Mistaken Identity

McShea glanced again at the back of the gallery, and the look wasn’t lost on Bennie, who walked around her table to check the back pew of the gallery. To her surprise, it wasn’t any police brass who McShea was looking at, but a uniformed cop. A young, blond-haired cop who looked like a surfer. Oh, no. He fit Lou’s description of the driver of the black TransAm. Bennie’s pulse quickened.

“Let me understand your testimony, Officer McShea.” Bennie turned to make a note on her legal pad and passed the pad casually back to Judy. It said, GET THE NAME OF THAT BLOND COP IN THE BACK ROW.

She continued. “Officer, taking your estimate, that’s an hour and a half to get and eat dinner that night. How’s my addition?”

“Better than mine.”

“How many other cars cover your district of the city?” “One.”

“So when you’re not there, the other patrol officers are left with maybe sixty city blocks to cover by themselves?”

McShea looked sheepish again. “Hey, I’m not proud of it. It was a onetime thing.”

“Nevertheless, how would you characterize your district, Officer McShea, as a high-crime area or low-crime area?”

“It depends.”

“If I told you the Philadelphia Inquirer characterizes it as high crime, would you be surprised?”

“I’m not surprised by anything in the Inquirer,” the witness shot back, but Bennie saw that the front row of the jury had lost its sense of humor. They would recognize the neighborhood and were listening with concern, especially the black librarian. As Bennie recalled, her branch was in a rough city neighborhood, and she plainly disapproved.

“Fine.” Bennie decided to leave it alone. “So other than the cheesesteak, there was no other reason you were in Detective Della Porta’s neighborhood?”

“No.”

“You didn’t have a meeting with Detective Della Porta that night?”

“No.”

“You didn’t have a score to settle with Detective Della Porta?”

“Objection!” Hilliard said, half rising. “There’s no foundation for that question, Your Honor. What is defense counsel even talking about?”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie ruled, sliding his chair forward so quickly that a banging noise reverberated through the courtroom’s microphone system.

Bennie backed off, for the time being. “You testified that Alice Connolly confessed and tried to bribe you not to take her into custody, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And you testified she did this while you were arresting her, on Winchester Street, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Rowhouses line Winchester Street, do they not?”

“Sure.”

“And you arrested Alice Connolly in front of which house, I don’t recall you testifying.”

McShea looked heavenward for a moment. “I don’t know. It was at the end of the block, the east end.”

“Was there anybody else who heard this except you and your partner?”

“Nobody else was there.”

“Did Ms. Connolly shout this confession?”

“No.” McShea snorted derisively. “People don’t usually shout murder confessions in public. Her voice was lower than normal.”

Bennie tried to visualize it. “Help me understand this, Officer McShea. You testified that you and Officer Reston had to subdue Alice Connolly, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“So I assume her face was down on the pavement and her hands were behind her while you were attempting to handcuff her, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And you testified she was struggling and kicking, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you testified you were standing above her, struggling with her, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you were shouting, ‘Get down, get down’?”

“Yes.”

“So how did you hear Alice Connolly make this so-called confession, if her voice was lower than normal?”

McShea paused. “Okay, it was a little louder than that.”

“How much louder?”

“Loud enough to hear.”

“Loud enough for the neighbors to hear?”

“Not that loud.”

Bennie scratched her head, for effect. “Officer McShea, I’m confused. A minute ago, you testified that Alice confessed in a lower tone than normal. Now you’re saying it was a normal tone of voice. Which is it, Officer McShea?”

“Normal.”

“Normal enough for you to hear, but not normal enough for anyone but you and your partner to hear?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, and Judge Guthrie leaned forward.

“Sustained.”

Bennie couldn’t do any more with it on cross. She’d have to bring the Winchester neighbors in, in the defense case. “Officer McShea, were you friends with Detective Della Porta?”

“We knew each other.”

“How well did you know each other?”

“Saw each other at police events and whatnot. Before he got promoted out, to detective.”

“You said ‘promoted out.’ Do you know which district Detective Della Porta was promoted from?”

“The Eleventh, I think.”

“Officer McShea, did you ever serve in the Eleventh District?”

“No, I was always in the Twentieth. It’s the neighborhood I grew up in.”

“Was your partner, Officer Reston, friendly with Detective Della Porta as well?”

“Yes.”

“To your knowledge, has Officer Reston always served in the Twentieth?”

“No.”

“He was transferred to it?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“From the Eleventh.”

Bennie thought about it. “So Detective Della Porta and your partner, Art Reston, both served in the Eleventh?”

“Yes.”

Bennie hesitated. It was folly to try to root out a conspiracy in open court, in real time, but she had no choice. Whatever dirt they were into started in the Eleventh District and probably stayed there if the pattern held true. “Officer McShea, did you ever visit Detective Della Porta at his apartment?”

“Maybe once or twice.”

Bennie’s heartbeat quickened. She needed to pin down the specifics of any connection between the two men. “What were the occasions that you visited Della Porta’s apartment?”

“He gave a party, I think. Coupla parties. It was a while ago.”