by David Ellis
“So you don’t trust him.”
“It’s more like I think he has some reason for not telling me everything. I feel like I have to figure it out myself.”
“Don’t fuck around with the C-Street Cans, Shelly.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Well, hear it again. Don’t go busting balls in their camp. Let it go.”
“Let it go, even if I’m right?”
Joel wet his lips. “Your own client won’t even back it up, Counselor. So what do you think is going to happen? You’re going to get YoYo to waltz into court and confess that he decided to have Ray Miroballi whacked?”
Jorge Joaquinto—referred to on the streets as “JoJo” but derisively by law enforcement as “YoYo”—was believed by the government to be the top leader of the Columbus Street Cannibals. Joel had a point here. She had no way of making a Cannibal admit to hitting a police officer, at least not one still wearing his arms.
“So let me get this straight,” she said. “Even if it’s true that this gang killed a cop, made Alex take the fall, and is threatening Alex’s family to keep him quiet—even if all of that’s true, I should let it go.”
“You should be realistic. What, you’re going to put Alex on the stand and treat him as an adverse witness? Cross-examine him? Come on.” He glanced at her. “What’s your great plan?”
“Don’t have one,” she conceded. “But I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do.”
“You’re not going to give up on this.”
“Damn straight.”
Joel pulled the car over at the curb by Shelly’s office. She had another late night ahead of her. She had been working with a forensic pathologist on the distance of the gunshot. She was drafting an appeal of Judge Dominici’s ruling two days ago that she could not make the city police department open its internal investigation to her. And she felt, in many ways, like she was just getting started on this case, constantly starting back up a new hill.
“That kid really thought you might shoot him,” she said. “Just like that, for no reason other than the fact that you weren’t getting the answers you wanted. And I thought I knew their world.”
“Say, Shelly,” Joel called to her as she left the car. She poked her head back in through the passenger’s window. “That was a cheap shot back there. Nice kick, but cheap shot.”
She couldn’t disagree with that. But she had felt less than charitable toward the young man. And the element of surprise was always the most effective weapon of all.
41
Shadows
SHELLY SIGHED WHEN she returned to her office. She not only had the appeal of Judge Dominici’s ruling on the police investigative file to finish, she had promised to look over a complaint that one of the law firm’s associates was planning to file with the state Human Rights Commission, alleging racial discrimination against a company in town. This extra work was the price of these nice offices and resources—a price that she had insisted on paying, but still, it was keeping her away from full-time concentration on Alex’s case.
Her cell phone buzzed. She recognized Joel’s number.
“We were followed tonight,” he told her. He sounded breathless. He was in the car, she could tell, from hearing the radio in the background.
“Who?”
“Well, I don’t know. My guys picked it up. A pretty good tail, I have to say. I had no idea.”
“You weren’t looking for it,” she said. “But who?”
“Well, I’d assume law enforcement. Probably the feds.”
She didn’t know how to react. There was something creepy about it, no doubt, but she felt a measure of validation. It told her that she was onto something here. Maybe.
“We lost them,” said Joel. “In fairness, we weren’t ready for it.”
“Sure. No problem. What do you suggest?”
“I’ll put a tail on myself,” he said. “If I’m followed again, we’ll get ’em. But I don’t think they’ll make that mistake again, Shelly. They probably know we outed them.”
“Don’t be sure.” If it was the F.B.I., enforcing Shelly’s promise that she would not expose the operation prematurely, they might want to be noticed.
She hung up and noticed the newspaper sitting on the corner of her desk. Paul Riley had written a note from his personal stationery—“FYI”—and she saw the article. The Daily Watch was following the closing days of the state legislative session, in which the Democratic-controlled House and Senate had passed legislation to repeal the ban on abortions funded by public aid. The law banning publicly funded abortions had been passed in the late ’90s, when the G.O.P. controlled the Senate and there were enough conservative Democrats in the House to pass the bill. That law had effectively ended any state funding of abortions—with the necessary exceptions to satisfy the Supreme Court—which meant that it had affected only the indigent, those who needed public aid to pay for the procedure.
The Democrats, now in control of both chambers, had passed a bill two days ago to end the ban, to open up the taxpayers’ wallets once more for this particular procedure. Governor Langdon Trotter had vowed a swift veto. His challenger in the November election, Anne Claire Drummond, bitterly criticized the governor’s response. This was not about abortion, she said, so much as it was about treating the poor differently.
The story accompanied an article that showed a surprisingly strong showing for the Democratic nominee. Anne Claire Drummond was a former state legislator and congresswoman from upstate. She had made a name for herself as a proponent of universal health care, which was probably not the way to endear herself to the state’s voters. Drummond was the liberal among the Democrats vying for the nomination and was not, as far as Shelly could tell, the preferred choice of a party trying desperately to break the G.O.P. stronghold on the governor’s mansion. But she had run a series of snappy television ads that got her out to an early lead, and women crossing over from the G.O.P. had provided the necessary votes for Anne Claire Drummond to hold on against two male opponents.
If the election were held today, the Daily Watch said, Governor Trotter would receive 51 percent of the vote, and Congresswomen Drummond would receive 47. That wasn’t bad. Shelly assumed a lot of that was attributable to Drummond being the new kid on the block. When they went to the polls, most voters in the mainstream voted for comfort, and that usually went in favor of the incumbent. And her father was no lightweight. He seemed to know exactly where to draw the lines in an election year. Short of a major scandal, Governor Trotter could expect to be re-elected by a comfortable margin.
Short of a major scandal, she repeated to herself.
The Daily Watch, in an editorial, agreed with the Democratic nominee Drummond on the governor’s promised veto of the abortion bill. Abortions should be safe and rare, it said, but not based on disparities in income. And didn’t an abortion spare the taxpayers from supporting this child born to a dependent family? Whether from a cost-benefit analysis or an issue of fairness, the governor was wrong.
We will say this much for Governor Trotter: He is at least consistent. He has opposed abortion from the first day he took public office as the Rankin County Attorney. He tried to close women’s health clinics back then; supported protestors as Attorney General; and as Governor, he has quickly signed anything that remotely limits abortion rights and vetoed anything that even hints at supporting the cause. He is wrong, but at least we know where he stands.
Shelly took the newspaper and ripped it in half. She threw it across the room, then went over and retrieved it. She continued to tear at it until it was reduced to tiny rubble. When she was finished, she gathered some material, turned off the light, and went home.
42
Wounds
USUALLY SATURDAYS FLY by. This one, yesterday, slowed to a crawl, beginning with their discussion in the morning, when Shelly dropped the bomb on them. It was an hour or so before her parents could even gather themselves to provide a meaningful response—a response, that is, other
than questions about the father of her child, or the rhetorical how-could-you-do-this question. Private discussions took place, phone calls (Shelly was relatively sure, presumably to her grandparents), a long walk in the evening.
The matter was postponed, finally, for the following day. Today.
She awoke this morning with the same grief and remorse, but with an indignation as well. Why hadn’t she been included in these conversations, this intricate mapping of the next step?
Her parents are already seated in the living room, with the obvious position on the sofa open to Shelly. She apologizes again, immediately, before she has even taken her seat. She realizes that she has acted irresponsibly. She realizes that her actions affect everyone, not just her. She has some ideas of her own about how this can be worked out. Above all, she is very, very sorry.
Her father, in particular, looks at Shelly as if he’s never seen her before. Or, worse, like he has known her his entire life and can’t believe the depths to which she has sunk. “Well,” he says, opening his hands. “Now we have to clean up the mess, don’t we?” He is calm. There is no trace of the anger and disappointment, of the passion from yesterday.
She looks at her hands. “If you want, I could stay with Grandma Jeannie until—”
“I’m not sure that’s the best option.” Her father crosses a leg. He avoids eye contact, swings his foot nervously. “There are some choices that we don’t like, Shelly, but that make sense. Under the circumstances.”
Shelly looks at her mother, who avoids everyone’s stare. She blinks away tears, staring off in the distance. Shelly feels her mouth open.
“I don’t think I’m ready to be a mother, Dad—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Shelly, and I think you know that.”
She recoils. She is hearing this wrong. She is looking at a man who marched with the protestors outside the Anthony Clinic. A man who has brutally criticized an activist Supreme Court for creating a “right” that doesn’t exist. A man—
“You’re a young woman, Shelly. You have your whole life ahead of you. This would change everything.”
“It already has,” she whispers.
“But it’s not too late, Shelly, to keep this from—”
“I tried, Daddy. I couldn’t.”
He freezes. He looks at Mother, who has snapped to attention as well.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
She tells them. She tried. She went to the Anthony Center and something made her stop. Yes, of course she gave her real name.
“Well.” Her father flaps his arms. “My daughter went to an abortion clinic without telling me.” He is talking to Mother. “I bet that gave them a real chuckle.”
“It’s confidential, Daddy. They won’t tell.”
“They won’t tell, she says.” Again, to Mother. “Shelly, you don’t know these people.”
“I didn’t know what to do.”
It is a moment before he speaks again. He leaves his chair and paces, into the kitchen and back, his hand over his mouth, then the back of his neck. Mother is silent but seems to be keeping watch on each of them. She is nothing more than a spectator. What does she think, Shelly wonders. Why won’t she give an opinion? Shelly feels anger herself now. A wave comes over her, something she can’t put into words. Change, is the only word she can use.
“All right. Fine.” Father washes the air with his hands. “I had a place in mind out of state, but as long as they already have your name, it’s as good a place as any.”
“As good a place as any for what?” Shelly is startled by the control in her voice.
“Shelly, it’s okay now. I’m telling you, it’s okay with me.”
She gets to her feet without realizing it, reactively. It is different. She will remember it always as the single defining moment of her life. Yet she is not overwhelmed, because the change is coming from within. “You think I stopped it for you?” She spits the words in a fury she has never known, that grows with each syllable.
She leaves the room and goes upstairs. She will apologize to them again, and again, before she leaves their home. She is so very sorry this has embarrassed the family, that she has injured Daddy’s political aspirations. But that cannot be reversed now. Nothing can be. The looks on their faces. The words. She will leave. She will leave and never return to this place, to these people she has never truly known until now.
43
Notice
SHELLY’S PHONE WAS ringing when she walked into her office after eight o’clock. She picked it up before it went to voice mail.
“Jerod Romero, Shelly. From the U.S. Attorney’s office.”
“Jerod. Your ears must have been burning.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, I have to disclose my witnesses for trial. Should I just use your work address?”
The prosecutor’s laugh was less than sincere. “It goes without saying, I assume, that you will not be listing me as a witness just yet. Which brings me to the reason I’m calling. Are we abiding by our agreement, Ms. Trotter?”
“You mean, am I running around telling people about your undercover operation?”
“Yes.”
“No, Jerod, I’m not. Why do you ask?”
“Because it occurred to me that, in proving self-defense, you have to show that Miroballi was part of a drug scheme. And if you start asking around about cops selling drugs, you are touching on our operation. See what I mean?”
“Yeah, I see that.”
“So?”
“So. I have managed to provide Alex his constitutional right to adequate representation while at the same time preserving our plea agreement, such as it is.”
“People’s lives could be at stake, Counselor.”
“That’s been true for the last two months. What prompts the call now, Jerod?”
“Just making sure.”
“You can tell your goons I didn’t mention your operation to Eddie Todavia. He’s the guy who supplied Alex the cocaine, if you didn’t recall.”
“I do.”
“You’re not denying that you’re having me followed.”
“As long as you understand how seriously we’re taking this,” he said, which was not quite the same thing as an admission. “We’ll violate your client, and if I have the slightest indication that you’re jeopardizing undercover agents out there, I’ll have a half-dozen agents at your door, too.”
“That must be fun,” Shelly opined. “Saying things like that.”
“You’re on notice, Counselor. The F.B.I. doesn’t have a sense of humor about this.”
“Duly noted.”
“One more thing, Shelly. About your case. Obviously, there is going to be a point in time when you are going to discuss our operation in open court.”
“Yes.” Which meant that the federal government would have to make their arrests within the next month or so, before Alex’s trial began. Shelly sensed that it irked Jerod Romero that Shelly knew this, that the prosecutor enjoyed having the element of surprise.
“My question to you is, do you plan on doing it right away? With the voir dire? An opening statement?”
She had had the same question. As she had begun to develop her trial strategy, she was leaning toward postponing her opening statement until the beginning of the defense’s case, which the state’s criminal procedure rules allowed. Her thought was to ambush Dan Morphew with the information. But she might need to ask certain questions of the state’s witnesses that touched on the subject.
“I probably wouldn’t mention it to the jurors,” she said. “But beyond that, Jerod, I can’t guarantee anything. The state will have to try to disprove self-defense because I’ve pleaded it. So I expect it to come up.”
“And you won’t consider moving the trial date.”
“I won’t. You really need more time, huh?”
“Well, obviously. We weren’t planning on ending this operation so soon. We will probably miss the chance to put away a numbe
r of people.”
“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “Really. I hate to think that we’re messing with an operation that takes down dirty cops. But I have to do right by Alex. I think a quick trial date is what we need here.”
Romero sighed. He understood, of course, but that didn’t mean he liked it.
She hung up the phone. She was not entirely sure why she had been so glib initially with the prosecutor. She was going with her gut. She had the feeling that she had to keep everyone on edge and wait for something to happen. She had the feeling that a lot would happen between now and the trial date.
44
Continuance
THE VIEW TO the east. The city was really a breathtaking sight so late at night, when most of the downtown buildings were dark, the shoreline alive with the goings-on at the pier, the restaurants and lighted carnival rides. She leaned forward and pressed her nose against the window. There was so much promise, so much energy, so much emotion in this enormous metropolis.
Paul thrust himself inside her further. “I’m telling you, Ms. Trotter, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
With the lights out in Paul’s corner office, she could see the reflection of him standing behind her, pants to his ankles, tie pulled down, applying the same dedication that he brought to any task. “Are you always going to whine like this?” she asked.
He cried out like a wounded animal, gripped her waist for another few seconds. “Damnation, Shelly Trotter.” He left her and attended to his business. Moving quickly, he was dressed and presentable within two minutes. “Sure, a little danger. Why not?”
“Danger, sure.” She had pulled up her panties. “You checked every office on the floor to make sure everyone was gone. On a Sunday.”
“Baby steps.” He opened his hands. “Now can we eat?”
“Back to work,” she said.
