Jury of One

by David Ellis

  Shelly shrugged. “Maybe we should give Sanchez the benefit of the doubt. He didn’t know Alex. He admitted that. He didn’t know Alex. Maybe he assumed Alex was a bad guy. Maybe he thought this was some kind of rough street justice. I’m not a cop and I don’t live in their world. What matters, though, is that Sanchez’s deliberate unwillingness to involve himself in this confrontation proves my point even more. This whole thing was a setup. Miroballi finds the guy he wants to eliminate, and just before he does so—just when he has his target pinned down, helpless and injured in a dark alley—he calls in, ‘Suspect is armed.’”

  She flapped her arms. “Sure. Of course. Suspect is armed, so when I shoot him, I can claim self-defense. But what does Miroballi need to make this happen? He needs a second, unregistered firearm. He needs a couple of packets of cocaine. Nothing that would be hard for a cop to get hold of.” She wagged a finger. “That gun that we have seen in this case wasn’t fired, but it was going to be fired. It was going to be fired right after Ray Miroballi killed Alex. He was going to kill Alex, then put a gun in his dead hand and fire it into the wall. Then Miroballi has an airtight justification for killing Alex. He was chasing a perp who was carrying drugs. The perp fired at him. He fired back and killed him. All of this happening in a deserted downtown on a very cold and dark February evening. And if it hadn’t been for Ronnie Masters tossing a bottle to distract him, his plan probably would have worked.”

  She flipped her hand. “Let’s go back to Sanchez now. We know he heard a gunshot and did nothing. We know he eventually ‘jogged down’ to the alley. Then, of course, he saw something he never expected to see. He saw his partner lying dead. So then he calls it in. But what about this unregistered firearm sticking out of Ray Miroballi’s belt, or tucked in his jacket, or wherever it was? And what about these packets of cocaine Miroballi brought along to plant?”

  She shook her head. “No. No good. Those can’t be found on Miroballi. That wouldn’t just make Miroballi look bad. It would make Sanchez look bad. So he tosses them in the general direction of where Alex ran. He tosses the gun. He tosses the cocaine. That story, at least, could sell. Then he waits for the cavalry to arrive.”

  She looked at the prosecution. “Mr. Morphew has a rebuttal. He gets the last chance to talk to you. Let’s hear what evidence he has to prove I’m wrong. Because he has no evidence that puts that second gun in Alex’s hand, or Ronnie’s hand. He has absolutely, positively no explanation for that second gun—or for that matter, for the cocaine. What—we’re supposed to believe what Ray Miroballi said? Sanchez didn’t see any cocaine. He knew what his partner was doing. This whole thing was a setup, I’ll say it again, and we know why. Ray Miroballi was undeniably guilty of sex with a minor—a simple DNA test of Ronnie, Miroballi, and—well, me, would prove that. And he knew that. This is a man who would lose his job, and maybe his wife, and be on the hook for child support. He couldn’t have any of that. Easier just to kill the boy who you think is your son. Kill the boy and get on with your life. And since you’re a cop, it’s easy enough to set the whole thing up.”

  She looked down and lowered her volume. “The reason we’re still here—the reason this case is still going on—is that the person who died was a police officer.”

  She was referring to the prosecution as well as the judge, who in Shelly’s estimation should have directed a verdict of not guilty after the state closed its case. Judge Dominici lacked the fortitude to make the tough call, and so did Elliot Raycroft.

  “But this case has nothing to do with cops. This isn’t about sending a message to police, one way or the other. This is about a man looking to commit a cold-blooded, premeditated execution who happened to wear a blue uniform. And since no one else has the courage to do the right thing, I’m asking you to do it.” She looked at the jurors’ faces. “All of you know that Alex acted in self-defense. But you don’t even have to go that far. All you have to find is that the prosecution has not proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Alex didn’t act in self-defense. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is an easy call.”

  She walked over to Alex and put her hands on his shoulders. “One man already tried to take away Alex’s life. I’m asking you to give him his life back.”

  79

  Slow

  PAUL RILEY PUSHED the remaining half of his dinner away. “Well, Shelly Trotter, I have to tell you that I’ve seen quite a few cases in my time, and heard lots of interesting stories about people’s lives, but—”

  “I’m topping the charts.”

  “Hey.” He shrugged. “All’s well that ends well.”

  It had ended rather well, she would have to say. The jury had returned a verdict of not guilty by reason of self-defense after four hours of deliberations. Alex had slept in his own home for the last two nights. His legal problems were over. He had already pleaded out his drug case with the U.S. Attorney, and now his murder charge was beaten. There was always the possibility that the county attorney would charge him for extorting Ray Miroballi, but there would be no way to make that case. Alex hadn’t admitted to that on the stand. He had testified, when pressed by Dan Morphew, that he had never asked Ray Miroballi for money, and there was no one alive to refute it. And she was relatively sure that the county attorney would never have the appetite to prosecute Alex for that, anyway.

  Ronnie Masters had not been entirely forthright in his plea agreement with the county attorney. It was debatable whether he had lied about a material fact, which is what would be required to tear up the plea agreement, but at a minimum he had omitted some important facts, which would be grounds itself. In the end, however, all legal technicalities aside, Ronnie had simply helped Alex after the fact in a crime for which Alex had been acquitted. And the county attorney had suffered some embarrassment. Elliot Raycroft had informed Shelly yesterday that he considered the matter closed with regard to Ronnie.

  Did her father have a hand in that? She had to concede the probability. This was different from dropping the charges in the middle of a cop-killing trial. This was a fairly technical application of the law concerning a broken plea agreement, which was not particularly interesting fodder for the press. The media had been far more fascinated with the facts that Ronnie disclosed on the stand than in whether he had technically played loose with the county attorney. This gave plenty of leeway for Raycroft’s office, and for whatever reason—a political favor, the desire to put the entire affair behind them, or the feeling that the interests of justice did not require charging Ronnie—Raycroft was taking a pass.

  “I can’t thank you enough for everything you did, Paul. Your advice. Your firm’s financial support. You have been wonderful.”

  He responded in typical fashion, deferring the praise. She saw something more, too. Paul was trying to read between the lines. This, she knew he was thinking, sounded an awful lot like goodbye.

  He clapped his hands together. “So what are your plans now?”

  She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I was thinking about going back to the law school.”

  “Mm-hmm. That’s where your heart is, I suppose. You could stay with us. Run our pro bono program full-time. Christ knows, we need someone to do it.”

  She smiled at him. “That’s very kind of you—”

  “Make three times the money and do a lot of the same stuff.”

  She looked down. “I think you hit on it. The school is where my heart is.”

  That, she was sure, was something Paul Riley could understand. The law was his passion, too, even if it took a different form. She missed that place dearly, she now realized. She missed Rena, the students, their fresh idealism and commitment.

  Paul was watching her. There was a sense of loss about him. She imagined that Paul Riley rarely felt vulnerable.

  Oh, he really was such a wonderful guy. Beneath that polished exterior were a compassion and tenderness that he had willingly allowed her to see. She had kept him at arm’s length and he had accepted it; he had been patient with her. It w
as just—just—

  Not now.

  She had so much time to make up with so many members of her family. She would be thrown into the fire when she returned to the law school. “Paul,” she began, keeping her eyes down, “I want you to know—”

  She felt his hand on her wrist. He looked at her with an intensity she had never seen from him.

  “Let me in,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, let me in.”

  She looked up at him sheepishly.

  He shook her wrist. “Or tell me you have no feelings for me. That—that I could accept. But this. This I can’t accept.”

  “What is the ‘this’ you’re referring to?”

  “This whole act of yours. This whole thing about keeping everyone at bay. Would you just take your goddamn foot off the brake?”

  She put a hand on her chest in defense. “My foot’s on the brake?”

  “Hey.” He softened his grip on her wrist. “Look. I see things about you that I didn’t before. You went through some terrible stuff. You experienced some real trauma. You separated from your family. But look at you. Look at what you’ve accomplished, in spite of all that. You’re a talented, beautiful, compassionate, courageous person. You can have so much if you would just come out of that damn shell—”

  “I get it, Paul.” She withdrew her wrist from his grasp. “Fear of commitment, I get it.”

  “I’m in love with you, Shelly. Don’t ask me why or how, the way you’ve been stiff-arming me. But I am.” He drew his hands back and forth between them. “See what I’m doing here, Counselor? I’m putting myself out there. I’m opening up. I’m taking a chance.” He looked up, held open his palms. “And I don’t see the sky crashing down.”

  She realized that her mouth had fallen open. “Well.”

  Paul trained a hand in the air. “I—look. I certainly don’t expect you to return the compliment, Shelly. I’m just saying, Think about it. Just think about what I said and maybe—get back to me. Okay?” He signaled for the check.

  The waiter arrived shortly. They knew each other and chatted briefly. The waiter made a joke about his wife and walked away. Paul smiled and watched the waiter leave, probably because he didn’t want to return his focus to the table. “Anyway,” he said. “Enough of the serious talk. I’m sorry, it just sort of came out. This was supposed to be a celebr—”

  “I’m a vegetarian,” she said to him.

  He didn’t catch her point. “I know that.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t even really like seeing other people eat meat.”

  He watched her a moment, then chuckled. “I can’t swim.”

  “I have a scar like you wouldn’t believe from the Caesarian.”

  He pursed his lips. “I don’t like olives on pizza or anything else, but I love them in martinis.”

  “I think I snore.”

  “How would you know?”

  She smiled. “I woke myself up once.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t like being judged for liking meat.”

  “I have a teenaged son whom I plan to spend a lot of time with.”

  “I have a legal practice that is rather demanding as well.”

  The waiter arrived, cracked another joke with Paul. He signed the receipt and handed it back with a remark of his own. Somehow, Paul seemed to know that this young man was putting himself through college. He looked back at Shelly with a measure of expectation.

  “You really can’t swim?” she asked.

  “Just flop around in the water like a drowned kitten.”

  She released a laugh. She didn’t know what the term ready meant. Paul was right; she had spent so many years with the brakes on, she couldn’t even find the accelerator. But it felt—what was it with him?

  Possible. Yes. Possible.

  “Slow,” she said to him.

  “Hey, slow is good,” he answered. “I like slow.”

  80

  Forward

  A RECENT POLL IN the Watch found that Governor Langdon Trotter had suffered a drop in popularity in recent weeks. The article attributed it less to the revelations in the Miroballi trial than to his reaction to it. The governor had issued a single statement on the entire subject, which Shelly could recite by heart: My personal life will remain personal and not public. I hope the voters will have the wisdom to judge me on my four years as governor. I will gladly stand on that record. I expect my opponent to direct her attacks at me and not my family.

  The media, in typical fashion, had chased the various tentacles of the story, from the Miroballi shooting to Shelly’s sexual assault complaint years ago. A story last week, from an anonymous source in the police department, indicated that the Internal Affairs division was focusing closely on whether Officer Julio Sanchez had tampered with the crime scene after the shooting. That same source indicated that Internal Affairs had opened a review of the circumstances surrounding Shelly Trotter’s report of her sexual assault years ago, and whether illegal means were used to conceal facts and pressure Shelly into dropping the charges.

  Shelly didn’t know how they obtained half the stuff they did, but the reporters had dug up some good information. They learned that the detective who had initially fielded the case was a woman named Jill Doocy, now living out east and raising her children. The case had then been transferred to another junior detective named Howard Stockard—the man who had convinced Shelly to drop the charges. It was unclear why the case had been transferred, but it was known that Howard Stockard had worked in the same station for a time with then-Officer Anthony Miroballi, who was now a lieutenant.

  Stockard was deceased, and Jill Doocy said that she did not recall the specifics, which might or might not have been true. What was true, however, but unknown to Shelly as a teen, was that the crime Shelly had reported was statutory criminal sexual assault—it was rape regardless of whether Shelly consented, because she was a minor at the time and Ray Miroballi was not. The fact that she gave birth to his son was indisputable proof that Ray Miroballi had committed a felony. Thus, Detective Stockard’s questions back then—his suggestion that she had consented to the sex but was having remorse after the fact—were entirely improper if he knew that the person who had raped Shelly was Ray Miroballi.

  And he did know. Because the media had found Dina Patriannis, just as Alex’s investigator had, and she confirmed that she had identified Ray Miroballi to Detective Stockard.

  Shelly sat on the park bench and enjoyed the sun on her face. Soon, the police would be contacting her about that long-ago incident, she imagined, and she would tell them what she knew.

  She knew now, for certain, what she had suspected all along—Ray Miroballi’s brothers had been the ones who had broken into her apartment and threatened her. She had thought at the time that they had acted out of familial loyalty, or because they were involved in drugs along with their deceased brother. She knew differently now. They knew who Shelly was, obviously, from way back when. They must have hit the ceiling when they learned that Shelly Trotter, of all people, was defending the person who killed their brother. What the hell was she doing on this case? They were afraid. They were afraid that Shelly knew that Ray Miroballi had raped her, and if she knew that much, it wasn’t much of a leap to implicate Tony and Reggie Miroballi in the cover-up of that rape.

  It would never be proven. She couldn’t possibly make a case against them. And in the end, it probably could never be conclusively proven that the Miroballi brothers pulled strings for their little brother back then. With Detective Stockard dead, there would be ample reason to think that Tony Miroballi used a chit with Stockard, but no proof. There almost certainly would not be criminal charges against the Miroballis, if for no other reason than the statute of limitations probably had expired. And in all likelihood, there would be no departmental disciplinary action against them, either. Shelly would have to rest with the comfort that anchors would be attached to their legs in the department; they might keep their jobs but would not move up.

  And she w
asn’t sure how much she cared about that. She had made a commitment to remove the “Rewind” button from her brain. She preferred to look at what was in front of her.

  Alex sat in a sandbox in the park with his daughter, Angela, who wore a set of pink overalls, preferring to scoop the sand with her hands instead of the tiny shovel provided to her. From her spot on the bench, Shelly saw the look of relief on Alex’s face. Things were not perfect for him. He had lost half of his junior year of high school while incarcerated; with that setback and tough financial times for him and his daughter, he was inclined to drop out and get a full-time job. Shelly had used all of her powers of persuasion, including the offer of financial assistance, to convince him to stay with it and graduate. That, after all, was what she was best at—keeping kids in school.

  Elaine Masters—Laney—finally had been informed of the relationship between Shelly and Ronnie, though Shelly had not been present. According to Ronnie and Alex, she had not appeared to have particularly strong feelings one way or the other about Shelly. That was because Laney was an addict, and alcohol had become the consuming focus of her life. Shelly wanted to help, but it was not as if she could pounce into their lives and start making changes. She could only hope that, someday, Laney would find the strength to want to help herself. And if she did, Shelly, Ronnie, and Alex would be there to help.

  Ronnie Masters, standing only a few feet away, was filming Alex and Angela with a camcorder (courtesy of Paul Riley), providing running commentary and trying to coax Angela to speak for the camera. Ronnie would definitely graduate, and he had that legislative scholarship to Mansbury College after his senior year of high school. Mansbury was just a car-ride away, so Ronnie could commute, stay close to Alex and little Angela. And Shelly.