Mistaken Identity

not that she could point a finger, considering her trial strategy of the “twin defense.” Since the other night, however, Bennie had discarded any plan of looking like Connolly at trial. She wore her hair unstyled this morning, had on no makeup, and her suit was the navy one she always wore to court. Except for the haircut, she looked almost like her breezy, confident self again, though she didn’t feel that way inside.

Her mother’s death was a pain that Bennie felt more acutely, like a wound that grows more sensitive to the touch. She had never been so aware of her aloneness in the world, and it made her vulnerable, shaky. The thought would cross her mind to call her mother’s doctor, a reminder sent for so many years from the tickler file in the back of her brain, and each time Bennie got the message, she recalled anew that it was a phone call she no longer had to make.

Her gaze fell on the blank legal pad in front of her, refocusing her on the task at hand: Try this case and win. Bennie had come to believe that Connolly, though hardly innocent, hadn’t committed the murder for which she stood trial. Somebody else had, and that person was getting away with murder. It was wrong, and that Connolly deserved to be punished didn’t make it right, because the next defendant wouldn’t. For Bennie, justice was always about the next defendant. And in this case, it could also be about saving her mother’s other daughter, as loathsome as she was.

“Let’s get started, ladies and gentlemen,” said Judge Guthrie, taking a quick sip of water from a tall glass. The judge wore a bow tie of Stewart plaid with his robes and slipped off his tortoiseshell reading glasses. His sharp eyes focused on the courtroom deputy, and if he recalled his meeting with Bennie at all, it didn’t show. “Please bring in the defendant, Mr. Deputy.”

The deputy hurried to a door on the side of the modern courtroom, which was concealed behind a mahogany panel. The judge looked expectantly at the closed door, and the spectators turned their heads as one. The district attorney, Dorsey Hilliard, sneaked a glance, and Bennie arranged her face into a professional mask. The paneled door opened and a cop in a black windbreaker entered the courtroom, followed by Alice Connolly.

Bennie almost gasped at the sight.

Connolly had performed a makeover in reverse, to look like Bennie. She had dyed her hair a pale blond color that matched Bennie’s and it hung as unstyled as Bennie’s. She wore no makeup, uncharacteristically; and her royal-blue suit and white shirt complemented Bennie’s own navy suit and white silk shirt. No wonder Connolly had opted not to be present for jury selection; she had wanted to preserve her surprise. Connolly must have realized that after the prison murders, Bennie would lose heart for the twin defense, and had evidently decided to stage it herself, with a vengeance. When Connolly crossed the courtroom, it was as if Bennie were watching her reflection in a true mirror, seeing herself walk in her own direction.

She felt blindsided, suddenly thrown off-balance. The defendant had become the lawyer; the twins had traded places. It was as if Connolly were trying to steal her position, her reputation, her very self. Bennie had created a monster and it was her. Looked like her. Walked like her. Then the monster sat in a seat next to her at counsel table, faced the front of the courtroom, and awaited the beginning of the trial like a seasoned litigator.

Bennie looked quickly around. At the prosecution table, Hilliard was reading papers, undoubtedly hoping not to draw attention to the similarity, but everyone in the courtroom had eyes. The deputy nudged an already surprised court reporter. Judy and Mary, sitting at the bar of court behind counsel table, were exchanging looks. Judge Guthrie peered over his glasses at Connolly and Bennie, then frowned deeply at the gallery.

Crack! Crack! Crack! “Order, ladies and gentlemen,” the judge said into a black stem of a microphone, which would carry his warning through hidden speakers to the gallery. “There must be order in this courtroom throughout these proceedings. We may not be able to hear you through the glass, but the same rules of decorum still apply. Anyone who doesn’t abide by them will be ousted.” Crack! Judge Guthrie banged the gavel. “Kindly escort the jury in, Mr. Deputy, and let’s begin.”

Bennie forced herself to relax, preparing for the only opinion that mattered: the jury’s. The twelve people who would have Connolly’s miserable life in their hands. She recrossed her legs, then noticed that Connolly was recrossing her legs the same way. Bennie would have said something, but the jurors began filing in, shuffling through the door. She watched them with a stony face, waiting for their reaction. Jurors always looked cowed when they entered a courtroom for the first time and this jury was no exception. They walked into the jury box with their heads down and found their seats as self-consciously as late theatergoers.

Bennie pushed herself back into her chair. She knew the jurors would steal glances at defense table and absorb the visual impact of her sitting next to Connolly, like bookends. She wished she could hold up a sign that said, THIS WAS ALL HER DOING, but then realized that it wouldn’t be true. It was Bennie’s doing. She had devised the twin defense and set it in motion. She was locked in a prison of her own making. And the murderer was on the outside, with the key.

Bennie felt like apologizing to every juror. They were a smart jury, with a higher education level than most. She and Hilliard had picked them in record time for a death-qualified jury, because Judge Guthrie had presided over voir dire and permitted only the most routine questions. It wasn’t her favorite way to pick a jury, but Bennie had relied on her instincts, biases, and judgment to wind up with a good, fair crew.

Crack! “This is Commonwealth v. Connolly, Docket Number 82634,” Judge Guthrie said. “Good morning, ladies and gentleman of the jury. We met earlier during voir dire and now it’s time to begin our work in earnest. Mr. Hilliard, are you ready for your opening argument?” His graceful tone sounded more like a question than an order, and Hilliard reached for his crutches, placed them expertly under his elbows, and rose from his seat.

“I am, Your Honor.” The district attorney nodded curtly in his dark, pinstriped suit, sharply tailored around his large, muscular frame. The jurors eyed him as he walked to the podium, grunting slightly from the effort of movements they all took for granted. Bennie watched their gaze lingering on the contradiction of a huge, strong body that couldn’t power itself even a single step forward. Well-meaning people, the jurors’ faces showed a sympathy they couldn’t help but feel. It was an open secret that Hilliard’s disability gave him a politically correct edge with them, though it clearly wasn’t intended. His disability was a nonissue for him.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “my name is Dorsey Hilliard and I represent the people of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania against Alice Connolly. The defendant has been charged with the crime of murder for the death of her lover, Detective Anthony Della Porta. I do not believe in lengthy arguments. I let my witnesses do my talking for me. So I will keep this brief.”

Hilliard raised his voice, his bass tones resonant and his cadence no-nonsense. “The Commonwealth will prove that on the night of the murder, the lovers argued, as they did with increasing frequency. After the argument, the defendant shot Detective Anthony Della Porta point-blank in the head with a handgun. The Commonwealth will prove that the defendant did intentionally, and in a premeditated manner, murder Detective Della Porta, one of the most respected and decorated detectives in the Philadelphia Police Department.”

Bennie shifted in her chair, thinking of the money she’d found under the floorboards. How the hell would she get it in?

“The evidence will show that neighbors heard the lethal gunshot and saw the defendant fleeing the scene of the crime. Police arrived at the scene and also saw her fleeing, holding a plastic bag. They saw her run into an alley to escape them. They were able to arrest her only by chasing her and finally tackling her to the ground. Even then, the defendant fought to escape, and what she told them when they arrested her will not only shock you, it will prove to you beyond any doubt that she is guilty of this crime.”

Back at defense table, Bennie tried not to squirm. She could only imagine what the cops would make up. At her shoulder, Connolly was shifting in her seat, though Bennie couldn’t tell if it was artifice or nerves.

After a pause, Hilliard continued. “Once the defendant was in custody, police conducted a complete search of Trose Street, including the alley that the defendant had run into. You will hear evidence that there was a Dumpster in the alley, and in the Dumpster, authorities found that plastic bag, which contained clothes belonging to the defendant. Experts will tell you that the clothes were soaked with the still-warm blood of Detective Della Porta.” Hilliard paused again, as if for a moment of silence. “By the last witness for the Commonwealth, each of you will be absolutely certain that the defendant killed Anthony Della Porta and is guilty of murder. Thank you for your attention, for your service to the Commonwealth, and to our country.” Hilliard eased into his crutches and returned to his seat.

“Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie said, “we’re ready for your opening argument.” He moved some papers on the dais, without looking up. The black marble backdrop behind the dais glistened darkly and the ersatz gold disk of the Commonwealth shone like a tarnished sun.