Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

The reporter beside him coughed again, louder this time, and Lou looked over. “You gotta quit smoking, kid,” he said. “Now they got the patch, they got gum. I had to do it with one of those plastic cigarettes, like a smacked ass.”

“What do you know?” the reporter snapped.

“What do I know?” Lou repeated slowly. He considered spanking the kid but then got a better idea. “Let’s see, I know that cop over there, his name is Joe Citrone.” Lou pointed, and the kid followed his fingers. “He’s filthy as the day is long. He’s buddy-buddy with two other cops, named Sean McShea and Art Reston-”

Another reporter turned around at the names. “Did you say something about McShea and Reston? Those cops who testified in the Connolly case?”

Lou nodded. “The very same. McShea and Reston aren’t from the Eleventh, but they and Citrone, that tall cop behind the family, they’re all in business together, running a drug business.”

“ Drug business ?” asked another reporter, turning around, joining the group forming around Lou.

“They take and sell the drugs from busts and protect dealers like Pace Brunell, down in the projects. Wait, it gets better. Citrone is responsible for the murder of his partner, named Bill Latorce, who was supposedly killed in the line of duty. One of you smartasses oughta be looking into why a domestic got an experienced cop dead, you ask me.”

The reporters started interrupting, but Lou put up his hands. “My advice to you is to get on this story right away. It’ll be the story of the decade. Probably win a Pulitzer. Does anybody say ‘scoop’ anymore?”

Then Lou turned to the kid next to him, whose cigarette hung by its paper from his open mouth. “Put that in your pipe and smoke it,” he said, and walked away.

Bennie stood in front of the jury and paused before she began her closing, to calm her nerves and gather her thoughts. Again, she decided to go with the truth. It was all she had.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I made the highly unusual decision not to put on a defense case for Alice Connolly, because I do not think the Commonwealth proved its case of murder beyond a reasonable doubt. I do not share the prosecutor’s lofty regard for circumstantial evidence, especially in death penalty cases. The prosecutor soft-pedaled that fact in his closing, but I stand here to remind you: the Commonwealth ultimately seeks the death penalty in this case. Keep that in mind at all times. Let it inform your judgment. How sure do you have to be to send a human being to her death? Sure beyond any reasonable doubt.”

Bennie paused to let it sink in, and the faces of the jurors were properly grave. “Yet the Commonwealth hasn’t provided you with anywhere near that quantum of proof. Nobody saw the crime being committed, and contrary to the prosecutor’s assertion in his closing, there are many murders that take place in front of witnesses. You can read in the newspaper every day accounts of drive-by-”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Hilliard barked. “There is no record evidence of such shootings.”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie ruled, but Bennie didn’t break stride.

“There are no witnesses to this killing, at least the Commonwealth could not produce one, and there are many other facts that the Commonwealth didn’t prove, all of which add up to more than reasonable doubt. First, the Commonwealth didn’t produce the murder weapon. The prosecutor wants you to forget about the gun, but can you, fairly?” Bennie stepped closer to the jury rail. “Remember their theory of what happened that night. They posit that Alice Connolly shot the deceased, changed her clothes, and threw them in a Dumpster to get rid of the evidence. If that’s the truth, why wasn’t the gun in the Dumpster with the other evidence? Are you supposed to believe that Alice kept the gun with her? Why would she do that, when she had disposed of far less incriminating evidence? And if she did keep it, why wasn’t it found on her?”

Bennie paused, hoping her words had an impact. “It doesn’t make sense because it isn’t the truth. The truth is that Alice Connolly never had the gun. The real killer had the gun and kept it because it would show his fingerprints, and not Alice Connolly’s. As you heard Dr. Liam Pettis testify, the gun could prove that Alice did not kill Anthony Della Porta-”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Hilliard said. “Ms. Rosato misstates Dr. Pettis’s testimony.”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie ruled, before Bennie could argue, but she had too much momentum to stop now.

“Let’s consider the laundry list of other facts the Commonwealth didn’t prove. One, the Commonwealth didn’t prove motive. A fight? Every couple has rough patches. I myself haven’t spoken to my boyfriend in days, but I’m not killing him.” The jury smiled, and Bennie forced one, too. “Secondly, the Commonwealth didn’t prove how the blood spatter got on the sweatshirt. Third, the Commonwealth didn’t prove what time Alice ran by Mrs. Lambertsen’s door. Fourth, the Commonwealth didn’t prove it was Alice who ran by Mr. Munoz’s window. Who can forget Mr. Munoz?”

The videographer laughed, as did the young black man in the back row. It was Mr. Speaker, the talkative one. Bennie smiled in spite of the tightening in her chest.

“Unlike the prosecution, I don’t think conspiracy involves little green people. You know that there are many crimes that take more than one person to commit. Think of the Mafia. Think of the Oklahoma bombing. Those are criminal conspiracies, and you don’t have to believe in little green people to know that conspiracies are real.” Bennie made eye contact with the jurors, and an inquisitive tilt to the librarian’s chin encouraged her, so she went for the jugular. “Ladies and gentlemen, the defense believes there is a police conspiracy behind this murder which included Officers McShea and Reston, and that members of this conspiracy murdered Anthony Della Porta-”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Hilliard shouted. “There’s no evidence in the record to support these allegations! The only evidence in the record is that Officers Reston and McShea were the arresting officers. Anything else is an unfair inference from the record and pure conjecture on the part of defense counsel!”

Bennie pivoted angrily on her heel. “Your Honor, this is proper argument in a closing. The jury may draw reasonable inferences from the Commonwealth testimony, including what the defense elicited on cross-examination. If I can give the jury an alternative scenario-”

“The objection is sustained.” Judge Guthrie’s mouth closed firmly, setting his jowls like a French bulldog. “Comment no further on the arresting officers, Ms. Rosato, and resume your argument.”

Bennie was dumbfounded. “Your Honor, is it your ruling that I can’t present my theory of the way I believe this murder was committed? I’m not bound to the prosecution’s theory. That denies the defendant the right to a fair trial.”

Judge Guthrie frowned deeply. “You may present an alternative scenario, counsel, but there is no record evidence that any specific police officers were involved in Detective Della Porta’s death. You may not confuse or mislead the jury in closing argument. You can present your theory without mention of any purported role of the arresting officers. Please proceed.”

Bennie swallowed her anger, thought on her feet, and faced the jury. “Consider this, then. Consider that someone-we don’t know who-comes to Detective Della Porta’s apartment about fifteen minutes before eight o’clock on the night of May nineteenth, fights with Detective Della Porta, and shoots him point-blank. The killer wants to frame Alice Connolly, so he runs to the closet, which he knows is in the bedroom, grabs one of Alice’s sweatshirts, and dips it in Detective Della Porta’s blood in a typical spatter pattern he has learned something about. Somewhere. Then he leaves, unseen, and plants the bloody sweatshirt in a nearby Dumpster, knowing it will incriminate Alice.”