by David Ellis
She refused to elaborate. Romero could fill in the blanks, anyway. A covert visit from one of the city’s finest, threatening her and/or Alex. Perhaps Romero would consider tailing Shelly now—not so much to protect her but to catch a nervous cop looking to harass her. But more important, he would be watching Alex, hopefully more closely than ever. Surely the federal government had ways, even in a county-run facility. She certainly hoped so, because she had few options. She needed to keep it a secret as much as he did.
Romero ran a tongue against his cheek, folded his hands. He lingered in that position as if he had something to say but wasn’t sure. Finally, he looked at her and said, “Sixty years.”
Shelly stared at the floor, her breath whisked from her lungs. “Sixty,” she repeated. “The county attorney agreed to sixty years?”
“State time is one-for-one,” he said. “With good behavior he’s out in thirty.”
She ran her fingers through her hair. Her vision was spotty. She felt herself swooning.
“Sixty years is a godsend, Ms. Trotter.” The prosecutor’s tone held a rebuke. She was supposed to be grateful.
She should be grateful. Sixty years—really only thirty—for shooting a cop in the face? So why wasn’t she thrilled? What had changed? Nothing should. Whether she was Alex’s mother or defense attorney, her interests were the same. Weren’t they? Alex’s best interests.
Was it easier when they were looking at the death penalty, or life in prison? Did it make the solution easier? Fight it out. All or nothing. Now, with a compromise, she was looking at giving him willingly to the state.
Giving him up. Again.
“Where?” she heard the lawyer in her ask.
“Where—does he serve his time, you mean? Downstate, I assume.”
“Federal prison,” she said. “Has to be.”
“I can’t do that. For shooting a—”
“Do it,” she said. “And I’ll discuss it with my client.”
“Ms. Trotter—Shelly.” The prosecutor opened his hands. “I hope you’ll tell him he’d be crazy not to take this deal.”
“We’ll have to discuss it,” she managed, getting to her feet. She walked down the aisle and gently pushed against the swinging door.
“Maybe I can get a federal correctional center,” Romero called out. “Would that do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Shelly. Thirty years, easy time.”
“Mr. Romero,” she said as she hiked her bag over her shoulder, “there’s nothing easy about thirty years.”
18
You
SHE WAS BACK to Paul Riley. Shelly had started with him and, after meeting with over twenty defense lawyers across the city, had returned to him. Because he was the best. Because his practice was thriving, unlike many of the state-court criminal defense attorneys, so he might be more willing to take on a case that didn’t pay. Because he had been the top lieutenant at the county attorney’s office back when he put away the infamous killer, Terry Burgos. Because he’d been an Assistant U.S. Attorney before that, and probably knew better than anyone how to navigate the murky waters between the two prosecutorial offices.
Because she detected something in the way he looked at her? She thought of herself as rather plain-looking, tall and athletic, her mother’s curved face and pointed chin, thick hair that fell to her shoulders with little ado. But she wasn’t blind to the looks on the faces of many gentlemen who made her acquaintance, and Paul, who otherwise managed a passable poker face, hadn’t done a good job of concealing his opinion. Maybe he wasn’t trying to.
“So the shooting of this cop falls right in the center of an undercover federal sting,” said Paul. Shelly had broken the oath of secrecy but felt perfectly secure in doing so, in this context, one lawyer to another, explaining the merits of the case to the lawyer who might be handling it. Did Paul know that this was the scenario?
“Timing is a question,” he said. “We don’t know how much time they want to wrap up their investigation of the dirty cops. Could be months. Could be years. The more time they need, the better your leverage.” He snapped his fingers absently. He and Shelly were across the street from Paul’s office. It was a primarily carry-out diner with a small counter. Paul lifted a slice of chicken off his plate. He clutched a napkin in his other hand.
Shelly had a fruit plate before her but couldn’t touch it. The men behind the counter were shouting to each other in Greek. Piles of sliced chicken and burgers sizzled on the grill. The place reeked of fried foods.
“I don’t want to plead him out,” she said.
Paul wiped his mouth. “Premature. Investigate first. Find out about the dead cop. See what the feds have on him.”
Shelly looked at him. “I didn’t come here so you could tell me to investigate the case before I plead out my client.”
He smiled briefly, then turned to her. “Shelly, I start trial in less than thirty days. It will last eight weeks at least. It’s a multiple-defendant Medicare fraud case. And I have a civil RICO trial scheduled for four weeks after that. Even bigger.”
“And those clients pay,” said Shelly. She immediately regretted the comment. She couldn’t impose her priorities on Paul Riley.
Paul let it slide. “What I would be happy to do is help. Anything you don’t understand, or if you want some advice or my opinion, I’ll be available. Evenings.”
“Won’t you be preparing for trial in the evenings?”
“Yes, but there are plenty of lawyers I’m working with. It’s a pretty big defense team.”
Paul Riley, in other words, was the showboat who took the labor of the toiling attorneys and wove magic in the courtroom. Shelly gave up all pretense of attending to her food and swiveled on her chair. “Tell me what I need to do to change your mind.”
Paul found this amusing. “There is nothing you can do, Shelly.”
“We’ll move the trial date,” she offered. “To fit it into your schedule.”
“Shelly—”
“I’ll find a way to get you paid.”
Paul held up a hand. “I’ll help, Shelly. No charge. But that’s it.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“There are dozens of first-rate trial lawyers in this city. I would be happy to recommend one.”
Shelly deflated. A road already traveled. Her mind angled for the right words, but Paul was not even close to equivocating. “Fine,” she said. “Recommend someone.”
He wiped his mouth and threw the napkin on his plate. “You,” he said.
“Me.” She spat the word from her mouth. “I’ve never handled a capital murder case.”
“You’re one of the best lawyers I ever opposed, Shelly. You don’t even realize it.”
“I’m not better than you.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” he said. “And perspective.” He touched her leg, just a tap, in a way that Shelly found inoffensive. With his movement, Shelly detected a hint of his cologne and felt a stirring. “That case we had, you and me? I walked in thinking there was no way I could lose. But I’ll tell you, Shelly, I had a little sweat on the back of my neck when that jury came back. I actually thought you had talked a jury into giving millions to a fifteen-year-old who played out a schoolboy’s fantasy, screwing a beautiful teacher.”
“That was a civil case,” she answered.
“But I was under the impression you had handled a number of criminal cases.”
“Juvies, Paul. Not an adult case.”
He waved his hand, as if that ended the conversation.
“Not a capital case, Paul.”
“Oh, look.” He swiveled on his chair to face her. “Shelly, there are a few details that are specific to a criminal trial, compared to juvenile court. With those, I can help you. Otherwise, it’s just putting twelve in a box and trying to convince them your side is right.” He looked over her head. “There are a handful of good lawyers who could do this, I suppose.” He shook his head. “But they’l
l want to be paid, and even if you find a good one willing to work pro bono, you offer some things that they don’t.”
She grimaced but did not take the bait.
“For one,” said Paul, happy to answer his own point, “you hate to lose. That case we had? I’ve never seen anyone so upset at losing.”
“Every trial lawyer hates to lose.”
“True, but it usually comes down to money. Plaintiffs’ lawyers hate to lose because they want in on the award. Guys on the side of the deep pockets, they want more business, and that comes from winning. You? You weren’t going to take any of that kid’s money, if he had won. There was nothing in it for you at all.”
“Fairness,” said Shelly. “Justice.”
“Oh.” Paul waved at her. “Sure, fine. But there was more there, Shelly. You have a chip on your shoulder, and I mean that in a good way. You take losing personally. You absolutely hated losing to me—in part because you thought I was a pompous ass, sure, but more than anything because you just hate losing, period.” He smiled at her. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
She shut her eyes. This guy was right on in his analysis. She seemed to spend her life fighting one battle or another.
“The other thing you offer,” he continued, now enjoying himself, “is passion. You care about this kid more than anyone else will. You’ll work harder than any of them. And I’ll be there to lend a hand.”
Shelly felt a tremendous tightening of her shoulders, a shot of anxiety to her heart.
“If I didn’t think you were capable, Shelly, I wouldn’t have recommended you. I don’t give false praise.”
It was the last thing she wanted to hear. What bothered her most was, she knew Paul was right. Despite herself, and somewhat surprisingly to Shelly, she had few doubts about her abilities as an advocate. She had already come around to Paul’s way of thinking. A jury was a jury. A case was a case. She had tried countless cases, some to a jury and some to the bench, and she had won most of them. She might need assistance with forensics, or particular rules governing criminal cases, but at the end of the day she was merely shaping the evidence to support her client’s position, something she had done a dozen times before a judge or jury. The only difference was the stakes. That had been her reason for seeking out Paul. She was trying to pass the responsibility. But Paul had been right when he said that Shelly would bring a determination to this case that no one else would—and he didn’t know the half of it. Maybe that’s what Alex saw, too, why he wanted Shelly to defend him. Given the options, Shelly was hard-pressed to quarrel.
“Can I trust this federal prosecutor, Romero?” she asked Paul, and she realized in doing so that she had made the decision. She would defend her son in a capital murder case.
“Don’t know the guy personally.” Paul waved to someone who walked into the joint. They exchanged jocular pleasantries before Paul leaned into Shelly. “This much I can tell you. A.U.S.A.s don’t think much of county prosecutors, and vice versa. It’s a turf thing. This guy Romero’s not going to be thrilled at the prospect of sharing confidential information with Elliot Raycroft or any of his underlings.”
“Meaning—”
“And that’s doubly true,” said Paul, lifting a finger, “if they suspect that county prosecutors are involved in this drug operation.”
She looked at Paul.
“Cops are pretty insular, yes. But protecting your drug dealers on the streets is a lot easier if you have some help from the guys who charge crimes. Is it the most likely scenario? No. But if it’s even a possibility, Romero is not going to want to tip anyone off.” Paul threw some money on the counter and called out thanks to the owner. “All I’m saying, Shelly, is this. Make sure you’re seeing things with your own eyes.”
19
Farewell
THE FUNERAL FOR Officer Raymond Mitchell Miroballi, which had taken place two weeks ago, had been covered extensively in the television and print media. At the time, Shelly couldn’t stomach reading or hearing about it. Instead, she had held on to the papers and now, for the first time, pored over news accounts.
The photograph of Raymond Miroballi in the paper was from the neck up. Miroballi was in uniform and cap, probably from several years ago when he became a cop. He had full, high cheeks, small eyes, a powerful neck.
The Miroballi boys were all cops. Ray was the baby at age thirty-eight, the youngest of three brothers, the other two also members of the city police force—Detective Second Grade Reginald Miroballi, forty-two, and Lieutenant Anthony Miroballi, forty-four. Ray Miroballi was the father of three children, ages ten, eight, and seven. He was married to Sophia Miroballi for twelve years and lived on the city’s south side, only a block away from where he grew up.
There were no pictures of Ray Miroballi’s brothers in the articles. She wouldn’t be able to provide identification anyway, given the ski masks they wore. Was that it? Had it been Ray’s brothers who had paid her a visit last night? She knew they were cops—they made a point of letting her know that—but they could have been other cops working with Ray Miroballi in their drug scheme. The only thing she knew with certainty was that anyone smart enough to concoct that scheme to break into her apartment had brains enough to craft an alibi as well.
She read again about the life of Ray Miroballi and his children. The paper listed facts. The details, Shelly Trotter would never know. His sense of humor. The things he did with his kids. Was he tyrannical? Did he spoil the children? A devoted husband? Happily married? How would his kids grow up now, having lost their father?
This was why she didn’t relish being a criminal defense attorney. She believed in the system with all her heart but didn’t want to be part of it, couldn’t be a part of it. What was the saying? A liberal was a conservative who had never been a victim of a crime. Well, she was probably considered a flaming liberal by most conventional standards, but not when it came to the rights of the accused. Who had protected her when she needed it?
Maybe her views had softened over time, but she made a distinction in any event with children. For them, the presumption of innocence was a multilayered concept. Kids who had turned down a wrong path at a young age could not be fully blamed for their actions. At such a young age, could the connection between their upbringing, their influences, be so casually severed from their actions? They shared fault, of course, but so often only their share was addressed by the justice system. Defending them was not so much seeking absolution for their acts but giving them another chance at an age when they still had so many options. Locking kids away in a delinquency home was rarely the answer. Kicking them out of school was never the answer, yet it had become, increasingly, the chosen course for school systems. Burdened with shrinking budgets and depleted resources, a school board simply found it easier to say to hell with some problem kid. That was just not acceptable to Shelly. Every kid deserved a shot at a good life.
She found herself reading and rereading paragraphs, her eyes passing over words as her thoughts were consumed by Alex. Alex, her client. Alex, her son. How was she supposed to react to that news? Neither she nor Alex seemed to know. Maybe in a normal setting, they could slowly move toward a relationship that was appropriate to the situation. But they were already friends, and now she was defending him from a capital murder charge and wondering what he wasn’t telling her. She had always loved her child, from the moment she gave him up, not even knowing it was a “him” as opposed to a “her.” But now, seeing this boy in the flesh, was she supposed to flip a switch and feel maternal love?
She shook her head harshly. If she couldn’t get Alex off these charges, there wouldn’t be much of a point to any of this talk of mother and son. She had to be his lawyer first. She looked up and saw Rena Schroeder standing in the threshold of her door. She had been there, Shelly sensed, for a lengthy moment. Shelly blinked out of her trance.
Rena was wearing an oversized sweater and a skirt. Her earrings hung down to her shoulders, below her cropped dark hair. Her arms were crossed; she
leaned against the doorframe. Her eyebrows arched in concern. This was something to see with Rena. Fifteen years representing children in an enormous city, she had seen it all, wore a weathered, seasoned expression that, to an outside observer, resembled indifference. Shelly sensed it was a defense mechanism.
So why the frown?
“The dean got a call from the I.R.S.,” she told Shelly.
Shelly cocked her head.
“They want to investigate our 501(c) status,” she continued. The Children’s Advocacy Project, though affiliated with the school, was technically its own nonprofit entity. A nonprofit entity was allowed tax benefits so long as it maintained its mission, which in this case meant work for children in education, housing, and juvenile court proceedings.
“Shit,” Shelly said. She scolded herself for not thinking of it. Defending Alex Baniewicz for an adult crime fell outside CAP’s charter. A nonprofit had to be damn careful about exceeding the scope of its mission. The I.R.S. could pull the tax-exempt status in a heartbeat, with financially crippling results. The project would be shut down.
“Have you done anything from this office?” Rena asked. “Filed any motions?”
“Yeah. Nothing major.” She chewed on her lip. “But yes.” She softly pounded her desk and looked up at her boss. “Did they mention the case by name?”
“No.”
“No,” Shelly repeated to herself. “Of course not. God, it didn’t take them long.”
“What does that mean?”
It meant Jerod Romero, the federal prosecutor, looking for some leverage against Shelly and Alex in his bid to keep his snitch in line. A quick phone call to a sister federal agency.
“Shelly—”
