Lou knocked on the door but no one answered. He had to finish the job he’d started, canvassing the neighbors. It was the only way he knew to do a job. Slow and steady wins the race. The address of the rowhouse was 3010 Winchester Street, the street in back of Trose; it was the first house where the alley came out and where McShea and Reston had collared Connolly. Lou had to believe he’d find something on Winchester if he just took it methodical.
Lou thought about knocking again, then lowered his arm and stood there like a stupid ass. Couldn’t even decide whether to knock. Half of him wanted to know what was going on; the other half would just as soon let it lie. The neighbors had IDed Connolly running down Trose, then Winchester. They all said the same thing. Lou could feel it to his marrow: Connolly was the doer. Whatever Della Porta had been into, she was into deeper, and he was the one who got dead in the end. Lou didn’t like helping her walk.
Hell with it. Screw her. He turned from the door and climbed back down the stoop, buttoning his blazer around his waist so it wouldn’t fly around. He strode down the street, trying not to think about the money. He woulda loved to have even five thousand in the bank for a cushion, but he didn’t, not with his alimony payments. The economy was through the roof and his ex-wife was the only one who couldn’t find a job. She was a welfare queen, and he was the Democrats.
Lou put his head to the wind. He’d never taken a bribe as a cop, not a nickel, though he had plenty of opportunities, all small-time. If Della Porta was dirty, he was a sack of shit, and shame on him. Now that he was dead, his shame should die with him.
Lou reached his brown Honda and dug in his pants pocket for his keys. He didn’t need this aggravation. It wasn’t what he signed up for when he went with Rosato. This kind of shit was up to Internal Affairs, not to him. He was just a beat cop, retired, and though he had always done careful police work, he’d realized a long time ago that he wouldn’t be one of the great ones. Didn’t have the head for it, or the taste. The killer instinct some of them had or that politician’s touch.
Lou got inside his car and was about to turn on the ignition when the guilt got to him. He always thought of himself as a man of his word. He had given Rosato his word and he couldn’t let her down, especially not now, with her mother gone. He could see it broke her up, more than she let on. Maybe more than she knew. Lou understood, he was like that when his mother passed. Besides, he always kept his word as a cop, even though he wasn’t a higher-up. He was proud of the integrity he brought to the badge.
With a sigh, he switched off the ignition, got out of the car, and went back to 3010 Winchester Street.
57
On the witness stand, Officer Sean McShea wore a navy-blue uniform that strained at its double seams to accommodate his girth, and his peaked cap rested next to a worn Bible with red-edged pages. He spoke into the microphone with authority and warmth in equal measure. “How long have I been with my partner, Art Reston?” McShea asked, reiterating the prosecutor’s question. “Seven years. Not as long as my wife, but she’s a better cook.”
The jury laughed, but Bennie simmered at counsel table. She hadn’t been at all surprised to hear that McShea played Santa Claus at Children’s Hospital, a fact he managed to slip into his early testimony. McShea was everybody’s favorite neighborhood cop and the perfect choice for the Commonwealth’s first witness, like a legal warm-up act.
Hilliard was smiling, leaning on his crutches at the podium. “Now, Officer McShea, let’s turn to the events of the night in question, May nineteenth of last year. Did there come a time when you and Officer Art Reston received a radio report about a gunshot fired at 3006 Trose Street?”
“Yes. The report came over the radio when we were a block away, traveling north on Tenth Street. We happened to be in the area when we heard the report. Since we were so close, we kept driving on Tenth Street to Trose.”
“Did you formally respond to the call?”
“No.”
“And why was that?”
“As soon as I heard the report, I just hit the gas and reacted. I knew the address was Anthony’s, uh, Detective Della Porta’s, and I knew we were close enough to do something about it.”
“In retrospect, should you have radioed in that you were responding to the report?”
“Yes, but I was concentrating on saving a cop’s life.”
Hilliard nodded, approvingly. “Officer McShea, what did you and your partner do next?”
“We drove to the corner of Trose Street and stopped the car.”
“Did you see anything on Trose Street?”
“Yes. We saw the defendant. She was running down Trose Street from the scene of the crime.”
Bennie shot up. “Move to strike, Your Honor. That’s speculative and misleading.”
“Overruled. The witness is expert enough to make such conclusions, Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie said, his lower lip puckering. It etched two tiny lines at each corner of his fine mouth and wrinkled his chin wattles into his bright bow tie. “Please proceed, Mr. Hilliard.”
“Officer McShea, how did the defendant appear to you when she was running? Emotionally, I mean.”
“Objection,” Bennie said, half rising, but Judge Guthrie gave his head a wobbly shake.
“Overruled,” Judge Guthrie said, and Bennie added a silent hashmark to the tally of the objections she’d lost. She was only two for ten. Any time Judge Guthrie could rule against her without arousing suspicion or annoying the jury, he would. Trial judges had carte blanche on evidentiary rulings, and appellate courts didn’t throw out jury verdicts unless the evidentiary errors made a difference in the trial’s outcome. Otherwise, they were legally considered “harmless error,” although Bennie believed no errors were harmless when a life was at stake.
McShea cleared his throat. “She looked panicky, stressed. My kids would say she was ‘freaked.’ ”
Hilliard walked to a large foamcore exhibit, a black-and-white diagram of Trose Street, which had been set up on an easel and faced the jury. “Referring to Exhibit C-1, would you show the jury where you first spotted the defendant that night?” Hilliard gestured to the exhibit resting on the easel’s ledge, raising his crutch like a personal pointer.
“Sure,” McShea said, wielding the pointer with practiced motion. “We saw her right in front of the day care center, which is 3010 Trose Street. She ran past the day care center, westbound, past 3012 and 3014, to the alley.”
“Officer McShea, would you tell the jury what you and Officer Reston did after you saw the defendant run west on Trose Street?”
“We pulled the patrol car up to Trose Street and just as we were about to turn the corner, we saw the defendant running toward us. The defendant ran past the houses, then took a left into the alley. I put the car in reverse and reversed back to Winchester Street, which is where the alley empties out. The defendant ran out the other side of the alley and down Winchester Street. We drove down Winchester Street, then we exited the vehicle and pursued on foot.”
“Describe for the jury, if you would, what you refer to as your pursuit of the defendant. Use the exhibit if you need to.”
“The defendant was running down Winchester, heading east. I kept running down the block after her and so did my partner. My partner outstripped me right here,” McShea pointed to a spot on the middle of the diagram of Winchester Street, “and he reached the defendant first. He had to use force to subdue her. She resisted arrest.”
“Did either of you identify yourself as police officers during this pursuit of the defendant?”
“Yes, it’s procedure.”
“How did you identify yourself as a police officer?”
“I shouted, ‘Freeze, police.’ I know my lines.”
Hilliard smiled. “Did the defendant stop running?”
“No, she ran faster. My partner subdued the defendant by tackling her to the ground. She was struggling
