Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

“What happened?”

“I can’t explain it, I just feel it. Sometimes I get the feeling, like a little click during a closing, and sometimes I don’t. This time I felt the click. ”

“Are you ever wrong, when you think you feel it?”

“Sure.”

Connolly blinked. “You’ve been wrong?”

Bennie leaned her head back against the unforgiving wall of cinderblock. “Sure. I’m human.”

Connolly fell momentarily silent. “You didn’t mention Shetrell in your closing.”

“Harting? No.”

“You did it for spite.”

“No, not for spite. I might be your twin but I won’t be your accomplice.”

Connolly slumped slightly and rested her hands between her legs. “You really into this twin thing, huh?”

“That we’re twins? Yeah.”

“You got all blubbery out there. I thought you were gonna cry like a baby, right in front of the jury.”

Bennie smiled sadly. “Are you surprised by that, that I might shed a tear about you being put to death?”

Connolly snorted, then looked away.

“It doesn’t mean anything to you, our being twins, does it?” Bennie asked, and watched as Connolly’s eyes focused out the door, to the guard’s station.

“What if we’re not twins, huh? Remember that DNA test we took? What if it comes back and says we’re not twins?”

“It can’t. It won’t. I know that now. I think I always did. Our father-”

“Our father what?” Connolly turned and looked directly through the bars at Bennie. Her eyes were so angrily blue, Bennie drew back. “Our father who art in heaven?”

“Winslow.”

“Winslow? Who knows if he’s our father?” The sudden sharpness in Connolly’s voice echoed throughout the hollow cells.

“I went to his house, in Montchanin. He was away, but I found his clippings. Of me, of my career. There’s books of them.”

“So maybe he’s a freak, ever think of that?” Connolly didn’t wait for an answer. “There’s a lot of freaks out there. They hear voices, they think the FBI is following them. They think they’re married to rich guys. They think they’re Mel Gibson. They think they’re friends with Steven Spielberg or that he’s their real son. You don’t know about these people, girl, but I do. You don’t live in that world. I do.”

Bennie shook her head, no. “There’s that picture you gave me, of him holding two babies.”

“So maybe one was a friend’s baby, for fuck’s sake, or maybe both. Do they look alike to you? You can’t tell a friggin’ thing from that photo. I don’t believe the guy for a minute. I thought he was a crackpot.”

“I found a Dear John note, from our mother, leaving him. He even came to her funeral.”

“So what? So maybe she left him when she had you. It doesn’t mean we’re twins. Maybe you’re his kid, not me.” Connolly grew louder, almost shouting in the cells. “Or maybe it’s the other way around, huh? Maybe he’s some freak and I’m his real daughter, but I grew up to be a dope dealer. So one day he’s watching the TV and he sees you, a big success. We look alike and he gets it into his head that I’m like you. That I’m really your twin. That we’re both his kids, his twin girls. So he comes to me and tells me my twin will help me.”

Bennie tried to wrap her mind around the situation. When they’d first met, Connolly had tried to convince Bennie they were twins. Now that Bennie had finally come around, Connolly was trying to convince her they weren’t. The reversal made her head spin. “Why are you saying this?”

“What?”

“You’re trying to convince me I’m not your twin.”

“I’m just saying I don’t think we’re twins, is all.” Connolly’s features returned to their familiar lines, and her tone went cold. “I don’t need a twin. I don’t want a twin. If I get off when this is over, I don’t want a twin. Got it?”

There was a loud rap at Bennie’s door and the guard’s face loomed at the bulletproof window. “Will the real Miss Rosato please stand up?”

“I’m Rosato.” Bennie stood up as the guard slid a key into the locked door to her cell.

“Judge wants you in the courtroom. Said you don’t need no cuffs.”

“What a guy.” Bennie walked out into the hallway, which was barely wide enough to fit one person and flooded with harsh fluorescent lighting. The guard moved next door and unlocked Connolly’s door with an expert twist of the wrist.

“This could be my big chance, Rosato,” Connolly said loudly. “I could tell the guard that I was really you. Then you’d be the one on the hot seat, and I’d go free no matter what the verdict.” Connolly stepped into the tight hallway and offered her wrists for cuffing. “How about it? Would you trade places with me now? Would you bet your life on this case?”

“That’s enough of that talk,” the guard said gently, but Bennie felt too stricken to speak.

Would you bet your life on this case ?

Bennie felt like she already had.

As soon as the door to the courtroom opened, Bennie caught sight of Judge Guthrie, who had evidently regained his judicial temperament, for his features seemed composed and his manner calm. The jury was sitting in their paneled box, and a chagrined Dorsey Hilliard was in place at the prosecutor’s table. At the bar of court, Carrier and DiNunzio sat on the edge of their chairs, visibly concerned.

Bennie entered the courtroom, and the gallery reacted instantly, fidgeting in the pews for a better look. Reporters wrote furiously in their skinny notebooks, next to sketch artists who drew so deftly they appeared to be scribbling. Mike and Ike sat wedged among them, unhappy as linemen benched in the playoffs.

“Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie said, “please approach. Mr. Sheriff, please escort the defendant to her seat at counsel table.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Bennie said, her tone professional as she faced the dais and looked Judge Guthrie in the eye. Behind her, Connolly was escorted to counsel table.

“Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie began. “The Court found you in contempt for disobeying my order during your closing argument. However, after vigorous argument by one of your associates, the Court finds it would be in the interests of justice for the matter to proceed.” The judge nodded grimly in the direction of Carrier and DiNunzio, and Bennie thanked God for Carrier. “You are hereby released from your incarceration and fined a sum of five hundred dollars. Your associate has already paid the sum on your behalf, to the Clerk of Court. Are you finished with your closing argument?”

“I am, Your Honor.”

“Then take your seat, counsel, while we continue this final phase of trial. Mr. Hilliard, you may have rebuttal.”

Bennie returned to counsel table and checked the jury’s reaction. They seemed subdued as a group; the librarian didn’t look at her, and even the lively videographer seemed impassive. Would you trade places with me now? Would you bet your life on this case ? Bennie had felt the click during her closing, but she’d been wrong before.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury” Hilliard said from the podium, and began his rebuttal, repeating that the jury couldn’t infer a police conspiracy from the absence of the murder weapon. He concluded quickly and when he was finished the jury looked somber. Bennie wasn’t certain what conclusion to draw from their grave faces; in her experience, jurors usually grew serious when the time of decision was at hand. She wished she could argue again, but the defense didn’t get the second shot the Commonwealth did.

Judge Guthrie proceeded immediately to charge the jury, reading them a lengthy recitation of the relevant points of law both sides had submitted, while Bennie sat quietly, only half-listening, slowly realizing that the case was ebbing out of her control. Usually it came as a relief to Bennie when the power, and the ultimate responsibility, shifted from her to the jury. In the past it had meant her job was finished, and after the verdict, she could return to her life. She’d loll around in bed with Grady, then get up and work on the house. She’d visit with her mother, sit with her in the elegant hospital until she’d dozed off.