Jury of One (17 page)

“That’s just a stupid stereotypic—”

“It’s an impression. Maybe the voters wouldn’t care, but we’re not talking about voters right now. We’re talking about the slatemakers. They want to get behind one candidate this fall and run with him. Whoever that is has the nomination. And it won’t be me. Not now.”

Glass tapping glass, liquid gurgling. Daddy is pouring himself a drink. Shelly feels a tear squirt out of her shut eye unexpectedly. They are coming so easily. Emotions so raw and at the surface. For her parents, too, she realizes, not just her.

“Then we wait four years,” Mom says. “You’re still young in ’92.”

“Oh, don’t talk to me about ’92. What if Justin wins? Then he’s the incumbent in ’92. I run against him then, I’m a pariah. I lose and never get another chance.” Footsteps. Daddy is pacing.

“Lang, honey—”

“This was it. You see that, don’t you, Abby? I was their first choice. This was our chance. We might not get another one now.”

She stands up slowly. She is practiced by now, moving gingerly to avoid a crack of the knee or ankle. She takes two stairs at a time, placing the foot down first, then applying the weight. She returns to bed and prays that sleep will come quickly.

S
HELLY LAID OUT
copies of the prosecution’s evidence on her bed. Her apartment was arranged like it had been since the intrusion—couch in front of the front door, the glass of marbles balanced on the handle of the sliding glass door, the alarm fully armed—but it was her hope now that there would be no more visits. She had made a point, in court, of announcing that Officer Raymond Miroballi had tried to kill Alex, of requesting protective custody for her client on the theory that his life might be in danger in detention. She had repeated these claims to the press outside and read about them in today’s paper. She had stayed within the confines of her agreement with the federal government but had made her point, nonetheless, to rogue police officers who might want to do harm to either Alex or her. The spotlight was shining now, and she felt safe.

The intruders
were
cops, weren’t they?

Shelly jumped at the sound of the phone ringing, the portable phone lying next to her on the bed bellowing out its shrill cue.

“You’re a hard one to get hold of,” said Governor Trotter.

She held her breath. If ever there were a time, even on her meager budget, to spring for caller identification, this was it.

“I meant to call,” she said. “Congratulations on the nomination.”

“Since when did you leave the law school, Shelly?”

Without telling you, you mean?
Well, he was certainly cutting to the chase. “Long story,” she said. “Recently.”

“You’re working for Paul Riley now?”

“No, not really. I’ve taken a leave from the school. I’m representing someone outside the parameters of the law school.”

“So I’ve heard.” A somewhat icier tone.

“Is that why you’re calling?”

“Shelly, I’m calling you because I haven’t spoken with you since Christmas. I want to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing fine. How are things at the capital?”

“Shelly.” Her father seemed to be struggling. “Edgar’s concerned about you. I’m concerned. You’re defending a capital murder case and representing a cop killer.”

Oh, and he’s also your grandson.

“What exactly is it that worries you?” she asked. “That I’m out of my league? That I’m turning the spotlight on the city police?”

“Why are you handling this case, Shelly?”

“He needs my help.”

“Lots of boys need criminal defense. You don’t help them.”

Shelly recoiled. “I have to justify why I’m representing this boy?”

“No, of course not. Hold on a second, if you would.” A woman was speaking in the background to the governor. He responded as he typically did, with a decisive, crisp answer. “Sorry about that. Listen, Shelly—you leave your job to take on some drug peddler’s case? Why do that? What’s so special about this kid?”

“So you
do
want me to justify it.”

“I admit I’m curious.” She could picture him in his high-backed leather chair, his jacket off and sleeves rolled up a tuck. He cut the perfect model of the state’s chief executive.

“He deserves a chance,” she said, and winced as she played that over in her mind.

“Just tell me you’re being careful.”

“I’m being careful,” she promised. “I always am.”

S
HELLY STOOD AT
the intersection of Bonnard and Gentry downtown. It was only three short blocks from the offices of Shaker, Riley & Flemming. “There’s the City Athletic Club,” she said, pointing to the northeast corner of the intersection. “He was at the open gym that night.” The club had its own building, a fourteen-story edifice wedged between two newer buildings double its size. Flags of the city, county, state, and U.S. waved above the entryway, along with a flag bearing the club’s crest. “He walked down Gentry, crossed Bonnard, and was heading south. He was going to the bus.”

Joel Lightner, a private investigator whose services Paul Riley had lent for this case, nodded. He was not the prototypical investigator, in Shelly’s eyes. He was tall and gangly, with an oval face and tight curly, gray hair. His long olive coat was open, and he seemed not to notice the whipping winds that came out of nowhere in this city.

They crossed Bonnard Street and headed southbound on Gentry, on the east side of the street, tracking the path Alex took. “About here,” said Joel. He had reviewed Shelly’s notes, taken from her several conversations with Alex. He was carrying a gym bag, presumably because Alex was carrying one on the night in question. “Give or take, this is where the squad car kicked on its lights.” They both stopped and looked around. Gentry Street, between Bonnard and Newberry, extended the length of a traditional city block, one-eighth of a mile. Shelly
and Joel were standing almost equidistant from Bonnard Street to the north and the alley where the shooting occurred, to the south.

“About midway down,” Shelly concurred.

“Miroballi calls it in,” Joel continued. “White male, holding drugs.”

“Alex keeps walking.” So they began to walk as well. “He hears a car door open and close. One of the cops has gotten out. Miroballi.”

“Sanchez’s report says they both got out.”

“Whatever. Alex keeps walking a few steps, then runs.” She broke into a decent jog. She couldn’t replicate the speed of Alex’s stride, she was sure, and would not attempt to do so anyway in the middle of the day downtown.

“By now,” said Joel, keeping up with her and breathing with some effort, “Miroballi’s giving chase—and telling dispatch that—and the other cop has returned to his squad car.”

They jogged into the alley. They both saw the blood stain, cleaned up to some extent but still very present. Shelly stopped before it. “Alex falls,” she said, going to her knee. “He gets up”—she turned to face Gentry Street—“and turns and sees Miroballi standing there.”

“Miroballi’s just called in that the suspect is armed,” said Joel. “Right about when he reaches the alley.”

“Alex puts his hands up.” Shelly followed suit. “He starts to backpedal.”

“Miroballi’s walking toward him.”

Shelly and Joel, walking backward, passed the blood stain and kept moving. Joel stopped a few feet from that spot. “No closer than here,” he estimated. “We know Miroballi was there,” he said, pointing to the blood stain. The principal amount of blood hitting the pavement came after Officer Miroballi had hit the ground, falling backward. Much of it had spilled on his person and soaked into his uniform. Some of it had sprayed forward and to the side when the bullet hit his nose. Not all of this could be seen now, weeks after the shooting. But knowing where he fell, from the principal blood stain, meant knowing where he had been standing. The question was, where was Alex standing?

“I’d say about eight feet from the cop,” said Joel. “Shoot a
guy in the nose, blood’s gonna spray everywhere. But they didn’t find much on Alex. A little blood in his hair, right? And a couple specks on his sweatshirt. But his jacket was clean. So for the most part, he wasn’t hit with the blood. About eight feet.”

“Medical examiner will tell us.” Shelly looked around. “So he pulls the gun and shoots him?” She mimicked the act herself, using her hand for a gun. “Shoot-out at the O.K. Corral?”

“Miroballi saw a gun,” said Joel. “So I assume Alex had it in his hand, or stuffed in his belt or jacket.” He shook the gym bag he was holding. “Not in here.”

“Neither of the witnesses saw Miroballi pulling a gun.” Shelly looked up at the Forrester Insurance Building on the west side of Gentry, where the witness Monica Stoddard had been working that night. “So that means, I assume, that Alex had his gun, Miroballi reached for his, and Alex shot first.”

Joel looked up, as if he were trying to retrieve data. “Yeah, Miroballi’s weapon was holstered when he was found.”

“That’s no good,” she said. “That doesn’t sound so much like self-defense.”

“What has Alex told you?”

“He hasn’t.” She paced in a circle, looking around. “I haven’t asked him.”

“You pleaded self-defense, I thought.”

“You can comb these walls, Joel? For bullets? Take some pictures?”

“Sure. Shelly, you pleaded self-defense without knowing whether Alex even shot him?”

“Yes.” She walked along the wall and looked. The bricks were in terrible condition, but to the naked eye, there were no signs of lodged bullets that would have come from Miroballi’s angle, past Alex. That was consistent with all the police reports and forensics, which showed that Miroballi had not fired a weapon, and that only one gunshot had been heard. But she was certainly not going to limit her knowledge to what the police had told her.

“The second gun,” she said. “The .38 on the ground.” The other gun, besides Miroballi’s, that was found at the murder scene but which had not been fired.

“Serial number scratched off, of course.” Joel rubbed his
cheek, then moved his hand around to the back of his neck. “And they never found the murder weapon.”

“The question is, who’s the second gun belong to? And why leave it?”

“The why-leave-it part is easy.” Joel shrugged. “Shit happens. This is no career criminal. He shoots, he wigs out and runs. That happens every day of the week.”

“But that’s the thing, Joel. He
took
the gun he shot with.”

Joel conceded the point. He walked over to the spot where the gun had been found at the crime scene, approximately ten feet from the dead body in the direction of Alex’s flight. “Looks like it fell off Alex, or he dropped it, as he was running away. Same with the coke, right? Right about the same spot?”

Shelly nodded. The two packets of cocaine had been found near the gun, all of them in the direction that Alex fled after the shooting, ten feet to the east of Miroballi’s body.

“Could be intentional or accidental,” said Lightner. “That stuff could’ve fallen out of his pocket when he ran. Maybe he just wanted to dump the illegal contraband.”

“Except the murder weapon,” Shelly repeated.

Joel wiped his mouth. “Murder weapon could’ve had his prints on it. Could be, in a moment of panic, he thinks it’s just better to keep it with him.” Joel removed a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. He looked at Shelly. “You don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it.” She put her hands on her hips. “Not sure I believe it.”

“We should go.” Lightner tapped his watch.

They walked to Joel’s car, parked in a lot near Shelly’s office. “When did you leave the force?” she asked.

“Ninety-five,” he said. “Eleven years in E.P. Four here in the city.”

Joel Lightner had been the chief of detectives for a suburban police department when the Terry Burgos murders took place in the late ’80s. Mansbury College, the site of the killing spree, was within the county but outside the city, in the rather diminutive town of Englewood Park. Lightner had been the lead detective on the Burgos case. He was the only law enforcement officer, as far as she knew, who ever interrogated Burgos. That case, presumably, was how he and Paul Riley had met.

“Do you know the Miroballis?” she asked him as he started the car. It was a towncar with creamy leather seats and plenty of accoutrements. The private sector seemed to be treating Joel Lightner well.

“Not really. Ray, no. Reggie—he was the second-grade, right?”

“Right,” she said. Reginald Miroballi was a detective, second-grade. The middle child at forty-two, four years older than Ray. Anthony Miroballi, at forty-four, was a lieutenant.

“Heard of Reggie but didn’t know him. Tony, I met once. Political guy, from what I heard. Ass-kisser.”

Shelly looked out the window as they drove along the west side. Once you left the commercial district and headed west, things changed in a hurry. The west side was the poorest of the city’s poor. The streets looked like the objects of target bombing. Scattered throughout every block were humble but well-kept homes, but every third lot was empty or had a house on the verge of collapse. It was the result of home-mortgage fraud, in which unscrupulous lenders gave out high-interest loans for home “purchases” that vastly exceeded the true value of the home—thanks to fraudulent appraisals. The “buyers,” in on the scheme with the lenders, bought the house but pocketed the remainder of the proceeds—say $200,000 for a home worth maybe forty—while the lender sold the mortgage on the secondary market to an unsuspecting lender who jumped at the prospect of a high-interest loan. By the time the new holder of the loan was the wiser, the buyer had skipped town, and the loanholder’s only recourse was to foreclose on collateral that did not even come close to covering the loan amount. Yes, sometimes the new loanholder went back to the originator, but with the vast numbers of loans bundled on the secondary market, it was becoming just another cost of doing business. One out of every hundred will be bogus. Factor it into the cost, like a department store factored in the cost of shoplifting.