Mistaken Identity

“This isn’t a conspiracy case, Ms. Rosato.”

“It’s a conspiracy case to me, Your Honor. Conspiracy to commit murder. The wrong person is on trial here, and I’m entitled to pursue and develop the defense theory of the case. It’s part and parcel of Ms. Connolly’s right to a fair trial.”

Hilliard scowled. “Smoke and mirrors aren’t a fair trial, Your Honor. It’s the antithesis of a fair trial. Evidence that is irrelevant, such as the kind of innuendo she’s peddling as theory, is absolutely inadmissible, for the very reason that it misleads and confuses the jury. This is a smear job, without any proof or specifics.”

“I have specifics, Your Honor,” Bennie argued, and Judge Guthrie’s wispy eyebrows arched behind his glasses.

“Specifics? Kindly let the Court hear them, Ms. Rosato. We’d like an offer of proof.”

Bennie gripped the dais. An offer of proof meant that she’d have to show her hand to Guthrie and Hilliard. “Your Honor, case law is clear that I can cross this witness in these circumstances without an offer of proof. I have a right to ask the question, then Mr. Hilliard can object if he wants. But I don’t have to offer the question first.”

“Well, well.” Judge Guthrie puckered his mouth, the slack tissue of his cheeks jiggling with consternation. “You’re refusing to make an offer of proof?”

“To you? With all due respect, sir.” Bennie shifted her focus to the court reporter, earnestly tapping out her statement on the steno machine. “I want it clear on the record that it is in the best interests of my client for the witness to hear the question before this Court does.”

Hilliard exploded, his large mouth agape. “What’s she insinuating, Your Honor? Is she accusing you of misconduct? Has Ms. Rosato lost her mind?” He looked genuinely shocked, and Judge Guthrie’s hooded eyes flickered with anger, then with something Bennie recognized instantly: fear.

The judge eased back slowly in his chair. “Ms. Rosato, the Court will not respond to what the prosecution so accurately calls an insinuation. Additionally, the record will show that the Court did not impede any exploration of putative official corruption. Please, go ahead and ask your question, but only if it contains such specifics. Mr. Hilliard, kindly take your seat.”

Bennie turned from the judge and knew without looking that the jury was anticipating her question, as was the gallery behind her. She blocked them all from her mind. This was between her and Reston. The cop straightened his tie and watched Bennie walk to the spot in front of him with wary interest. She wouldn’t get another shot. She had to aim for the heart.

“Officer Reston,” Bennie said, “when Officer Lenihan of the Eleventh District testifies that you, Officer McShea, and Detective Della Porta were involved in drug dealing, will he be lying?”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Hilliard thundered. “Move to strike that question! It’s irrelevant, prejudicial, and utterly without foundation! Who is Officer Lenihan? What does any of this have to do with Detective Della Porta’s murder?”

“Sustained,” Judge Guthrie said. He replaced his glasses, then addressed the jury, his mouth quavering faintly. “Strike the question from the record, and ladies and gentlemen, please strike the question from your mind. Ms. Rosato has no right to ask such a question without proof or evidence. Please remember that a question by an attorney is not testimony from a witness stand, and you may not consider it as such.”

The jurors looked grave, and a black man in the back row nodded in understanding. But Bennie could see their eyes trained on Reston, whose expression was dull with restrained fury. She had engaged the enemy. She didn’t know how far the conspiracy went or who was at the center of it, but she understood that she had provoked it, poked it like a tiger in a pen. But no cage could contain this beast, and sooner or later, it would strike back, defending its own survival.

If Bennie didn’t kill it first.

“I have no further questions,” she said. She turned her back on the witness, walked back to her chair, and sat down.

63

Surf caught up with Joe Citrone outside the Eleventh, just as he was pulling away. The asphalt of the parking lot behind the station house was a slick black and almost empty. Everybody on tour was out now or at lunch. Citrone had his new partner in the car, so Surf had to play it cool. He couldn’t rip Joe’s throat out, which is what he really wanted to do. “Joe, we need to talk,” he said casually.

“Can’t.” Citrone looked out the window of the patrol car, his hands resting on the steering wheel. The engine rumbled, jiggling beads of rainwater that warmed on the cruiser’s hood. “We just got a job.”

From the passenger seat, Citrone’s partner Ed Vega ducked his head, smiling under his mustache. “How’s it hangin’, pal?” Vega said.

“Good, good, Ed,” Surf said, drumming his fingertips on the wet roof of the car. “Gotta delay you for a minute, my friend. Your partner owes me some cash, and I’m seeing my girl tonight.”

“Gotcha, big guy,” Vega said, and Citrone frowned.

“Need it now?” Citrone squinted against the last of the rain that dripped through the window. The storm was dissolving to a fine, chill mist.

“Yeah, I need it now,” Surf insisted with a fake laugh, and opened the door. “Cough it up.”

“Relax, kid.” Citrone unfolded his long legs from the driver’s seat and got out of the car. Gravel crunched underneath his shoes, their patent polished to a high shine, and he slammed the car door closed. “Be right back, Ed.”

“This way.” Surf took Citrone’s arm and led him a distance from the car, out of Vega’s earshot. Vega could be undercover, for all Surf knew. That was how they got those cops in the Thirty-seventh, with a sting. Took down the whole district. Surf didn’t trust anybody anymore, least of all other cops.

“Get your hand offa my sleeve,” Citrone said when they were alone. He tugged his arm from Surf’s grasp. “I’ve had it up to here with you.”

“You’ve had it?” Lenihan’s temper flared. “You fucked this up so bad, none of us are going to get out of it.”

“You got a fresh mouth, Lenihan.”

Surf glanced at the patrol car and flashed a Boy Scout smile. “I told you this would happen. I told all of you, but you thought it was a big goddamn joke. We’re made, Citrone. Rosato was askin’ questions in court this morning. She’s on to us.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know. You think you’re the only one with people in the courtroom?”

“I don’t need people. I was there myself.” Surf didn’t mention the bitch catching up with him outside the courthouse. He didn’t want Citrone to give him shit. “I heard it all.”

“Then you heard Rosato say you’d be testifying against Art.”

“What?” Surf looked at Citrone, shocked. “Me, flip on Art?”

“That’s not true, is it, kid? She’s bluffin’, isn’t she?”

“Of course she is.” Surf’s mouth felt dry. “I mean, of course it ain’t true. You kiddin’?”

“You shoulda stayed away.” Citrone shook his head as he reached into his back pocket, retrieved a slim calf billfold, and plucked out a new twenty from the neatly ordered bills. “Take this in case my partner’s watchin’. Then get lost.”

“Sure, I’ll get lost.” Surf snatched the bill from Citrone’s hand and pocketed it. “I’ll get lost when I get my cut of the half a mil.”

“It’s comin’.”

“Yeah, when is it comin’? I coulda taken my cut off the top. I coulda taken the whole fuckin’ pile, but I didn’t. I brought it to you like a good boy and you said to wait. Fuck, what am I waitin’ for?”

“The right time.”

“What’s that mean? Why can’t we divvy it up now? Then we can all get the fuck outta Dodge.”

“No.”

“Why not, Joe? Fuckin’ explain it to me, old man. You might have to say a whole sentence.”