“It’s not dramatic, it’s realistic. You’re getting yourself into a position where there are no foundations for your emotional response. You’ve taken on the defense of a woman who might be your identical twin. Imagine that at the end of the trial, Connolly is found guilty of murder. Worse, she gets the death penalty.”
“I thought of that already. I’m doing everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Bennie turned away and waved a hand under the shower to test the water. It was ready, and so was she. “I won’t lose.”
“You could. You have to admit, you could. Cutting your hair, dressing like Connolly. You’re destroying the emotional distance you need as her lawyer and at the same time telling yourself it was there all along. You’re not in control, you’re just telling yourself you’re in control.”
“Grady, I have to take a shower, I really do. I don’t have time to discuss this.” She dropped the towel, stepped inside the tub, and rolled the shower door shut. Water coursed over her head and she closed her eyes to Grady’s wavy outline on the other side of the old Plexiglas.
“Ask Connolly about the DNA test,” he called over the sound of the water. “Bet you twenty bucks she won’t take it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Ask her today. Prove me wrong. We’ll talk tonight.”
“I won’t be home tonight.” Water sluiced down Bennie’s strong shoulders and down her slim tummy. “I have to work.”
“I’m not letting you off the hook,” Grady said, then left.
It wasn’t until Bennie was toweling off after her shower that she permitted herself to think about whether Grady was right. Something in her resisted the notion and even counseled against considering it for too long, like a jinx. Bennie had to run Connolly’s trial and direct her defense. To win, she’d have to control the courtroom, command the attention of the jury and the respect of the judge. She had to believe in herself absolutely and couldn’t afford to have her confidence shaken. She combed out her hair quickly and hurried to dress, but didn’t once look in the mirror.
BOOK TWO
So strongly and metaphysically did I conceive my situation then, that while earnestly watching his motions, I seemed distinctly to perceive that my own individuality was now merged in a joint stock company of two; that my free will had received a mortal wound; and that another’s mistake or misfortune might plunge me into unmerited disaster or death.
– Herman Melville,
33
Joe Citrone wrapped his plaid bathrobe around his lean frame and opened his front door just before breakfast, satisfied to find his newspaper delivered on time for a change. God knows what kept that kid half the time. When Joe was young he got up in the middle of the night to deliver the paper. The
He picked the paper off the stoop and straightened up, stiff again. DOUBLE TROUBLE: TWIN DEFENDS TWIN IN COP MURDER, read the headline. Joe shut the door and skimmed the newspaper story until he got to the only paragraph that interested him.
Early reports that Rosato’s license to practice law had lapsed were unfounded, sources said today. The attorney was only technically in default on her yearly ethics requirements. According to one well-placed source at the Pennsylvania Bar Association, the lapse “should cast no reflection on Ms. Rosato’s ethical standing or prevent her from undertaking any civil or criminal defense.”
Strike one. It happens. They’d try again next time up at bat. Joe had options, plenty of them, but he didn’t want to resort to them if they weren’t necessary. The game had to be played an inning at a time.
Joe flipped to the sports page and scuffed into the kitchen as he read. The new rookie for the Phils was looking good, like he might pull the team out of the basement. The kid’s name was on top of the stat sheets in eleven categories, including home runs and RBIs. Joe sat down at the head of the table, the sports page in front of him. In a minute, Yolanda would serve his scrambled eggs, runny the way he liked them, and he could already smell the coffee brewing for his first cup. He could study the stats in peace.
Joe believed in the stats, in numbers. They were scientific, exact. As a young man, he had wanted to be a businessman, maybe an actuary, when he grew up. The old man was against it. Didn’t want his kid growing up better than him, the old Italian way. So Joe became a cop instead of a businessman. Then he found out they didn’t have to be two different things.
He nodded when he heard the clink of a porcelain plate hitting the table on the other side of the newspaper. The egg smell wafted up, and Joe reached for his fork behind the paper. Next he heard the gurgle of coffee splashing into his cup. The paper said the rookie played like a vet, reminding everybody of Yastrzemski. Shit. Yaz. Suddenly the telephone rang, a jangling sound that disrupted the silent kitchen. Joe heard his wife hurry to the wall phone.
“Yes,” Yolanda said. “Hold on. He’s right here.”
Joe kept reading. He knew who was on the telephone. He was in no hurry to get it. He waved a fork in the air.
“Can he call you back?” Yolanda asked into the receiver.
The phone call would be from Lenihan. He’d be all worked up about Rosato still being on the Della Porta case. Lenihan was too emotional. He would never play like a vet.
“He’s in the middle of breakfast, Surf,” Yolanda said. “It’ll be only ten or fifteen minutes.”
Joe shook his head.
“Maybe half an hour,” Yolanda added, translating.
Joe frowned at the grainy photo of the rookie making an airborne catch. Kid had legs like a colt and he was tall. Statistically, taller men made better athletes. You name it, any sport. Also, tall men were more successful. It was true. Joe was tall.
“Okay, sorry, thanks. Yes… yes… I’ll make sure he calls.” Yolanda hung up the phone. “That was Surf,” she said needlessly, and went back to the sink.
Joe nodded. Surf had nothing to worry about, because in the end, the stats held true. Joe always came out on top. He was a vet. He held the sports page to the side and scooped a forkful of buttery eggs into his mouth, where they melted.
Across town in an apartment, Surf Lenihan slammed the phone into its cradle on the nightstand. “Fucker!” he said, so loudly that his girlfriend stirred in her sleep and dragged a pillow over her head. She’d slept like the dead last night, but Surf hadn’t caught a wink. He’d watched Howard Stern on the E! channel both times, because the Scores strippers were on, and then he caught a war movie before the early local news. It had the story about Rosato getting her license reinstated on the Connolly case. They had tape of her going in and out of her office. Fuck!
Surf climbed out of bed and pulled on the navy-blue pants of his summer uniform. He knew he shouldn’t have
