Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

The astonished cabbie put up his hands. “I stopped at the light, Officer, I swear. I came to a full stop.”

Citrone’s gaze darted sideways while he kept the revolver flush against Lou’s shirt. “Get lost or you’re dead,” he told the cabbie. “Come back for the car.” The driver’s eyes went wide and he ran off, his legs pumping.

“Nice police work,” Lou said. “Now let the kid go. She won’t say anything.”

“Let her go? She attacked a cop on a routine traffic stop. The cab had a broken taillight.” With a swift kick Citrone shattered the cab’s brake light. Red plastic shards clattered onto the street.

“Come on, Citrone,” Lou said. “Everybody knows about the parking lot at the Eleventh. They gonna believe you killed us on a routine stop?”

Citrone laughed quietly. “Me, kill you? I’m not even here. My friend should be along any minute. A state trooper.”

Judy forced herself to think. Citrone would shoot them as soon as the trooper got there. What could she do? She didn’t have a gun. Then she remembered the boxing she’d watched at the gym. She had surprise on her side, if not expertise. Suddenly she lowered her stance, planted her feet, and threw the first punch of her life, aimed point-blank at Citrone’s jaw.

“Ahh!” Citrone cried out. The blow landed badly, but knocked the cop off-balance. The revolver went off with an ear-splitting crack!

“No! Lou!” Judy screamed as Lou’s shoulder exploded into bright red blood and tattered fabric.

Lou didn’t feel the pain. He threw himself against Citrone’s arm and grabbed his wrist, struggling to shake the gun free. It clattered to the street while Lou pinned the stunned cop to the wet asphalt. Judy watched dumbstruck, then realized she had to act. She ran for the gun, snatched it off the street, and raised it with both hands. Her right hand throbbed from the punch, but she looked down the gun’s sight to Citrone and braced herself.

“Freeze, Citrone!” Judy shouted, her voice strong with newborn authority, and Lou was already rolling off of the crooked cop, leaving him exposed in the gutter.

“I’ll be all right,” Lou said, drowsy from the anesthesia. It would hurt if he could feel anything, but he couldn’t. He’d never caught one in all his years on the force. His retirement, he had to get shot. Like a schmuck. He eased back on the thin hospital pillow. The bullet had been removed and his shoulder packed and splinted. Nagging him from the foot of the bed, like three harpies, were Judy, Mary, and Rosato.

“You’ll be fine.” Bennie patted his foot. “Because I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Me, neither,” Mary said. “Not until the entire Eleventh District is behind bars.”

“We got ’em, didn’t we?” Lou smiled, his words faintly slurred.

Judy grinned. “Oh yeah, we’re all over the television.” Her right hand was bandaged and sore. She had broken a finger punching Citrone, who didn’t have a scratch. Judy needed remedial boxing. “They’ve stepped up the investigation of the Eleventh.”

Bennie nodded. “It’s only a matter of time before they call in McShea and Reston, and the cops start diming on each other. The D.A.’s office will make the best deals with whoever comes forward first. The cops know the drill.”

Still, Mary couldn’t feel happy about it. “Not a great way to do it, though, Lou. Putting yourself in harm’s way.”

Lou chuckled softly. “Talk to Judy. She threw one of the worst punches I ever saw.”

Judy bowed. “Thank you, thank you.”

“She saved my life,” Lou said, his sentence trailing off. He wanted to thank her, but didn’t have the strength to hug her. It was probably for the best. You weren’t allowed to hug women anymore. It was against federal law.

“Told you I could box,” Judy said. “I’m going twice a week, after this verdict is in.”

The verdict, Bennie remembered. She’d been so worried about Lou that she rushed from the office and hadn’t thought about it since. Remarkable, considering that the Connolly case had occupied her every thought for days. Lou’s surviving the attack had dealt a deathblow to the conspiracy and it would all come tumbling down, starting with Citrone on up, with luck extending even to Guthrie and Hilliard. But the jury would be deliberating under sequestration, isolated. They wouldn’t know the police conspiracy had been proved true. They’d return with the verdict, innocent or guilty.

When?

Bennie got the call from the Clerk of Court at 10:15 the next morning, and the defense team was at the Criminal Justice Center barely ten minutes later. The lawyers and bodyguards emerged from two cabs, their faces taut as the cab doors opened and the press swarmed, swinging boom mikes overhead. Bennie screened it out. All she could think about was the verdict.

“Get out of my way!” she shouted at the mobbing reporters. She plowed through the crowd and trusted that Mike and Ike had the associates covered. They fought their way into the courthouse, into the elevator, and finally down the hallway to Courtroom 306. The lawyers pushed through the gallery to the bulletproof shield. For the first time Bennie felt relieved to have the goddamn wall of plastic between her and the rest of the world.

On the silent side of the barrier, Judge Guthrie sat atop the dais, apparently reading documents. Courtroom personnel bustled about, getting ready for the verdict. A woman hurried by with what Bennie recognized as an Order Sheet, remanding Connolly to the custody of the prison system until the date of her execution. Bennie looked away and reminded herself the order was just a contingency. Like her, the court had to prepare for either verdict. She put her briefcase down on the counsel table, her mouth dry.

Dorsey Hilliard walked through the glass door, then approached Bennie. He balanced on his crutches as he offered her a hand. “Whatever happens, Bennie, you’ve been a worthy adversary,” he said.

Bennie’s throat caught. Her twin’s life was on the line, she had almost been killed, and Lou lay wounded in a hospital. “Go straight to hell, asshole,” she said, and Hilliard withdrew his hand as if bitten. The exchange was gaped at by spectators, captured by sketch artists, and noted by the reporters, to be the subject of a hundred questions later. Bennie put it all from her mind and sat down to wait for Connolly. It wasn’t long.

Connolly came through the paneled door of the courtroom, led by the guard, and Bennie felt a painful tug inside. What the tug was, she wasn’t sure. Sympathy? Affection? Loathing? She didn’t know, but the connection was there, undeniable. They had both chosen the gray suit, for God’s sake. But if Connolly felt any connection, it didn’t show. Her eyes were slightly sunken, her face drawn, and she walked in a stilted fashion toward her seat at defense table. She sat beside Bennie without looking over, so Bennie stared straight ahead.

“Mr. Deputy,” Judge Guthrie said, his lined features tense. “Please call the jury.”

The deputy retrieved the jury, and everyone in the courtroom craned their necks to see them as they filed in, searching their faces for clues as to the verdict. But the jury entered the courtroom on the final day as they had on the first, with their heads lowered and their eyes avoiding contact with anyone. The videographer looked grave and the librarian remained businesslike, her lips pressed together.

Bennie took it as a bad sign. Jurors looked solemn when they were about to deliver bad news. A hush fell over the room, even the jaded courtroom personnel grew still, and Hilliard shifted forward in his seat. Bennie didn’t miss the gesture. He was eager. He thought he had won a conviction. Bennie felt sick to her stomach.