“If he was, I don’t know it, but-”
“You have no idea what cops were in on the drug business?”
“I told you already, no.”
“Bullshit.”
“The cops took care of the supply, with Anthony. He didn’t tell me, I didn’t want to know.”
“Bullshit.”
“I never heard of Lenihan. I sold the shit, I didn’t care where it came from. There was no reason for me to know, so I didn’t want to know.” Connolly edged forward, a pitchfork of wrinkles appearing above the bridge of her nose. She looked just like Bennie when Bennie was antagonized in the extreme. “What, are you cross-examining me? I’m trying to talk to you. What the fuck did you think you were doing in that opening argument?”
“Saving your worthless life,” Bennie said. Then she turned on her heel and walked out of the interview room.
61
On the witness stand, Officer Arthur Reston made a more conservative picture than his partner had. He was trim through the waist and collected in his pressed uniform. His neat, dark mustache had been newly trimmed under a straight nose, and his brown eyes were slightly lifeless, which telegraphed as professional from the stand. “No, I did not hear the testimony given by my partner, Sean McShea,” Reston answered.
Hilliard nodded. “And that was because you were sequestered, is that correct, Officer Reston?”
“Yes, sir.” The witness sat tall in front of the microphone and held his prominent chin high, as if the collar of his uniform were a bit too tight. “I waited outside in the hall until I was called to testify.”
“Would you consider yourself a diligent patrol officer, Officer Reston?” Hilliard asked.
Bennie almost gagged but didn’t object. Self-serving questions were obvious to jurors, and she knew where this was going anyway.
“I take my job very seriously, if that’s what you mean,” Reston said.
“You have served for how many years?”
“Fifteen.”
“Have you received any decorations because of your performance as a police officer?”
“Yes. I’ve received several commendations for certain arrests and for bravery. I was Police Officer of the Year last year. I’ve been lucky.”
“Permit me to take you back, if I may, deeper into your career history.”
Bennie half rose. “Objection, Your Honor, as to relevancy.”
Judge Guthrie nodded. “I’ll overrule it for now, but let’s not travel too far afield, Mr. Hilliard.”
“Certainly, Your Honor.” Hilliard squared his shoulders. He seemed energized since lunchtime, not from food, but adrenaline. Bennie had thrown down the glove with her question about drugs and she could almost see Hilliard’s juices flowing.
“Officer Reston,” Hilliard said, “isn’t it true that your former partner was killed in a shoot-out in the line of duty, in which you were also grievously injured?”
“Yes, sir.”
One of the jurors coughed, several looked moved, and even Bennie felt a twinge at the tragedy of an officer killed in the line of duty. She had nothing against honest police, only crooked ones, and the thought of death sobered her. She knew what death looked like, had felt its chilly touch in the hand of her mother. She realized now that she had seen death coming in her mother’s eyes that afternoon at the hospital, though Bennie didn’t want to acknowledge it then, as if greeting death were to invite it.
Hilliard continued, “You were shot in the cheek and spent four months in the hospital and another five in rehabilitation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Officer Reston, you have been partners with Officer McShea for seven of your fifteen years on the force, have you not?”
“I have.”
“And you were on duty with him on the evening in question, May nineteenth, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Hilliard checked his notes at the podium. “Please tell the jury why you were in the vicinity of Anthony Della Porta’s apartment, at Tenth and Trose Street.”
“We stopped down there for dinner, at Pat’s Steaks.”
“You left your district to do this, is that correct?”
“Only this one time, and because we could get cover.”
“So the district is never left unprotected, isn’t that correct?”
Bennie half rose. “Objection, Your Honor. The prosecution is mischaracterizing prior testimony.”
“Overruled, Ms. Rosato.” Judge Guthrie nodded in the direction of the jurors. “The jury can hear for itself.”
“It’s a minor point, Your Honor, and I’ll move on,” Hilliard said, waving in an offhand manner. “Officer Reston, you knew Detective Della Porta, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Were you friends?”
“Yes. We both like boxing. Liked. Went to the Blue together, once.”
“What is the Blue, Officer Reston?”
“The Blue Horizon, up Broad Street. Anthony, Detective Della Porta, used to get me tickets, ringside.”
“Officer Reston, what kind of man was Detective Della Porta?”
Bennie stood up. “Your Honor, I object on relevancy grounds. Officer Reston purports to be a fact witness, not a character witness.”
“I beg to differ,” Hilliard said, stepping toward the dais. “Ms. Rosato has maligned Detective Della Porta’s character and reputation. I think the jury has a right to know what kind of a man Anthony Della Porta was.”
Judge Guthrie leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers the same way he had in chambers. Bennie noted that the overhead lights made him look older than his years, or perhaps he’d had a few sleepless nights since their meeting, too. “Overruled,” he said. “Mr. Hilliard, I’ll allow the question.”
Bennie took her seat, frustrated. She could feel Connolly beside her, equally unhappy, but didn’t look over.
“You were going to tell us something about Detective Della Porta, Officer Reston.”
The cop nodded. “Detective Della Porta was a good man and a fine police officer. He worked his way up to Detective. He got one of the highest scores ever on the exam, which tests general knowledge, you know. Intelligence. It’s not about police procedure.”
“Do you know if Detective Della Porta was active in civic groups?” Hilliard asked.
“He surely was. Detective Della Porta donated his time to civic groups in his area of interest, which was boxing. He was like a big brother to plenty of boxers, and even managed Star Harald, who’s about to turn pro, if any of you heard of him.” Officer Reston turned to the jury and scanned their faces for verification. In the middle of the back row, a young black man raised thin eyebrows in recognition. He was Jamell Speaker, thirtysomething, shoe salesman; Bennie remembered him from voir dire.
“Officer Reston, I must ask you an uncomfortable question, one that will come at you from left field, as it did me. Was Detective Della Porta involved in drug dealing, in any way, shape, or form?”
The shock on the cop’s face was evident. His dark eyes flared in disbelief, then anger. His tight lips remained pursed, and the effect was that Officer Reston was too mortified to answer.
“Officer Reston, to the best of your knowledge, was Detective Della Porta involved in drug dealing?” Hilliard asked again.
“Of course not,” Reston snapped finally, his voice ringing with anger.
“To the best of your knowledge, did Detective Della Porta ever use illicit drugs himself?”
