Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

“How’d it go?” Mary asked as they left chambers and entered the corridor. The floor was of black-and-white marble and the white vaulted ceiling towered over their heads. The press was momentarily at bay, obeying orders not to come within fifty feet of the judge’s chambers.

“What are you doing here?” Bennie looked at Mary, whose brown suit hung on her form, as if she’d lost weight. “Why aren’t you back at the office, withdrawing from this case?”

“I want to stay on,” Mary answered. She had thought about it all night. “I have to. You need me.”

Bennie smiled. “I have tried cases without you.”

“I’m not a quitter.” Mary hustled to keep pace down the corridor. “I thought about this and I’ve made a decision. It’s firm. If I’m a lawyer, I’m going to lawyer.”

Bennie frowned. “ If you’re a lawyer? You are a lawyer, and a far better one than you know.”

“Thank you.” Mary felt blood rush to her face. She’d never heard Bennie praise anyone.

“But I still want you off this case.”

“No. I’m going to court with you.”

“Take a compromise, then. It’s a research mission on this case, purely factual. Do it from your desk, and out of trouble.”

“Sure, what?”

“Find out if our friend Dorsey Hilliard has any connection to Judge Guthrie or Henry Burden, or both.”

“Both Burden and Hilliard were in the D.A.’s office, obviously.”

Bennie shook her head grimly as she bustled forward. “More specific than that. See if they worked the same case, like that. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I want you to find it.”

Mary smiled crookedly. “Gotcha,” she said, and Judy glanced at her friend.

“What are you going to do about your parents, Mare?”

“It’s time I grew up,” Mary said, and for a second, she almost believed it.

The next witness for the prosecution, Jane Lambertsen, perched on the stand, well dressed in a flowered spring dress, chic gold jewelry, and a sweater the color of Granny Smith apples. Her raven hair had been gathered back into a thick ponytail, emphasizing her youth and freshness. Lambertsen contrasted in every way with the cops who had testified the day before, and Bennie figured that Hilliard had reshuffled his batting order after Lenihan’s death.

The courtroom was quiet, the court personnel occupying themselves with official duties, and the jury presumptively ignorant of the events swirling outside the courthouse walls. If they thought Bennie looked a little puffy around the face, they’d ascribe it to a late night at the office. Only Bennie knew open war had been declared, as she and the entire courtroom sat fully focused on the next witness for the Commonwealth.

“Yes, I did hear them arguing that night,” Mrs. Lambertsen testified.

Hilliard straightened at the podium. “That is, you’re testifying that you heard Alice Connolly and Anthony Della Porta arguing before his murder on the night in question?”

“Objection,” Bennie snapped. “The prosecutor is testifying again.”

Judge Guthrie fiddled with a bow tie that was already straight. He seemed completely preoccupied to Bennie since their meeting in chambers. Perhaps the knowledge that his cohorts weren’t fellow Quakers had sobered him. “I’ll allow it,” the judge ruled. “You may answer, Mrs. Lambertsen.”

“That’s right,” the witness said. “I heard arguing that night, a little before eight o’clock. I was trying to put the baby down. To bed, you know. Her bedtime was at seven forty-five then, and I was watching the clock.”

A woman juror in the front row nodded, and Lambertsen caught her eye and smiled back. Bennie thumbed through her papers for her notes; her head hurt too much to remember the jury sheets. The juror was Libby DuMont, age thirty-two, homemaker, mother of three.

“Mrs. Lambertsen,” Hilliard said, “you’ve already testified that you lived in the rowhouse next door to Detective Della Porta and the defendant. Does that mean you shared a common wall?”

“Yes, and it’s a thin wall, too. You can hear sounds, kind of muffled. I used to worry all the time that they’d hear the baby crying. I did hear them argue, a lot.”

“How often would you say the defendant and Detective Della Porta argued, Mrs. Lambertsen?”

“Well, she moved in in September, I think. I would say the arguing started in October.”

Beside Bennie, Connolly shifted unhappily in her seat. She was wearing the same blue suit as yesterday, which matched Bennie’s, and looked like a lawyer with her cultured pearls. Bennie hadn’t spoken to Connolly since Lenihan’s attack and had to assume she didn’t know about it. As much as she loathed Connolly, Bennie had to admit that Connolly had been telling the truth about the police conspiracy. It made Bennie credit Connolly’s story, even if, paradoxically, she couldn’t abide sitting with her.

“Did their fighting have a pattern you could discern?” Hilliard asked, and Bennie didn’t object. Judge Guthrie would permit Hilliard to lead, on direct.

“It seemed like they fought at night, mostly,” Lambertsen answered.

“Could you make out anything they said during these fights?”

“Objection, hearsay,” Bennie said, half rising. Her side hurt but she ignored it. “The question is vague, irrelevant, and assumes facts not in evidence. There’s been no proof that these voices belonged to the defendant or to Mr. Della Porta.”

“You may want to rephrase that, Mr. Prosecutor,” Judge Guthrie said after a moment, which Bennie regarded as a small victory.

Hilliard paused to act exasperated. “Without telling the jury what the words were, Mrs. Lambertsen, could you make out who was speaking?”

“Only sometimes, when they really yelled. I tried not to listen, I didn’t want to invade their privacy. I just heard voices shouting at each other.”

“In general, again without telling us the words, whose voice was generally louder during these fights, the defendant’s or Detective Della Porta’s?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said, half rising again.

Hilliard held up a hand, flashing a large class ring of garnet and gold. “I’ll rephrase. Mrs. Lambertsen, when you heard arguing coming from the apartment shared by the defendant and Detective Della Porta, whose voice was generally louder, the woman’s or the man’s?”

Bennie objected on the same grounds but Judge Guthrie denied it. Mrs. Lambertsen testified, “The woman’s voice was usually louder.”

“Thank you,” Hilliard said. “Now, going back to the night of May nineteenth, how long did the argument last?”

“Fifteen minutes, at the most.”

“Do you recall what happened after the argument?”

“I heard a noise. Sometimes after they argue I hear a door slam. This time it was a gunshot.”

Two of the jurors looked at each other and several stiffened in their seats. Hilliard paused to let it register. “What did you do after you heard the gunshot?” he asked.

“I went to the door to see what was going on. I have one of those chains on the door, so I left it on and peeked out.”

“Wait a minute, why did you go to the door, Mrs. Lambertsen?” Hilliard asked, apparently spontaneously, and Bennie reflected that the question demonstrated why he was such a good lawyer. Hilliard asked witnesses the questions that would occur to jurors, reinforcing his logical nature and aligning him with the jury.

“I’m not sure exactly,” Lambertsen admitted. “The gunshot came from next door, but I couldn’t go next door, so I went to my door and opened it a little. Just to see what was going on. Like, a crack.”

“What did you see when you went to the door?”