Mistaken Identity

“Of course she did. She deals drugs, too. A well-rounded felon.” Judy told Mary about her secret boxing lessons and what she’d learned from Ronnie Morales, to Mary’s growing astonishment.

“I can’t believe this,” Mary said when she was finished.

“What? The drugs? The murder?”

“No, the boxing lessons.” Mary felt hurt. “You told me you went to the gynecologist.”

“I lied. I’m sorry, I had to.”

“Why?”

“Because if I told you, you’d come with me, and your mother would kill us both.”

“Silly.” Mary smiled. “My mother would only kill you.”

42

Because it was after the prison’s business hours, Bennie had to wait in the interview room for Connolly. She couldn’t remember feeling so drained. She had rowed in regattas, powered single sculls with sheer muscle and grit, and still never felt this enervated. Fatigue after a race always produced a vague, if drowsy, euphoria and a feeling of accomplishment, but this tiredness was of a darker sort. A bone-deep weariness that came partly from grief and partly from having to contain grief. She straightened up in the plastic chair, folded and unfolded her hands on the smooth Formica counter, then finally clasped them together in her lap.

Bennie startled at a loud ca-chunka and she looked up to see Connolly being led into the secured hallway to the interview room. The inmate’s stride was strong as she walked down the corridor, and Bennie realized that the usual noise level had prevented her from ever hearing those footfalls. Connolly walked like Bennie, fast and slightly duck-toed. It had always bothered her mother, who used to say, “Walk with your legs together, like a lady.”

“What did you say?” Connolly asked, her expression puzzled as she walked through the door into the inmate’s half of the room.

“What?”

“You said something about the way I walk.”

“No, I didn’t. I said…” Bennie’s voice failed her, then she took a deep breath. “You’d better sit down. I have bad news.”

“About my case? Is something wrong?” Connolly took a seat and leaned forward over the counter. “I knew it. I knew something was going on. I could feel it.”

“No, your case is fine. It’s worse than that. My mother has, well, passed on. In the hospital. She wasn’t in any pain, and she wasn’t alone.”

“Fuck, that’s a relief,” Connolly blurted out, then froze when she saw Bennie’s stunned expression. “I mean, it’s a relief she didn’t suffer,” Connolly added quickly, but Bennie fell against the back of her chair as if pushed.

“That’s not what it sounded like. It sounded like you were relieved that she-”

“Died? Of course I’m not relieved that she died. Why would I be? Shit, that’s not what I meant.”

“No? Do you even care?”

“Oh, Christ.” Connolly raked a hand through her coppery hair. “Oh, all right, I was relieved it wasn’t about my case, okay? They wake me up and tell me my lawyer’s here after hours. What else would it be about? You said we don’t talk about personal things, like our mother, so the last thing I expect is that you’d come up to talk about her. I didn’t even know she was that sick. I thought she was mental or something. You can’t die from that, can you?”

“Evidently.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I’m sorry. For both of us.” Connolly nodded, though Bennie couldn’t help but notice that her tone was matter-of-fact. Maybe everybody was right about Connolly. Maybe she was heartless, a killer. A drug dealer, like Carrier suspected.

“You know,” Bennie said, “I did have something come up in your case today. One of my associates thinks you were involved in selling drugs, with the wives of the boxers.”

“Give me a break.” Connolly laughed ruefully, and Bennie’s gut twisted.

“That’s not a denial. Your line is, ‘That’s not true.’ ‘That’s absurd.’ ‘I’m surprised you would even suggest such a thing.’ ”

“It’s not true.” Connolly’s stony glare met Bennie’s dubious one. “I swear, I didn’t have anything to do with dope. I knew the boxers’ wives, but I certainly didn’t sell drugs with them.”

“One of the wives was named Valencia. I don’t know her last name. I understand she’s here, in this prison. Do you know her?”

Connolly’s eyes flickered. “No. I don’t know any Valencia and I didn’t have anything to do with any drugs. Neither did Anthony, no matter what your little associate says.”

Bennie sagged in the chair, spent. Confused. Angry, hurting, and screwing up a major case. Every day she was finding out another way Connolly had lied to her. First, Bullock. Now this drug thing. Bennie faced up to something she had been thinking on the drive to the prison tonight. “I told you not to lie to me and you did, and I can’t trust you anymore. I can’t go forward, especially now… with my mother. I’ll get you another lawyer, the best in criminal practice.”

“You’re pulling out on me?”

“Not completely. I’ll be there watching you from the front row, but I can’t be trial counsel, not now. My mother died. She deserves to be mourned.”

“And what do I deserve?” Connolly spat back, and Bennie leaned forward, angry.

“This isn’t about you. This is about a woman who you claim bore you. How come your own mother’s death doesn’t even faze you?”

“Please forgive me for not crying.” Connolly’s mouth twisted bitterly. “My mother never gave a flying fuck about me. She abandoned me as soon as she saw me. You’re the one she cared about. You’re the one she kept. So you’ll understand if my only concern is my own ass. I’m selfish as sin. I get it from my mother.”

Bennie flinched, shaken to the core. She couldn’t bear to hear anybody talk that way about her mother, especially now. Suddenly she felt no more like Connolly’s twin than she had the day they met. She rose stiffly and went to the door. She wanted Connolly out of her sight.

“You’re not getting out of this case now, Rosato,” Connolly shouted. “I read the papers, I see the news. We’re the lead story. The media is eating it up and the jury will, too. Nobody can pull off the twin defense but my twin.”

Bennie felt sick inside, trapped. “Guard!” she called through the door, though she knew the guard would be watching her.

“Fuck you!” Connolly shouted as the guard appeared, and the curse reverberated inside Bennie’s skull all the way back to the office.

Bennie switched on the lights in her firm’s reception area and walked past the empty secretaries’ desks. The printers and fax machines had been turned off, as had the associates’ office lights, and Bennie could see from the brushed nap of the carpet that the cleaning ladies had come and gone. It was good to know that her law firm took care of itself, because right now she couldn’t take care of another thing.

She entered her office and sat down at her desk. Her business correspondence was covered by a pile of sympathy cards in shades of pink, lavender, and gray. The sight made her throat feel thick, and she set them aside without opening any. She didn’t want to feel sympathy right now. She didn’t want to feel anything.

Under the cards lay the letter to Judge Guthrie that Carrier had drafted, requesting a continuance. Bennie crumpled it up and pitched it into the waste can, shaking her head. Never had her decision-making been so screwy on a case. She shouldn’t have undertaken the representation in the first place. She had been wrong, terribly wrong, and she had to straighten it out.

Bennie punched a key on her computer and started drafting a motion, requesting that she be permitted to withdraw from the representation and also argued an alternative, as most lawyers did, for a postponement of a