Mistaken Identity (57 page)

L
ow-rise projects squatted near Philadelphia’s business district, ten blocks from City Hall. Their crumbling brick towers stood out in a skyline rejuvenated by the modern geometry of the Mellon Bank Center and the neon spikes of Liberty Place. The mirrored skyscrapers uptown caught the sun like a butterfly in hand, but the projects swallowed it up, superheating the apartments inside. The windows that hadn’t been punched out like black eyes were flung open. At each corner of the building were caged balconies, and Lou noticed a line of laundry drying inside one of the cages.

He was sitting in his Honda, parked across the street from the building where Brunell lived. Lou had found the address by looking Brunell up in the phone book. The man had four phones, all listed. It was easier to call the bad guys than the good guys. Lou watched patiently, scoping out the scene before he went upstairs. The foot traffic in and out of the building was steady, and Lou saw all types go in: young black men, white women, businessmen, and pregnant mothers. One kid, no more than twelve, went sailing into the building’s entrance on a skateboard, baggy shorts flapping low on his hips. Different as they were, all entered the building and left again fifteen to twenty minutes later. Lou couldn’t prove that they were there to buy drugs. He couldn’t prove the sun was hot either.

He got out of the Honda, crossed the street, and asked the first person he saw if she knew Brunell. “Up on eight, 803,” the older woman said. She seemed resigned to being asked and evidently wasn’t worried that Lou was a cop. The drug dealer did business as openly as Woolworth’s. How much could that kind of security cost? Half a mil, under the friggin’ floor?

Lou found the elevator near the front entrance but it hadn’t worked in ages. The call button had been yanked out of its plate and the doors spray-painted with graffiti. He looked around for a stairway. The hall was filthy and reeked of urine. Bags of trash had been set outside apartment doors, contributing to the foul air, though in front of one door sat a tied stack of papers for recycling. Television blared through walls so thin Lou could identify Rosie O’Donnell’s laughter. A hip-hop beat pounded from behind a closed door, making him yearn for Stan Getz.

Lou spotted a broken
EXIT
sign on the wall and followed it around the corner to the stairs. The stairs, concrete with scored metal on the steps, were dark with grime. Cigarette butts and a dead Elmo toy littered the narrow passage. Eight floors. Lou sighed and took the first step.

“I’m here to see Pace Brunell,” Lou said, talking through the closed door to the apartment. He was trying to catch his breath from the walk upstairs, staring at the painted-on 803 in cockeyed black letters.

“Come on in,” said a man’s voice. The door swung open onto a well-built young man with light-blue eyes, densely coiled reddish-brown hair, and a dotting of tiny freckles across his cheeks. His wide nose and broad lips suggested an African-American heritage, but his skin was white, even pale. He wore a T-shirt and baggy blue basketball shorts that said
NOVA
.

“Are you Pace Brunell?” Lou asked.

“Sure am.”

“Lou Jacobs. Like to come in if I can.”

“Step into my office,” Brunell said breezily, then closed the door behind Lou, who glanced quickly around. A saggy tan couch sat in front of a teak coffee table, but the furniture wasn’t what Lou noticed right off. Wrinkled stacks of fifties, tens, and twenties sat on the table, at least thirty thou to Lou’s eye. Goddamn Sam! Next to the dough was a digital money-counting machine like they have in Vegas, press a button and it fans out money like cards. Coke packets wrapped in cellophane and twisted shut at both ends lay scattered on the table like hard candy.

“See somethin’ you like?” Brunell asked, and Lou shook his head slowly.

“You know, they used to put cigarettes on coffee tables, in china boxes. Very classy. You could lift off the top and there were the Camels. Or Pall Malls. Or Old Gold. It smelled like tobacco when you opened the box.”

“Cigarettes will kill ya.”

“I know. I miss ’em every minute.”

Brunell smiled and flopped on the couch. His gym shorts rode up, revealing a long scar on his thigh, knotty with keloids. “It’s Friday, you know. I’m busy before the weekend. You a buyer or what, pop?”

“No,” Lou said. “I came to talk about Joe Citrone. You know him.”

“Shit, I knew you was a cop.” Brunell slapped his leg in self-admiration. “You from the Eleventh, too?”

“No, I’m retired. I know Citrone protects you, your operation.”

“This ain’t a shakedown, is it?”

“At my age? No. I’m trying to find out why a cop named Bill Latorce got dead. I think it has something to do with Citrone.”

“Now, why you think that?” Brunell said, his smile vanishing.

“I heard it, over the shuffleboard courts. You remember Latorce, a black cop? He was working with Citrone, keeping you in business.”

Brunell stood up quickly. “Time for you to go, buddy.”

“But we’re having such a nice talk. I think we’re, what do they say, bonding?”

“You’re crazy, old man.” Brunell crossed the room, opened the door, and in one smooth move, yanked a matte-gray Glock from the back of his shorts and aimed it at Lou. “Get the fuck out.”

Lou eased out of the chair and went to the door. The sight of the gun wasn’t good for his heart, but Brunell wasn’t stupid enough to kill him. “You remember my name, Brunell?”

“Lou the Jew, motherfucker.”

“Get it right when you call Citrone. Tell him I’m the one from the parking lot, at the Eleventh.” Lou walked out, and Brunell slammed the door behind him.

T
he press attacked Bennie the moment she pressed through the courtroom doors, shining TV lights in her face and shouting questions in her ear. “Ms. Rosato, what do you have to say to Ms. Harting’s testimony?” “Ms. Rosato, were you shocked by this turnaround?” “How’s your twin?” Bennie shielded her eyes and fought her way down the marble corridor, with Mike and Ike running interference. “Thanks, guys,” she said, as she slammed the door to the courthouse conference room closed, to face two jubilant associates.

“Bennie! We scored, do you realize that?” Judy exulted from her customary seat, and Mary applauded, a standing ovation. Her face was flushed with excitement.

“It’s over!” Mary said. “Way to go.”

“Cool it, guys,” Bennie said, sitting down wearily.

Judy’s brow buckled with bewilderment. “Bennie, will you at least smile? Shetrell Harting was the big bang and she just went bust. Hilliard is dead! The prosecution is dead!”

Bennie looked up. “Question number one, why did Harting recant?”

“Who cares? She did!”

“Question number two, what if our client got to her?”

Judy fell abruptly silent, but Mary looked positively stricken. “
Did she
?”

“I think so, I just can’t figure out how.”

Mary sank into her chair. “I don’t think it was anything Connolly did, Bennie. Harting was believable, at least I believed her. She started to do something, then she thought better of it. She bit off more than she could chew. Haven’t you ever done that?”

“Yeah, this case.” Bennie smiled bitterly.

“Why do you think Connolly got to her? Do you have any facts?”

“What you just saw was too good to be true. You know the expression, DiNunzio.”

“Yeah.” Mary’s father always used to say that. “So what do we do?”

“I’m thinking about that,” Bennie said, but Judy, standing above them both, planted her hands on her strong hips and frowned.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Bennie, you lectured me at the crime scene on how a defense lawyer isn’t supposed to seek justice, he’s supposed to get the defendant off. What happened to that?”

“Get the defendant off within the rules, Carrier. Witness tampering is not a trial strategy. I don’t like benefiting from obstruction of justice. I play fair.”

“But it’s not about you, Bennie. You’re not the one who’s benefiting, Connolly is. It’s not you on trial, it’s Connolly.”

“I know that,” Bennie said, though a sinking feeling told her she hadn’t been thinking that way. Separating her identity—and fate—from Connolly’s was growing impossible.

Judy leaned forward urgently. “Besides, you don’t know Connolly had anything to do with Harting’s recanting. They were incarcerated in separate places. All we know is, Harting recanted. We just got a break. We have an obligation to use it.”

“An
obligation
?” Bennie laughed, but it sounded like a hiccup. “I see, not only is it okay to exploit it, we’re
obligated
to exploit it.”

“For sure. We have a duty to represent Connolly to the best of our ability. Zealously. You know what the canons say. You taught me that, remember?” Judy looked like she expected an answer, but Bennie regarded her associate through the haze of a growing headache, so Judy continued. “Look, Hilliard just took a huge blow. If you consider the Harting fiasco, it’s really borderline whether he’s proved his case. I don’t think we should go forward and put on a defense. I think we should rest, right here. Right now.”

“Put it to the jury, now?” Bennie asked, struggling for clarity. For the first time in her career, she was at a complete loss during trial. Bennie always knew what to do in court; it was the life part that stumped her. And this was both. “Wait a minute, slow down. You don’t make a move like that so fast. I mean, I’ve never done that.”

“Review the case so far, then,” Judy said, and summarized the testimony witness by witness, her enthusiasm gathering momentum. When she was finished she sat convinced, waiting for the word from Bennie. “Well, Coach?”

Bennie sighed, tense. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. If we put up a case, the jury will forget about Harting and we’d give Hilliard the time to rehabilitate his case. And Guthrie the chance to torpedo me. Maybe we should take it to the jury.”

Mary, sitting between the two lawyers, looked from one to the other in amazement. “Are you two really considering not putting on a defense
in a death penalty case
?”

The question, put so starkly and simply, set the issue in relief for all of them. They were silent for a moment, each left to her own thoughts, and conscience. “Be right back,” Bennie said abruptly, and got up.

“What did you do to Harting?” Bennie demanded.

Connolly scoffed on the other side of the bulletproof glass, in the gray suit she had worn for the second day in a row. “I didn’t do anything to Harting.”

“You got to her, I know you did. How did you do it?” Bennie leaned forward, bracing her hands on the skinny metal ledge between them. “Did you send Bullock to promise her the world? How did you keep him off the OV logs? Money buys guards, isn’t that what you said?”

“You’re outta your mind, Rosato.” Connolly sat straighter, annoyed. “Harting wouldn’t do jack shit for me. I killed her girlfriend, remember?”

“So why did she recant?”

“Why are you asking me?” Connolly threw her arms into the air. “How the fuck do I know? Why’d she make up the story in the first place?”

Bennie stopped short, then eyed the face that looked so much like her own.
Why’d she make up the story in the first place
?
Suddenly she realized how Connolly had gotten to Harting. “You didn’t get to her last night,” Bennie said, thinking aloud. “That’s why it didn’t show in the OV logs. You went to her after you killed Mendoza and Page. You made the deal before the trial. You had it rigged—the testimony
and
the recanting—
from the beginning.
”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Connolly said evenly. Her expression betrayed nothing, but Bennie didn’t need confirmation.

“You told Harting to come forward during the trial. You told her to call the D.A.’s office and offer herself up. You fed her enough information to make it credible to the jury and to me. You knew Hilliard would see a slam-dunk surprise witness. You knew when Harting recanted it would screw up the prosecution’s case.”

Connolly smirked. “Don’t try to guess how cons act, Rosato. You’re an amateur. Shetrell was trying to kill me, why would she make deals with me?”

“Because you made it more profitable to side with you than kill you. What did you offer her? A cheaper supply? You in business on the outside and her in business on the inside?”

Connolly’s eyes narrowed. “Why the fuck are you here? Shouldn’t you be working on my defense?”