Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

“I gather I have your permission to rest, then. Legally it’s your call.”

Connolly paused. “If you think it’s the right thing to do, sure.”

“It certainly suits my needs.” Bennie stood up. “I don’t want to defend you anymore.”

“You’re not trying to kill me, are you?” Connolly laughed again, and for the first time it sounded nervous, but Bennie felt too furious to reassure her.

“It’s settled, then. We go right to closing arguments. By the way, make sure you listen to my closing. I couldn’t control you getting to Harting, but I sure as hell can control what I do about it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Connolly asked, but Bennie was already out the door.

Judge Guthrie was reading the pleadings index as the jury resettled into its numbered seats. “Call your first witness, Ms. Rosato,” he said, and Bennie rose to her feet at defense table.

“Your Honor, the defense has chosen not to present any witnesses because the prosecution has not proven its charge of capital murder. The defense moves for a directed verdict of acquittal.”

Surprise crossed the judge’s refined features, and the lid of his pleadings index dropped closed. “Ms. Rosato, are you saying the defense is resting at this point?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Bennie watched a ripple of excitement run through the jury, and she knew that behind her the gallery would be reacting, too. “My motion is outstanding, Your Honor.”

“Denied,” the judge ruled. Judge Guthrie looked at Dorsey Hilliard, who was hustling to his feet on his crutches. “Mr. Prosecutor, are you prepared to proceed to your closing argument?”

“Of course, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, too quickly to be credible. He collected some papers hastily, either for show or security, since Bennie doubted he’d have written his closing already, and he walked to the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hilliard began, “this is sooner than I expected to be speaking to you, but just the same, I’m delighted with the opportunity. You have been attentive and responsive throughout our testimony, and I thank you on behalf of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. We thank you also for your common sense and your sound judgment, which is what you will need when you go into the jury room to deliberate today.

“You heard the defense attorney tell you in her opening argument that the prosecution case against the defendant is circumstantial, as if ‘circumstantial’ is a dirty word. I beg to differ. Murders are rarely committed in broad daylight, in full view of an array of witnesses. In fact, most murders take place without an audience and between people who know each other. People who loved each other, and who fight.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said. “None of those facts are in evidence in this case.”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie ruled, unexpectedly to Bennie, though he knew the bell couldn’t be unrung.

“The circumstances of a murder can easily and, quite reliably, point to the killer. Officer Sean McShea and Officer Arthur Reston caught the defendant running from the scene of the crime, and she confessed and attempted to bribe them in order to avoid being brought to justice. Mrs. Lambertsen saw the defendant running from the scene, after she heard the defendant fighting with her lover and after she heard a gunshot. The fact that Mrs. Lambertsen may have been somewhat unsure as to which exact minute she saw the defendant run by is of no legal or factual significance.

“You also learned from Dr. Liam Pettis that the blood spatter on the sweatshirt was consistent with the officers’ testimony, and Dr. Mark Merwicke told you, over defense counsel objection, that previous defense counsel had prevented the Commonwealth from testing the defendant’s hands for residue from firing a gun.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said, rising, and Judge Guthrie shook his head discreetly.

“Overruled.”

Hilliard held up a finger. “A word about the murder weapon. The gun. Judge Guthrie will charge you that you’re not to speculate in the jury room as to the facts of this case, and so I suggest to you that the fact that the murder weapon was not recovered is not the result of mysterious scheming of a cabal of police officers. The truth is simpler than that: we aren’t perfect. We’re not TV cops. We don’t always find the murder weapon. It happens more than we care to admit and certainly we wish it were not so.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said. “Again, assumes facts not in evidence.”

Judge Guthrie shook his head. “Overruled. The Court can take judicial notice of the fact that murder weapons are not always recovered.”

Hilliard glanced at the dais, then focused on the jury. “You will hear much, when defense counsel addresses you, of conspiracies and cabals. Of plots and schemes. Of drug deals, of crooked cops. It reminds me of Alice in Wonderland. Remember the walrus, scamming the oysters? “The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things; of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.’ ”

The jury smiled, and the librarian in the front row mouthed the passage with Hilliard.

“The defense has to say something to respond to the wealth of state’s evidence, so they say what they think you’ll respond to, a buzzword. Conspiracy! Conspiracy? Are we talking UFOs and little green people? Are we talking grassy knolls and lone gunmen? Are we talking Washington bigwigs and sleazy payoffs?” Hilliard paused. “The defense underestimates you, my friends. I have every faith, and every prayer, that when you retire to the jury room to deliberate, you will see through the stories of cabbages and kings and find the defendant guilty as charged, of capital murder. Thank you.”

Hilliard left the podium, and Bennie stood up, feeling the full onus of the risk she had taken in not presenting a defense. There was no buffer between her and the verdict; no testimony to point to, not even physical evidence. It wasn’t between her and Hilliard anymore, or her and Judge Guthrie, or even her and Connolly.

It was between Bennie and the jurors. It was a relationship, a compact between them. It would happen now or it wouldn’t happen at all. She felt a shiver shoot up her spine and approached the jury.

To Lou, nothing was right about the scene. The sun shone too brightly. The afternoon was too pretty. The cop was too young, and he was killed trying to murder a citizen. The Eleventh was at the cemetery in force, a blue square of dress uniforms, but the inspector hadn’t made his typical cameo and neither had the mayor. Lou stood with the press about fifty yards away from the flag-draped casket; even the reporters looked second-string. Lenihan’s death wasn’t front-page news anymore, and Lou would have missed the obit if he hadn’t been looking for it.

It made Lou feel sad, like he’d lived too long. He didn’t want to see a world where drug dealers did business in the open and cops murdered their own partners. His eyes hurt suddenly, it was so goddamn bright, and he looked at Lenihan’s mother and father, crying behind their son’s casket. Then he spotted Citrone standing behind Lenihan’s mother and his heart hardened. The cop was in full dress uniform and the badge on his hat caught the sun; he reminded Lou of a toy soldier, tin on the outside and hollow on the inside. Lou wondered if Citrone had gotten the call from Brunell yet.

Standing beside Lou, a young reporter coughed, then lit a cigarette. The acrid cone of smoke disappeared into the fresh air. Lou scanned the rest of the uniforms and found Vega the Younger. He was hoping to see either McShea or Reston, but they were too smart to show up. Crap. He wanted to get them so bad he could taste it. Not for Rosato, not even for himself, but for reasons that had to do with the way things used to be, with Stan Getz behind “Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars” and bakeries that put cellophane hay on the cookies.