by David Ellis
“How far, would you say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fifty feet away? Hundred feet?”
“Close enough to see.”
“Give me a distance.”
“I don’t know.”
Shelly touched Joel’s arm, and he deferred to her. “Mr. Slattery, the boy who was running? Can you tell me what you remember about him?”
Slattery rubbed his cheek. His skin was rough and blotchy. You could clean off the dirt but you couldn’t erase years of malnutrition and poor hygiene. “He had a bag. He had a gun.”
“He had a gun,” Shelly repeated in a soothing voice. “Where did he have it?”
“I don’t know. He shot the cop with it.”
“You saw him shoot the cop?”
“Yeah. The cop didn’t have a gun.”
Well, that last point was unsolicited. But the time for that issue would come later. “The cop hadn’t removed his gun from the holster.”
“Right. The kid shot him. The cop was just standing there.”
“This was in the alley.”
“Yeah, in the alley. Yeah.” The man nodded enthusiastically.
“The cop had nothing in his hands?”
“No, sir,” he answered, even though he was addressing Shelly.
“Okay, so—the cop had nothing in his hands and the boy had a gun.”
“Right,” he said. Shelly saw Joel scribbling in his notepad. This was good, because the witness was wrong on this point.
Shelly took a chance. “And who else was there?”
Slattery blinked. His eyes narrowed.
“You said the cop who was shot,” she said. “You said the boy who shot him. Wasn’t someone else there?”
“There was another cop.”
“Yeah, but I don’t mean him. I mean the other person in the alley.”
Slattery looked off to the side and inhaled. Shelly, of course, was bluffing. She had no concrete knowledge that any other person was in the alley. This was tantamount to a cross-examination, suggesting an answer and trying to force it on the witness. She wanted him to know that she “knew” of another person, so he would feel free to tell her. The witness’s face contorted, and Shelly couldn’t tell if she was tripping the man up or confusing him.
“Can you describe the other person in the alley for us, Mr. Slattery?” she asked.
“Don’t know. Don’t know about another person.”
She wanted to come across the table and grab him. “There was another person.”
“I said I don’t know. I don’t know about that.” He began to tap his foot.
They went back and forth like that a while longer. She wanted to sound as if she knew it to be true that another person, besides Miroballi and Alex, had been present in that alley. She wanted Slattery to think there was no reason for him to deny it. But he didn’t take the bait, either because it was not true or he was afraid to say so.
Finally, she sat back in her chair and let Joel continue. Joel went through a number of subjects over the next half-hour. Slattery adamantly denied that he was either intoxicated or suffering from his bipolar disorder at the time of the shooting. Shelly couldn’t know, on any topic of importance, whether he was telling the truth. He certainly seemed to be sympathetic toward the government, who was temporarily housing, feeding, and medicating him. But she knew what she needed to know. His testimony would be damaging, which meant that she would have to go after him at trial.
As to whether another person was present at the shooting, she considered it an open question.
38
Cannibals
SHELLY HAD LEFT Joel Lightner with several assignments. First and foremost, she wanted him to find Eddie Todavia—Todo—the young man who supplied the narcotics to Alex. He was probably a peripheral player in this affair, but she had come to the conclusion that Alex’s word could not be trusted on any particular subject. To hear Alex tell it, he sold to only a handful of professionals at the investment banking firm, and he bought in bulk, only periodically, from Todavia. To hear Officer Julio Sanchez tell it, Alex was a confidential informant who possessed critical information about the drug operations of the Columbus Street Cannibals, information that Officer Miroballi dearly wanted in order to make a career-enhancing arrest. This kid Todavia might not be the answer, but he was a start.
She heard a knock at the door of her office and blinked out of her funk.
“Don’t you ever leave your desk?” Paul Riley asked.
Her thoughts ran to their moment two nights ago. She had enjoyed it on many levels, but she was not unaware that their feelings for one another were not mutual. There were men who were looking for the door the moment the sexual encounter had ceased, but Paul did not fall into that category. Shelly, in fact, had been the one to leave.
Why couldn’t sex just be sex?
She opened her hands. “Just a hard-working stiff.”
Paul cleared his throat. “This guy, this doctor’s at a medical convention. Meets this woman doc, and they decide to go up to his hotel room.”
She sat back in her chair with an anticipatory smile.
“So they do what they’re gonna do, y’know, go at it for a while. Then he says to her, ‘I’ll bet I can guess what kind of medicine you practice.’ He says, ‘You’re a pediatrician. Because you’re very gentle.’ She says, ‘Wrong, I’m a proctologist. But I’ll bet I can guess what kind of doctor you are.’ He says, ‘Okay.’ She says, ‘You’re an anesthesiologist.’ He stands back and says, ‘That’s amazing! How’d you know I was an anesthesiologist?’
“She says, ‘Because I felt a little prick, and I was asleep five minutes later.’”
She covered her face. “Riley, don’t you have any clean jokes?”
“Sure.” He folded his arms. “But you need something edgy.”
“Do I?”
“You’re too uptight. Relax a little.”
She laughed to herself and stared at him. He seemed to have a renewed confidence after their time together, a break in the tension. Then again, it was hard to read him. The reason he thrived, she realized, was that he wore so many faces. When he was arguing before a judge or negotiating with her during the sexual harassment case, he was all business, bold and somewhat intimidating. When he was in front of a jury, he wore the aw-shucks humility like it was second nature. She could imagine him at a table of his colleagues, former prosecutors, telling jokes far more profane than the ones he told her, lifting a beer and violating twenty rules of political correctness. She wondered where, exactly, she fit in, what face he wore with her. And what his real face looked like.
“Let’s grab some dinner,” he suggested.
“I don’t know, Riley.”
He raised a hand. “Just dinner.” He nodded at her paperwork. “Your trial’s, what, seven weeks away?”
“Forty-seven days,” she corrected.
“Plenty of time.”
“Doesn’t feel that way. I have lots of catch-up to play.” Shelly was preparing a subpoena to the city police department to obtain records of their internal investigation of the shooting. For backup, she was also filing a FOIA request—a request under the city’s Freedom of Information Act—seeking the same information. She was relatively sure she would be denied this information but it was worth a shot, and maybe she could add some public relations pressure down the road.
Paul nodded. She could see his disappointment, that he sensed she was giving excuses. Maybe she was. She was trying to be reasonable, trying not to give false hope. Because it was like she had said to him initially—this was not the time. Maybe she had been caught up in the moment the other night, but when it was all said and done, she wasn’t ready for a relationship with him, not on a level other than sex. How would he react if he knew that Alex was her child? What would he think of what she was doing on an emotional and professional level?
No. Not the time.
“Any way I can lend a hand?” he asked.
“I do h
ave a question, if you don’t mind.”
Paul took a seat across from her desk. He seemed to enjoy the opportunity, on any level, to spend time with her. His coat was off, as it usually was within the office. She noted the breadth of his shoulders, highlighted by the dark blue braces strapped over them. The guy knew how to dress, give him that. It was more than just matching colors; he looked comfortable.
“Tell me about the Cannibals,” she said.
“The Cannibals.” Paul’s chest heaved. “This has something to do with your case?”
“I’m just trying to educate myself on the drug trade and things like that.”
“Well—these guys are about the scariest thing around right now. They’ve got about a thousand recruits, I’d say. They use the kids to do the hard stuff, the enforcement—”
“Right.”
“—because we can’t give them much time inside.”
“Why are they so scary?” she asked.
“Because they are very organized. Very disciplined. The higher-ups don’t even acknowledge who they are. They don’t drop signs or wear colors. The higher-ups, you could pass them on the street and you wouldn’t know it.” He crossed a leg. “The point is, they are very smart and very hard to bring down. The U.S. Attorney has tried. The county attorney has tried. Everyone’s tried. They get the occasional lieutenant, but no one’s been able to crack the principal structure. They are considered to be the most effective Latino street gang in the nation.”
“Do you—”
“And they’re ruthless, Shelly. You know how they kill—at least when they want you to know?”
She nodded. “They sever limbs.”
“Exactly. They cut a guy’s arms off and leave him to bleed to death. Does your case involve them?”
“I don’t know. Do you think the Cans would kill a police officer?”
Paul’s face went white. “You think the Cans killed this cop.”
“I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“Well, for Christ’s sake, let me in here.”
She could have taken that comment in more ways than one. “The dead cop’s partner—Sanchez is his name—Sanchez says that Miroballi was looking to make a big bust on the Cans’ turf. He says he was using Alex as a C.I. to get in there, and Miroballi was becoming concerned that Alex was flipping on him. So I’m thinking, what if that’s true? If it’s true, and Miroballi’s hunch was correct—well, that means Alex told the Cans what Miroballi was up to. And if that’s true, maybe the Cans ambushed Miroballi.”
Paul stared at Shelly, his mental machinations working over this information. “Killing a cop,” he started. “That’s a big attention-getter. The premeditated slaying of a police officer. I mean, it’s not as if Miroballi would be doing this solo. It would be a decent-sized operation, I’d expect. So you kill one cop, you just whet the appetite of the cops to come after you.”
“Assume it wasn’t a big operation,” she posited. “Assume that it was one cop, frustrated that he isn’t moving up the chain, looking to make a name for himself. A big bust.”
“Not realistic. If it’s big, there’s protection. Miroballi couldn’t waltz in like Rambo and take down the entire place.”
“Okay, so I don’t know the details. Maybe he gets it set up and calls in the cavalry. He still gets kudos for the bust. Just play along with me.”
Paul sighed again. “Well, listen, if that’s what he was thinking—if the Cans thought this was a single, renegade cop, then sure, it might make some sense to take him down.”
“And not in their signature way,” she added. “No arms severed. In fact, they can put the whole thing on Alex. They don’t leave any fingerprints at all on this thing.”
“Then I’d take out Alex, too, if I were them.” Paul played with his cufflink, rotating it around the cuff of his shirt. “He’s the one guy remaining who could tell a story.”
Shelly felt the juices flowing. It always helped to bounce things off a colleague, especially someone as well versed in gang crimes as a former state and federal prosecutor. “Maybe they know he won’t talk,” she offered. “Maybe they’ve made it clear that it would be a bad idea.”
“They’re holding something on him.”
“He has a daughter,” she said, and she felt nausea grip her stomach. Her granddaughter, Angela, whose guarantee of safety could be the reason Alex would remain silent.
“Let me step out of the theoretical to state the obvious, Shelly. Alex is white. The Cannibals are a Latino gang.”
“A Latino gang that’s smart, you said. The best. They don’t work with anyone who isn’t Latino? They wouldn’t pay off a white cop, for example, just because of the color of his skin? Or a black politician—”
“No, I see your point.” Paul scratched absently as his jaw. “I can’t say that doesn’t make sense. You said your guy—Alex—he was working at some I-banking outfit.”
“McHenry Stern.”
“Sure. I know it well. Yeah, I suppose the Cans could find out about a guy like that and want to diversify. They make a deal with him. They let him know what happens if he turns on them. Then he gets approached by a city cop, Miroballi. So what does Alex do? He tells the Cannibals all about this cop, and they take him out. Alex gets caught and he remembers what the Cans have said. He talks, Alex’s little girl—hell, maybe his whole family—gets the full-throttle Cannibal treatment.”
“He talked to the feds, though,” said Shelly. But she answered her own comment, as the idea took shape. “But all he told the feds about was Miroballi. He never mentioned the Columbus Street Cannibals.”
“A kid like that is playing a dangerous game.”
“Dangerous, sure, but what choice does he have?” Shelly came out of her chair. “He’s out of good options. If he drops on the Cans, his family is in danger. So he drops on Miroballi. He tells them what they want to hear. Miroballi is a dirty cop. And then he knows what’s going to happen. He knows Miroballi is going to get killed. Maybe he’s part of the whole ambush.”
“He could have gotten federal protection for his family,” said Paul.
“Sure, if he’s thinking straight. He’s just a kid. And the F.B.I. wasn’t even thinking about the Cannibals. They wouldn’t even know to bring the idea up to him.”
When she had finished, she was still. So was Paul. This was an entirely plausible scenario. It depended on a number of variables, none of which Shelly could prove or even knew to be true.
Paul got up so that they were both standing now. “Shelly, I want you to promise me you’ll tread lightly here. The Columbus Street Cannibals do not take prisoners.”
She raised her eyebrows.
He pointed at her. “Promise me that.”
“I promise, I promise.”
Paul tapped the door and left the room. Shelly wanted to collapse, but she realized that her night was just getting started.
39
Silence
ALEX BANIEWICZ LOOKED relieved upon seeing Shelly. Relieved but haggard, his many weeks in pretrial detention obviously showing their wear. In the seven days since she had seen him, Alex had lost weight that he could not afford to lose, which added a pronouncement to his eyes and nose. His hair was flat, probably owing to the hardness of the water—and to the fact that Alex probably took few, and very short, showers for obvious reasons. Shelly’s first impression, whenever she arrived to visit, was always the same—an utter helplessness, the knowledge that even if she could get him off these charges somehow, she could not spring him right now. Over forty days still remained until trial, and a smart attorney might ask for more time, waive the right to a speedy trial and take more time to investigate. For strategic reasons, she was unwilling to do so. She felt that a quick trial worked to her advantage. Yet she had to concede that another reason to speed things along was the fact that she had serious doubts that Alex could survive an extended term incarcerated.
Her second impression, always, was that she was going to lose this case, and he was goin
g to end up incarcerated anyway. She had theories. She would tell a story that would be supportable, but at the end of the day, a police officer was shot and there was no particularly strong evidence—that she had seen so far, at least—to justify that act. She thought she had a decent chance of beating the death penalty and maybe even getting a reduction down from murder in the first degree, but outright victory seemed so far from her reach at the moment that it was hard to even consider. And yet that was all that she was doing, looking for the smoking gun or the magical piece of evidence that would irretrievably alter the course of this case.
“What’s wrong?” Alex asked, which was an interesting reversal of roles.
Shelly sat in the chair next to Alex’s chained position at the edge of the table. She did not hug him or even touch him. The rules of contact, since the change in their relationship from friends to mother-son, had not been defined. “How are you doing?” she asked. She knew how she would answer that question.
“Hanging in there,” he said. His voice was weak. His expression indicated exactly what she had feared—hardened features, lifeless eyes. Alex was apparently no more optimistic than Shelly about his future.
“Alex, I think it’s time for us to stop dancing. I’ve been afraid to ask you some questions, and you have been unwilling, for some reason, to be straight with me.”
“I haven’t been straight with you?” he asked.
She tapped the table lightly. “Alex, you have to understand that I am your lawyer first. And as your lawyer, I don’t judge. I simply look out for your best interests. If you’ve done something you’re ashamed of, or you wouldn’t want anyone to know, you still can tell me. I don’t care. But I—”
“Shelly, come on. Cut to it.” Alex seemed to lack the energy for speeches.
Fair enough. “I think there is more to the story than you’ve been telling me. I think someone else was there with you that night. I think maybe someone else pulled the trigger, even. And I want to know why you won’t tell me about it.”
