia.”

Bennie shook her head. “Or maybe there’s more where that came from. In any event, I’ll call Lou and turn Lenihan over to him. Let’s us handle the lawyering and Lou handle the investigation, okay?”

“Fair enough,” Judy said, unwrapping her sandwich. A roast beef special, with extra Russian spilling out the sides. “Got it. Kill the body, the head will die.”

“What?” Bennie asked.

“It’s a boxing expression. Mr. Gaines, my coach, taught it to me. It means, you don’t have to go for the head, for the knockout. If you keep whaling away at the body, you’ll win the fight. Same thing here. If we keep pounding on the bottom of this conspiracy, the top will come tumbling down.”

“You’re taking boxing lessons?”

“For the case.”

Bennie’s face fell. “Well, quit. Leave the punching to me, child. It’s not a game, and it’s not lessons.” She stood up. “I have to go. We’re on in ten minutes, and I have a date with the devil.”

“Hilliard?” Judy asked, but Mary knew who she meant.

Bennie met Connolly as she sat handcuffed in her royal-blue suit on her side of the courthouse interview room. It was cleaner and more modern than the interview room at the prison, but a variation on the same theme: two white plastic chairs on either side of a white counter, and a shield of bulletproof glass that separated client from lawyer.

“I have one question for you,” Bennie said, and Connolly scowled. Her skin looked pallid without makeup, or maybe because Bennie wasn’t used to the new blond color that seemed to wash out her features, close-up. In any event, the strain of the morning was plain on Connolly’s face.

“I don’t give a shit about your question. I’ve been trying to meet with you all lunch,” she spat out. “Didn’t you get my note? I gave it to the fucking deputy.”

“I got your note.” Bennie folded her arms and stood beside the empty chair on her side of the glass. “You know a cop named Lenihan? A blond guy, young.”

“No. I wanted to talk to you about-”

“Lenihan wasn’t in your drug business?”

“If he was, I don’t know it, but-”

“You have no idea what cops were in on the drug business?”

“I told you already, no.”

“Bullshit.”

“The cops took care of the supply, with Anthony. He didn’t tell me, I didn’t want to know.”

“Bullshit.”

“I never heard of Lenihan. I sold the shit, I didn’t care where it came from. There was no reason for me to know, so I didn’t want to know.” Connolly edged forward, a pitchfork of wrinkles appearing above the bridge of her nose. She looked just like Bennie when Bennie was antagonized in the extreme. “What, are you cross-examining me? I’m trying to talk to you. What the fuck did you think you were doing in that opening argument?”

“Saving your worthless life,” Bennie said. Then she turned on her heel and walked out of the interview room.

On the witness stand, Officer Arthur Reston made a more conservative picture than his partner had. He was trim through the waist and collected in his pressed uniform. His neat, dark mustache had been newly trimmed under a straight nose, and his brown eyes were slightly lifeless, which telegraphed as professional from the stand. “No, I did not hear the testimony given by my partner, Sean McShea,” Reston answered.

Hilliard nodded. “And that was because you were sequestered, is that correct, Officer Reston?”

“Yes, sir.” The witness sat tall in front of the microphone and held his prominent chin high, as if the collar of his uniform were a bit too tight. “I waited outside in the hall until I was called to testify.”

“Would you consider yourself a diligent patrol officer, Officer Reston?” Hilliard asked.

Bennie almost gagged but didn’t object. Self-serving questions were obvious to jurors, and she knew where this was going anyway.

“I take my job very seriously, if that’s what you mean,” Reston said.

“You have served for how many years?”

“Fifteen.”

“Have you received any decorations because of your performance as a police officer?”

“Yes. I’ve received several commendations for certain arrests and for bravery. I was Police Officer of the Year last year. I’ve been lucky.”

“Permit me to take you back, if I may, deeper into your career history.”

Bennie half rose. “Objection, Your Honor, as to relevancy.”

Judge Guthrie nodded. “I’ll overrule it for now, but let’s not travel too far afield, Mr. Hilliard.”

“Certainly, Your Honor.” Hilliard squared his shoulders. He seemed energized since lunchtime, not from food, but adrenaline. Bennie had thrown down the glove with her question about drugs and she could almost see Hilliard’s juices flowing.

“Officer Reston,” Hilliard said, “isn’t it true that your former partner was killed in a shoot-out in the line of duty, in which you were also grievously injured?”

“Yes, sir.”

One of the jurors coughed, several looked moved, and even Bennie felt a twinge at the tragedy of an officer killed in the line of duty. She had nothing against honest police, only crooked ones, and the thought of death sobered her. She knew what death looked like, had felt its chilly touch in the hand of her mother. She realized now that she had seen death coming in her mother’s eyes that afternoon at the hospital, though Bennie didn’t want to acknowledge it then, as if greeting death were to invite it.

Hilliard continued, “You were shot in the cheek and spent four months in the hospital and another five in rehabilitation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Officer Reston, you have been partners with Officer McShea for seven of your fifteen years on the force, have you not?”

“I have.”

“And you were on duty with him on the evening in question, May nineteenth, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Hilliard checked his notes at the podium. “Please tell the jury why you were in the vicinity of Anthony Della Porta’s apartment, at Tenth and Trose Street.”

“We stopped down there for dinner, at Pat’s Steaks.”

“You left your district to do this, is that correct?”

“Only this one time, and because we could get cover.”

“So the district is never left unprotected, isn’t that correct?”

Bennie half rose. “Objection, Your Honor. The prosecution is mischaracterizing prior testimony.”

“Overruled, Ms. Rosato.” Judge Guthrie nodded in the direction of the jurors. “The jury can hear for itself.”

“It’s a minor point, Your Honor, and I’ll move on,” Hilliard said, waving in an offhand manner. “Officer Reston, you knew Detective Della Porta, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Were you friends?”

“Yes. We both like boxing. Liked. Went to the Blue together, once.”

“What is the Blue, Officer Reston?”

“The Blue Horizon, up Broad Street. Anthony, Detective Della Porta, used to get me tickets, ringside.”

“Officer Reston, what kind of man was Detective Della Porta?”