Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

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!

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?”