by David Ellis
She felt a surge of adrenaline—positive juice—for the first time in a long time. Maybe Ronnie had nothing to do with this. Sure, it seemed like he was there. But he didn’t do anything but try to help Alex out of the jam afterward. No reason to implicate him. Irrelevant, is what it was. A textbook case of self-defense. She’d been foolish to think otherwise.
Her phone rang after ten o’clock. It was county prosecutor Daniel Morphew.
“Haven’t heard back from you,” he said. “I thought we were talking here.”
“What was that, Dan? Seventy years? I don’t think so.”
“Well, that much I figured. I’m saying, come to the table.”
“I need something more enticing than seventy years to get me to the table. Okay, you want a counteroffer? How about time served?”
Morphew made a noise that resembled a mischievous laugh. “Okay, Counselor. I’ll give you a discount for the headline today. Everyone hates cops, right? So take fifty. And I’m bidding against myself here.”
“I’ll take it to my client, Dan, but no way.”
“He killed a cop, Shelly.”
“A scumbag.”
“Listen—I’m not arguing merits with you here. I’m saying, he killed a cop. There’s only so much we can do here, even if we wanted to make this go away. We have to work with these guys every day of the week. Cops have to trust us. See what I’m saying?”
Of course she did. “After today’s headline?” she said. “They’ll be on their heels for quite a while. You guys are big boys.”
“Then tell me no, Counselor. Tell me that there’s no way we can deal.”
She didn’t catch the meaning.
“Tell me there’s no deal you will take. No middle ground.”
He needed to hear the words. Okay. He was saying this wasn’t his idea. He had orders from on high to make this case disappear. He needed to be able to report a resounding “no” from Shelly Trotter. This could be a bluff. Most lawyers wanted to appear reluctant to make a deal. The best settlements were the ones where both sides walked away unhappy, or at least pretended to be unhappy. But she hadn’t seen much of that bullshit in Dan Morphew. She was betting that he was being straight with her.
“Elliot wants to make this go away?” she tried, invoking the name of Morphew’s boss, County Attorney Elliot Raycroft.
The grunt again, Morphew’s version of a laugh, only this time it seemed less sincere, less pleasant. “Okay, Counselor. If that works for you.”
She felt her blood boil. She had expected something like that answer but it didn’t reduce the sting. Morphew wasn’t directly saying the words because he couldn’t afford to be quoted. He assumed they were speaking the same language. The county attorney wasn’t calling the shots either, he was saying. Elliot Raycroft was heeding a call from higher up.
“Every one of those guys in the federal sting is going on my witness list,” she said. “I’ll have it to you by the end of the day.”
“The cops rounded up? C’mon, Counselor. One has nothing to do with the other.”
Shelly smiled to herself. Dan Morphew, to date, had absolutely no idea what Shelly was going to do with her self-defense argument. He didn’t know about the plea arrangement Alex made with the F.B.I. He didn’t know that Alex had ever been picked up by the feds at all. Shelly had played a game with the prosecutor. She had counted on the fact that she could prove everything she needed through Alex, her client, whose testimony she was not required to disclose to the prosecutor. But since the feds had made their bust a little sooner than she had expected, she would now disclose Jerod Romero, the federal prosecutor, as well as everyone else involved in the sting. She had already begun to put together the supplemental disclosure. But she was feeling a little mean right now, bitter, after Morphew had all but told her outright that Governor Langdon Trotter was interceding to help plead out this case. So she wanted to deliver her news to Morphew personally.
“Alex was part of that sting,” she told Morphew. “He was working for the feds trying to nail a certain drug-dealing cop. A cop by the name of Raymond Miroballi. Miroballi was one of those guys, Dan. And Alex was trying to help put him away.”
Silence at the other end of the phone. She wondered if Morphew had swallowed his tongue.
“This was coming out through Alex,” she continued. “But since the feds decided to move on the other cops, I might as well—”
“You haven’t disclosed shit about this,” he said.
“Well, as I was saying, Counselor, I didn’t have to. Moreover, as you will soon learn, we had a confidentiality agreement with the federal government.”
“That doesn’t mean squat to me—”
“No, I suppose not. Like I said, I was going to put this on through my client. But now that the U.S. Attorney has gone ahead and made his bust, I might as well go full throttle. The judge isn’t going to stop me.”
“This is an ambush, Shelly. This is—this is bullshit.”
“Name a rule I violated,” she said. “You can’t. I’ll have a disclosure to you by day’s end.”
She heard papers ruffling on the other end. She had just made Dan Morphew’s next two weeks much more difficult. She had considered not naming these new people, sticking with her plan of putting on this evidence through Alex. But she decided against it. She wanted the jury to see as much of the grime as possible. She wanted to parade corrupt cops to the witness stand and ask them technically relevant questions—Did you work with Ray Miroballi to sell drugs and protect drug dealers? Did Ray Miroballi tell you that my client, Alex Baniewicz, had flipped to the feds? Did Miroballi tell you that he had to kill my client to keep the operation going?—knowing full well that the witnesses would refuse to answer any of the questions. They would take the fifth, while Shelly threw all of these vicious accusations at these cops for the jury’s benefit. She would have at least six opportunities to do this, and by the end of the trial, the jury would have heard these suggestions so many times, they would certainly have to wonder.
“We’re adding a witness of our own,” Morphew said.
“Yeah?” Shelly felt the familiar heart palpitation of a lawyer near trial.
“Eddie Todavia. Ring a bell?”
She didn’t respond. She felt a slow burn in her chest.
“Getting back to an earlier point,” he continued. “You’re telling me there’s no chance of a deal.”
“Tell him whatever you want to tell him,” she answered. “Tell him to kiss my white Irish butt.” She hung up the phone and went for her coat.
54
Cross-Examination
TWO PHONE CALLS was all it took. Two calls to Mari Rodriguez, the governor’s chief of staff. Sixty minutes later, she was walking into the Maritime Club, one of the exclusive, predominantly male clubs in the city. Shelly did not walk among these people generally speaking, but Governor Langdon Trotter certainly did.
She knew he was in town today. It was a rather inconsequential fact to her, not because she was too busy to see him but because, busy or otherwise, neither was likely to make much of an effort to see the other. Fine. That was fine. Stay out of her way, she would stay out of his. It had been an unofficial truce for years. Anger had turned to indifference, and usually stayed there, or at least she wanted to think so.
She took the elevator to the eleventh floor, where she had scheduled her meeting. You had to schedule with the governor. But if you were an irate daughter almost screaming into a cell phone, adjustments were made. Shelly was relatively sure that the offices nearby had been cleaned out. You’re governor and you want privacy, snap a finger and it happens.
Mari wasn’t around. All she saw when the elevator popped open were two members of his security detail, wearing suits and grave expressions, phone cords winding from their waist into earpieces.
“Hello, Ms. Trotter,” one of them said. “Right this way.” They led her to an ornate set of double doors that opened into a posh library.
“Thank you, boys.”
Shelly followed the direction of the voice and saw her father sitting in the corner, reading a report of some kind. The doors closed behind her and they were alone. The whole floor was probably cleared.
“Well, hello there,” he said. The governor’s jacket was off and his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms. He removed the reading glasses perched on his nose.
She felt her hands curl into fists, but she had vented much of her anger in the hour that she had waited. She had done plenty of thinking and her calculations had produced a measure of calm.
“You know,” she said simply.
He didn’t leave his chair, which told her something. He placed a bookmark in his report and took his time setting it down on a nearby shelf. “What do I know, Shelly?”
“You know about Ronnie.”
He produced an exaggerated sigh and got to his feet. She had almost forgotten how large he was. Wide shoulders, broad neck, still the full head of white hair offset by the steel blue eyes. His lack of an immediate answer was an answer itself.
“You put the I.R.S. on my legal clinic,” she said. “I blamed the federal prosecutors for that. But it was you. A quick call to your buddies in the administration. You jeopardized a nonprofit clinic that helps kids who have no one else to help them. Classy. That’s really something.”
Her father’s tight lips parted, but he didn’t speak.
“Then you tell your little puppet Raycroft to cut a sweet deal for me. Anything to keep this quiet. Right? Anything to keep me off it, at least.”
Her father looked her over. In part, it had to be a father’s curiosity, the soulful way a man looks at his grown daughter. Was he proud of her? Impressed with her accomplishments? She couldn’t pretend that she didn’t care about his opinion. Why, she could not say. She did not understand the quirky human trait that made a grown, independent woman crave her father’s approval, even now.
“You couldn’t have me ruin another election,” she concluded.
“Oh.” Her father looked at his hand a moment, rubbing his thumb and index finger together, an old habit. “That makes it easier for you, I suppose.”
“That is exac—”
“And it never occurred to you”—he raised a trembling, angry hand while keeping his voice even—“it never occurred to you that I was trying to protect you?”
“That makes it easier for you.” She shook her head. “You could have told me—”
“Yes.”
“—and let me make that judgment.”
“Yes. And if you had ever come to me over the last seventeen years and asked me if I knew where your son was, I would have told you. But you didn’t, Shelly.”
“I didn’t know you knew. I thought it was confidential.”
“I’ve held state office for fourteen years. You’re a lot of things, Shelly, but you’re not dumb. You knew I could find out.”
She deflated.
“But you never asked.”
“And when it was clear that I wasn’t getting off this case, no matter what you did?”
He nodded. “I could have told you. I didn’t.” He sighed and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. “The boy knows?”
“Yes.”
His jaw clenched. The information was coming loose now. The dam had sprung a leak.
“Do you see this information becoming public?”
Her shoulders rose and fell. “I can’t control Ronnie.”
“Try,” he said.
“I’ll ask him but it’s his choice.”
He didn’t seem to take that well but, as always, he hardly gave a visible reaction. The Trotter family was adept at outward appearances.
“All it would mean is your daughter chose adoption over abortion,” she said. “That works for you politically. As long as no one knows which option you wanted.”
She saw the fire, momentarily, in his eyes. She had stung him with that one. She felt the rage building, not from her father’s reckless interference in this case but from many years ago. That was the real reason she was here, she now realized, to say these words to him.
“You feel better now?” he asked.
“Not really. You?”
“Me?” He laughed. “No, Shelly, as always when it comes to you, I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
A nice counterpunch. She felt like she was back in that room, watching the expressions on her parents’ faces as she broke the news. The shock. Disappointment. Anger. Amazing, how quickly these feelings could return to the surface.
“It wasn’t my choice for you to get pregnant when you were just a girl,” he said. “That was your choice. And it was your choice not to tell me who the father was. And your choice to move away from home.”
She felt the heat rise to her face.
“But I dealt with it,” he continued. “I found your son a home. Maybe things didn’t turn out perfectly, but who can ever guarantee such a thing? And yes, when this young man was arrested for shooting a police officer—”
“Alex.”
“Yes, when Alex was arrested, I was aware that he lived with—” His eyebrows lifted, as if the entire matter disgusted him.
“With Ronnie,” she said.
Her father wet his lips. “Yes. Of course, I was concerned. I didn’t understand why, of all people, you would be involved. I thought maybe you knew about—the situation with the boy.”
“Ronnie,” she said again. “His name is Ronnie.”
“Okay, fine.” He spit the two words violently, as if they were one. He lifted his hand. “In any event—it turned out that you didn’t know anything about it. You happened to know this boy Alex, and so there you were, defending the quasi-brother of your son. Of course, I was concerned. So yes, I tried to use some persuasion to move you away from it. And yes, maybe I put in a word to Elliot Raycroft. You were sitting next to a loaded grenade, young lady, and apparently you didn’t even know it.”
She looked away from him. He had not lost his ability to persuade. But he was rationalizing. She felt her teeth grinding, which also brought her back to her teenaged years. It had all come back like an avalanche. She could see the shame even now, as he struggled even to utter the name of her son—his grandson. His complete, unadulterated disappointment. And beside her anger sat a feeling she struggled to identify. She felt, on some level, completely ridiculous. Ashamed of herself? Not quite. She realized that she had viewed herself, her life, through the lenses of her father. Was that the reason she had refused, these years, to acknowledge the existence of her son? Because it reminded her of the person who had let her father down so severely?
The issue, to use a legal term, was moot. Done. Inescapably over. And that, more than anything—that overwhelming sense of regret, of the inability to change past events—whisked the breath from her lungs.
Her father mumbled something, took a step to the side, slowly paced. He made his way over to the window. “First time I ran for this office,” he began. “There was that mistake in my nominating papers. A mistake big enough to topple my entire candidacy. I assume you heard about that.”
She had. Everyone had. When her father’s nominating petitions were filed for the governor’s race, one of his staff had failed to file the original of a particular document. The issue had been raised in the context of a murder trial involving the chief aide of her father’s Democratic opponent. By the time the information was public, the deadline for challenging nominating petitions had expired, so there was nothing anyone could do about it. The fact that her father had to ask her if she’d heard about it highlighted the gulf between them.
“The truth is, I knew about it before it was public,” he continued. “About a week after our papers were filed. I’ll never forget the look on the staffer’s face when he told me. My jugular was fully exposed. If I had been knocked off the ballot for a rinky-dink mistake like that, I would have been finished.”
She looked at him.
“And you know what was the first thing that went thro
ugh my mind? The very first thought, after the staffer told me? As I was looking at the end of my political career?”
She blinked. Her eyes cast down on the carpeting.
“I thought how pleased that would make you, Michelle Ingrid.”
She watched him a moment, staring out the window, rubbing a hand over his neck. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “Goodbye, Dad,” she said.
55
Ready
THE GUARD BOLTED Alex’s cuffs onto the table. Shelly realized that she could no longer remember what Alex used to look like before everything went south for him, the radiance in his expression, the gentleness in his manner, the humor. She moved to him and kissed him on the cheek. It brought a measure of life to his face.
“How you holding up, kiddo?” she asked.
He nodded. He was a bit disarmed, she could see.
“You know about the F.B.I. bust?”
He nodded. Shelly showed him the list of names of the people arrested. “Do you know any of these people?”
Alex directed his focus on the sheet with an intensity she had not seen in him before. He sat back. “No.”
“You seem relieved.”
“I thought the guys at McHenry Stern would go down.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t thought about that. “The guys you supplied at work.”
“Yeah.”
That made sense, perhaps, that the F.B.I. left them alone. First, because they hadn’t arrested—and wouldn’t be arresting—Alex, which could lead to some sticky cross-examinations at trial. Second, because these guys were buying three to five ounces a week, which was far beneath what normally interested federal agents. They might, on the other hand, refer the case to the state prosecutors.
“I don’t know any of those folks on this list,” Alex said.
“Okay.” That might or might not be okay. Shelly might well prefer that Alex was on a first-name basis with all of the crooked cops and gangbangers. “So listen, Alex. We have ten days until trial. We’ve got two different theories we’ve talked about. We have to make a call. At least between us, we do. I might be able to play some games up there, but we have to be straight what we’re doing.”
