“The Court will hear from you in due course, Mr. Miller,” Judge Guthrie said, and Miller withered into his seat. “Now, Ms. Rosato, you have also requested that we bring down the defendant, Ms. Alice Connolly, and I granted that request, though the notice was short. You must know it was a great deal of trouble for the Court and the sheriffs.”
“I’m sorry the Court was inconvenienced, Your Honor. I didn’t have much notice myself and since this is a capital murder case, I was sure the Court would want the defendant to be heard.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Judge Guthrie said. He slid his reading glasses from his nose and waved at the deputy with them. “Perhaps we should have the defendant brought in. Will you, Mr. Deputy?” A courtroom deputy in a navy blazer disappeared behind a side door in the paneled wall and emerged a second later, followed by a Philadelphia police officer with a black windbreaker over his uniform and an earphone plugged into his left ear. Behind the cop walked Alice Connolly in her orange prison jumpsuit.
Bennie stood when Connolly entered, but Mary sat as if fixed to her chair, her eyes widening. Alice Connolly looked so much like Bennie she could be her twin. The defendant had a cynical smile, her hair was bright red and raggedy, and she was thinner, but her features looked the same. What was going on? Mary didn’t think Bennie had a twin, much less one accused of murdering a cop. This case was looking worse and worse. She grabbed her pen. Anybody got a match? I’ll bring the hair spray. It’ll only take a minute.
“You can seat the defendant with us, Officer,” Bennie said. “Right here.” She got up and pulled out the chair at counsel table next to Mary, who flipped a page in her legal pad quickly.
“Excuse me,” Miller interrupted, pulling out the chair next to him. “Ms. Connolly should be seated here, as I’m counsel of record.”
The cop glanced from one lawyer to the other, powerless to choose, but Mary couldn’t focus on the seating dispute, she was too distracted by Connolly’s looks. Didn’t anybody notice the similarity between the defendant and her new lawyer? The D.A. barely looked at Connolly. The lawyer from Jemison, Crabbe didn’t react. Maybe nobody noticed because the context was so different: Bennie was a prominent lawyer and Connolly a criminal defendant.
Bennie was standing before the dais. “Your Honor, I’m not going to fight over the physical location of the defendant. Mr. Miller seems to think that possession of Ms. Connolly makes him her lawyer, which of course it doesn’t. He’s welcome to sit with my client, with my permission.”
“So ordered,” Judge Guthrie said. “Mr. Deputy, you heard her.” The judge cleared his throat as the cop in the windbreaker escorted Connolly to Miller’s table, where she sat down. “Now that the defendant is safely ensconced, please explain your position, Ms. Rosato.”
“Your Honor, Ms. Connolly contacted me by telephone yesterday and requested that I represent her effective immediately. She has an unfettered right to counsel of her own choosing and I am happy to undertake the matter, on a pro bono basis, but I seek a continuance. The trial is set for next week. I am requesting a month postponement, Your Honor, so that I may prepare my defense.”
“Thank you, Ms. Rosato.” Judge Guthrie tilted his chair to face the Jemison lawyer. “Mr. Miller, may I have your comments now?”
The associate stood up, clutching an index card like a security blanket. “Your Honor, I, my supervising counsel Henry Burden, who unfortunately was called out of the country this morning, and the law firm of Jemison, Crabbe, were appointed by this Court to represent this defendant and have done so for almost a year now. There is no reason to remove us as counsel and no reason to delay this matter. We hereby oppose the request for removal and the request for a continuance.”
“Your Honor,” Bennie argued, “Jemison has no standing to object to defendant’s choice of counsel. Until now they haven’t shown even a modicum of interest in this defendant.”
“Settle down, Ms. Rosato. I have your argument.” Judge Guthrie eased his reading glasses on and peered at the case file, turning the pages with care. “Does the Commonwealth wish to enter into this fray?” he asked, without looking up.
Dorsey Hilliard rose heavily, slipped his aluminum crutches under his elbows, and walked to the podium. His suit shifted at the sleeves, unnaturally bunched around the crutches, but Hilliard’s handicap was otherwise not an issue. “The Commonwealth takes no position on Ms. Rosato’s entry of appearance. However, the Commonwealth strenuously opposes granting a continuance in this case at this late date. This matter has been the subject of six successive postponements, most by the defense. The People would not be served by a seventh. The Commonwealth is fully prepared for the upcoming trial and is ready to go.”
Judge Guthrie frowned. “How about it, Ms. Rosato?”
Bennie took the podium as Hilliard shifted to the right. “Your Honor, none of the delays have been at defendant’s behest and none were chargeable to her for purposes of the speedy trial rule. The defendant’s right to counsel of her choice and to a fair trial should not be jeopardized because of circumstances beyond her—”
“Wait a minute, please,” Judge Guthrie hushed her, holding a nimble finger over the papers on the dais. “The Court would like to consult the record on this. Perhaps it would save us some time.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Bennie gripped the podium and struggled to remain still while the judge read. The restraint almost killed her. She considered silence an unnatural state for a lawyer.
“Let’s see,” Judge Guthrie said finally, still reading. “There are far too many continuances for a case of this gravity, Ms. Rosato.”
“I agree, Your Honor, but they appear to be the fault of current defense counsel, who have barely worked this case. The defendant shouldn’t be punished for her lawyer’s lassitude.”
Warren Miller shot between the two lawyers like a chaperone. “That’s not true, Your Honor. We have consulted, as needed, with the defendant. The continuances in the record were due to an illness of mine, then of Mr. Burden’s. One was because he was on trial on another matter. There’s no justification for removing us as counsel, Your Honor.”
“My, my. Please, all of you, take your seats,” Judge Guthrie said. The lawyers sat down as the judge focused his stern gaze on the defendant. “Ms. Connolly, it would appear that two skilled criminal lawyers wish to represent you. It’s an enviable position for someone accused of such a grave crime, and certainly rare, in my experience. Kindly take the stand and lend us some aid.”
“Yes, sir.” Connolly stood up, walked to the witness stand, and was sworn in. Bennie watched every move to try to determine what kind of witness she’d be, if she had to testify.
“Ms. Connolly,” Judge Guthrie said. “The Court would like to ask you a few questions to determine your wishes in this matter. As you know, this Court appointed one of the most respected criminal experts in this city, Mr. Burden, working with his associate, Mr. Miller, to represent you. Now Ms. Rosato tells us you wish her to act as your counsel. Is that truly your wish, Ms. Connolly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ms. Connolly, please state for the record why you wish Ms. Rosato to represent you.”
Bennie held her breath as Connolly answered. “I think Ms. Rosato cares more about my case than anyone and she’s a great lawyer. I trust her. We have a very close … trust.”
“Well. My, my.” Judge Guthrie paused. “There remains one question, Ms. Connolly. Why didn’t you raise this issue earlier? You’ve been incarcerated for quite some time.”
“I didn’t know Ms. Rosato would represent me before, Your Honor.”
“I see.” Judge Guthrie made a quick note with a thick black fountain pen. “Please step down, Ms. Connolly.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Connolly said, and as she walked back to counsel table flashed Bennie a quick smile. Bennie smiled back, but it was only for show. Connolly smoothly hadn’t revealed her belief that Bennie was her twin, which was at least a material omission. Connolly was a completely
believable liar, and it worried Bennie.
Judge Guthrie skimmed the record. “Well. Having considered this matter and taken all of the relevant factors into account, the Court grants Ms. Rosato leave to file an entry of appearance on behalf of defendant Alice Connolly.”
Bennie half rose. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
Judge Guthrie held up a wrinkled hand. “In addition, after due consideration, your request for a continuance is hereby denied. This matter has already been characterized by a number of continuances and delays, and this Court must not add to it. It is the Court’s responsibility to use judicial resources efficiently and effectively. Trial remains as scheduled. Jury selection begins Monday.”
Bennie gulped loud enough for Mary to hear. “Your Honor, Ms. Connolly is on trial for her life. It’s almost impossible to prepare a homicide defense in a week, in a death penalty case.”
“The Court understands your task is a difficult one, Ms. Rosato.” Judge Guthrie closed the case file. “However, Ms. Connolly is switching lawyers at the last minute for no reason that is apparent to me or anyone else. Jemison, Crabbe is one of the best law firms in this city, and my alma mater, I might add. While the Constitution mandates my decision on your entry of appearance, our forefathers, mercifully, chose not to tell me how to run my courtroom. The Jemison firm is to turn over its file to you forthwith and I’m sure that file is complete. So ordered.” Judge Guthrie banged his gavel, and Bennie took the file from Miller’s reluctant hand.
After the hearing adjourned, Bennie pushed through the revolving door of the Criminal Justice Center with Mary DiNunzio struggling to keep up. They charged past the curious stares of uniformed cops waiting in front of the courthouse and kept ahead of a pair of news stringers with notebooks. “Bennie, why are you appearing in Connolly?” they shouted. “What’s the story, Ms. Rosato?” “Please, Ms. Rosato, gimme a break here!”
Bennie hustled down the narrow sidewalk on Filbert Street into the sunlight. The stringers were rookies compared with the full-court press that would come later. Bennie expected the attention, but noticed that Mary had gone an unhealthy shade of white. She grabbed the associate’s arm while she hailed a cab and opened the door when it slowed to a stop. “Come on, DiNunzio,” Bennie said, pushing the associate in ahead of her.
She gave the driver her office address as her thoughts clicked away. She’d have to prepare the main defense and the death penalty defense at the same time, because if she lost the case she’d be on an hour later to save Connolly’s life. She’d have to find psychological witnesses, experts, school records. She’d need another associate and maybe an investigator, too.
Bennie was so busy making a mental list of things to do that she didn’t notice the gaunt old man lingering behind the crowd, dressed in a tweed coat despite the warm weather. He stood in the large shadow cast by City Hall, a felt hat pulled low over his eyes. Bennie wouldn’t have known him anyway, unless she remembered the photo of the airmen.
It was Bill Winslow, and he was watching her with a tight smile.
14
Back at her office, Bennie tore through the Connolly file in disbelief. Jemison, Crabbe hadn’t prepared any defense at all — no witness interviews, no investigation, no neighborhood surveys, not even lawyers’ notes. What were Burden and Miller thinking? She reached for the only full folder, bearing a label that read D.A. FILE — DISCLOSED AT PRELIMINARY HEARING. It contained a skinny transcript of the preliminary hearing and a bare-bones collection of incident reports, list of seized items, autopsy and toxicology reports, and mobile crime reports. There were no activity reports, the detailed logs of the police investigation.
“Bear with me, kids,” Bennie said as she flipped through the manila folder. The two associates, Mary DiNunzio and Judy Carrier, sat across the desk like Mutt and Jeff with J.D. degrees. DiNunzio was short and dressed like Lawyer Barbie in her blue Brooks Brothers suit; Carrier was almost as tall as Bennie and dressed like an artist in a loose denim smock, blue tights, and suede Dansko clogs. Bennie finished skimming the file and looked up. “I want you to drop everything, Carrier. You have to subpoena the police dispatch records. I want to know who called in this murder.”
“No problem,” the associate said, making a note on the pad on her lap. Her hair, shorn around her chin in a blunt, lemony bowl, fell forward like a bloodhound’s ears. “They keep that on tape, don’t they? The 911 records?”
“Yes, but by now the tapes have been erased. You’ll have to apply for the transcripts, the computer-assisted records. Now go get the office camera, will you? Marshall knows where it is, ask her. DiNunzio?” Bennie said, turning to the associate as Carrier left the office. “You know anybody at Jemison, Crabbe?”
“Sure, it’s huge. Two of my classmates went there, I think.”
“If they survived, give them a call. I want to find out how Henry Burden got this case and if he has any connection to Judge Guthrie. Be discreet, though.”
“How do I do that?”
“Take ’em to lunch or something. Get the dirt. You heard what Miller said in court, that Burden was called out of the country. What’s up with that? Run it down. Now grab your bag and the file. You’re ready to rock and roll, aren’t you?”
“I mean, sure. Right. Absolutely.” Mary was too intimidated to say anything else. Secretly she wanted to go to home, climb into bed, and read the classifieds. Were there jobs in America where you could tell your boss the truth?
Nah.
Drizzle tinged the sky gray and dotted the windshield of Bennie’s Ford. She pulled over and parked on Trose Street, across from the rowhouse where Della Porta had lived with Connolly. The house was squat, only two stories tall, with a wooden sign that read APT FOR RENT creaking on rusted hooks. It had black shutters that peeled unnoticed and its brick was a low-rent rust color, unlike the muted orange hues of Colonial brick. It sat next to a storefront day-care center and a rowhouse, also two stories, with a shutter missing on the second floor. Next to the rowhouse stood a defunct bistro and a tattered pink zoning notice glued to its boarded-up glass announced someone’s mistaken optimism.
“Let’s go, kids,” Bennie said, cutting the ignition. “DiNunzio, bring the file. Carrier, get the camera. I want you to take pictures of the street and the area outside.”
“Got it.” Judy climbed out of the Ford and flipped up the hood of a yellow Patagonia slicker. She looped the camera around her neck and began snapping pictures, shielding the lens from the weather.
Next to her, Bennie took a legal pad from her bag and made a fast sketch of the street, holding the pad close to avoid the raindrops. She drew the houses and the alley where the bloody clothes were found, which lay on the far side of the day-care center, going west. Beyond it were two more rowhouses to the corner, Tenth Street. Bennie walked to the alley as she sketched in the dented blue Dumpster. It still sat rusting against the brick wall of the alley, on the right. The alley went through to the next street and so could have been entered from behind. Cleaned up and spray-mounted on foamcore, Bennie’s sketch would become Exhibit D-1.
Her eyes swept the block when she finished, thinking about possible witnesses to the comings and goings at the rowhouse. The south side of Trose Street, where Della Porta’s house was, contained several rowhouses between it and the alley. They would be the houses from which most of the witnesses would come and, as such, they’d be the primary focus of the defense in the next few days.
Bennie pivoted on her heel. Across the street, directly facing the Della Porta rowhouse, was a newly constructed apartment building. All but four rowhouses had been demolished to make room for the building, eliminating the possibility of witnesses who would have had the best view of the Della Porta house. A plastic banner on the building read NOW LEASING FOR SEPTEMBER, and Bennie remembered the construction that Connolly had mentioned in their interview.
With the Nikkormat in front of her face, Judy snapped photos of both ends of Trose Street, until she realized Mary hadn’t gotten
out of the truck. She sidestepped to the half-open window. “Mare,” she whispered. “Mare, come on out.”
“No.” Mary sat in the backseat. “I’m not coming.”
“What? What do you mean you’re not coming?”
“I’m not coming. Which word don’t you understand?”
“Are you kidding?”
It was a good question, and Mary wasn’t exactly sure. “I’ve never been to a crime scene before. I don’t want to go to a crime scene now. Why do you think they put up all that yellow tape? Because crime scenes are not good places to go.”
“Mary, it’s your job.”
“No shit.” The associate’s head popped from the window and she blinked against the rain. “I know it’s my job, why do you think I hate it? If my job was making chocolate eclairs, I wouldn’t hate it.”
“Are you crazy? Get out of the car.”
“If my job was buying clothes, I wouldn’t hate it. Or reading books. Also I like to eat. Maybe I could get a job eating. Are there jobs like that, Jude?”
“What’s the matter with you? You want to get fired?”
Mary brightened immediately. “Why didn’t I think of that? Then I could collect unemployment, like the rest of America.”
“Carrier! DiNunzio! Let’s go!” Bennie shouted, the impatience in her tone impossible to miss. She was already climbing the front stoop of the rowhouse.
“Come on, she’ll fire me, too.” Judy opened the Ford’s door and grabbed the sleeve of Mary’s suit. “You’ll be fine, you’ll see,” she said, yanking out her friend and slamming the door behind her. They walked together to the front door, outdistanced by Bennie, who had slipped inside the entrance and already had her finger on the buzzer under a dented aluminum mailbox.
Mistaken Identity Page 7
