Jury of One (46 page)

“He had on a long coat.”

“Yes.”

“A cap on his head.”

“Yeah.”

“It was probably hard for you to see anything about this boy at all.”

“That’s right.”

She imagined that Sanchez was eager to say such things. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the events, for the sake of the Internal Affairs Division’s review of this case. The less he saw, the better.

“You didn’t see his pockets.”

“No.”

“Didn’t see his face.”

“No.”

“Didn’t really see—he had a cap on. You probably couldn’t see his hair, either.”

“No.”

“This thing was all your partner’s, wasn’t it? He wanted to see the boy. He’s the one who said he saw him with drugs. He’s the one who wanted some ‘privacy’ with the boy.”

“That’s right.”

“You didn’t see the drugs. You didn’t give chase. You didn’t even see his face.”

“That’s right.” Again, Sanchez was more than eager to comply. Shelly was surprised, frankly, that Morphew hadn’t worked with Sanchez more on this.

“And since you never saw his face, or his hair, or any part of him from the front, Officer,” she said, her heart drumming—because this could fall under the heading of one-question-too-many—“you
can’t even sit here and say that it was
this
boy that you saw, can you?”

“I—” Sanchez cleared his throat. “Ray said it was his snitch.”

“
Ray
said.” Shelly knew now that she had the answer she wanted. “
Ray
said. You can’t say for sure that it was my client who you saw walking down that street, can you?”

“Ray saw his face. When he first came out on the sidewalk. We were about a block away to the north. I wasn’t looking. But Ray saw his face. He said, ‘There he is.’”

“
Ray
said,” Shelly repeated. “Please answer my question, Officer. You didn’t actually see my client, did you? You cannot sit here, under oath, and identify Alex Baniewicz as the person you saw, can you?”

Sanchez answered in a quieter voice. “It was my understanding that both Ray and another man on the street identified your client—”

“Move to strike—”

“—as the one who shot my—”

“Your Honor—”

“Stop.” The judge leaned forward with his hand out. “Everyone stop. The answer is stricken as unresponsive. The jury will disregard that testimony. Officer, answer the question, please.”

Sanchez looked at the judge. “I didn’t see him with my own eyes, no.”

Now she was finished. There was an audible reaction from the jury. Based on his earlier equivocation, they had to have known his answer, but actually hearing it made an impact. Shelly felt a rush. The homeless man was the only person left who could identify Alex as the shooter.

Well, no. There was the small matter of Ronnie Masters.

T
HE REDIRECT OF
Officer Sanchez went well into the afternoon. Morphew did well with the cop, but it was nothing new. It was just nice to restate the favorable points. Morphew made the point that “the boy” was wearing a coat he had seen on Alex Baniewicz at the park, and that the height and build of “the boy” matched that of Alex.

Ronnie could have worn the coat, obviously. Yes, Ronnie was about two inches taller and thicker in the chest and shoulders than Alex, but how well would any of that come out when he was wearing winter clothing, a long wool coat and cap?

In her lengthy preparation of the cross of Officer Sanchez, Shelly had obviously considered the idea that she could get Sanchez to admit that he didn’t see Alex. She knew he wanted to distance himself from what happened—put it all on his partner—and she thought, in his effort to do so, she could trap him.

Now, she wasn’t sure that she could chalk up his admission to her courtroom skills. She believed that Sanchez was telling the truth. There were a million reasons for him to believe it was Alex without seeing him. Sanchez thought “the snitch” referred to Alex. Alex was arrested that night with Miroballi’s blood on his clothes. And Shelly, almost right out of the gate, had pleaded self-defense, which meant that Alex was the shooter. Maybe he had unconsciously revised his memory and assumed that he saw Alex, until pressed on the point.

The judge adjourned the proceedings at three-thirty. He told
Shelly, out of the presence of the jury—and for the sake of a higher court that might review this case—that he wanted to give her some extra time to prepare for the testimony of Ronnie Masters tomorrow. If she did not feel prepared to go tomorrow, he advised her, he would grant her additional time.

“Very good,” she told him. She was not going to thank him. He had screwed her today. He was wrong in allowing all that testimony about what Miroballi said to Sanchez about Alex. She felt sure of it. But she realized that a higher court would need more than that to overturn a conviction. Appellate courts in this state liberally applied the “harmless error” rule, under which a court found that the trial judge made an error but that the error was not enough to warrant a new trial. A fair trial did not mean a perfect trial.

She spoke with Alex at length after the adjournment. He was pleased that Ronnie now had immunity. It meant that his daughter, Angela, would have someone to take care of her. Technically, Ronnie had only been given immunity for obstruction of justice, because that was the only crime to which he had admitted—withholding information from the cops and lying to them. But short of a confession by Ronnie, he would never be prosecuted for anything related to the Miroballi shooting.

After speaking with Alex, she went immediately to Ronnie. Ronnie was being held, pending his testimony, at county lockup, in segregation, but when she arrived there, she was told that the detainee did not wish to speak with her. She demanded to hear this from Ronnie’s mouth. Eventually, the deputy warden was called down. Detainees had the right to refuse a visitor, he told her, but she jumped up and down and threatened enough that he finally agreed to a face-to-face. Shelly wondered if the fact that her father could have this guy fired had anything to do with the change of heart.

She was shown to a small room not unlike the one Alex had been in. Ronnie stood at the doorway of the detainee’s entrance and shook his head. “I don’t want to talk to her,” he told the deputy warden. “I don’t have to talk to her.”

She stared into his eyes, but he looked away. “You sure about that, Ronnie?” she called out.

“I’m sure,” he said to the deputy warden.

Shelly watched him walk out. The door closed. She was out of luck. She looked at her watch as she left the building. It was six-thirty. She had a long night ahead of her. On her way to her office, her cell phone rang. It was, as always, Joel Lightner.

“I’m over at the City Athletic Club,” he said. “I got three guys who said they’ve played hoops with Ronnie Masters at this open gym.”

“Okay.” She was not the least bit surprised. “You have your trial subpoenas?”

“Yeah.”

“Serve them,” she said. “We’ll need those guys in a few days.”

S
HELLY SAT AT
the defense table next to Alex. She had had the benefit of exactly three hours of sleep from the prior evening. There was a point in time at which it did no good to go to bed, because the small amount of sleep one received was woefully insufficient and the brief interlude of sleep left one fuzzy-headed. For Shelly, three hours was the minimum amount necessary, else she would forgo sleep altogether.

She had gone back over everything in preparing for Ronnie’s cross-examination. In truth, she had known, before she started, the questions she would ask. She had made the case against Ronnie in her head for weeks now, gathering information along the way to buttress her position.

She looked at the headline from today’s edition of the
Watch.

SECOND COP CAN’T IDENTIFY DEFENDANT

The story borrowed liberally from the prior day’s edition, again noting the turn in developments as defense attorney Shelly Trotter—yes,
that
Trotter, the governor’s daughter—now appeared to be heading full force down the path that the prosecution got the wrong guy. There was news, according to the article, of a new witness being disclosed by the prosecution for today’s proceedings, but the prosecution had refused to disclose the identity to the media because the witness was a juvenile.

On the front page of the
Daily Watch,
below the fold, was a story about Governor Trotter’s opponent, Anne Claire Drummond. Her support, in little over a month, had dipped considerably. The story attributed the drop to a combination of two things: first, her initial surge was due to her status as the “new kid,” the fresh-faced challenger (ironic, though, since she had served six terms in Congress), and second, it was still rather early in the race and the voters weren’t hearing much from Drummond. In mid-June, most candidates were spending their time raising money and seeking the support of the critical interest groups—in Drummond’s case, the unions and teachers and seniors. Ideas were being formed, strategies plotted, but the initial glow of her candidacy was temporarily dimmed.

A political columnist for the
Watch
wrote that the race was “clearly Trotter’s to lose.” The economy was rebounding, security-conscious citizens liked Republicans (even though state government had little to do with antiterrorism), and people just generally liked incumbents, especially G.O.P. governors. Nothing short of the revelation that the governor’s daughter had given up a boy for adoption, who in turn had murdered a cop—and did we mention that the governor had tried to persuade his daughter to have an abortion?—nothing short of that could lose the race for him.

The judge entered the courtroom and asked Shelly if she was ready.

She told him she was. She didn’t tell him that she had been ready for a while now.

Alex fidgeted. He had been put at ease when Ronnie got his deal, but he still was not looking forward to this day. “Don’t push him,” he whispered to her.

“People call Ronnie Masters,” said Daniel Morphew.

“What does
that
mean?” she asked Alex.

“Just—don’t hurt him too bad.”

She looked at Ronnie as he entered the courtroom. He did not stop as he passed the defense table. He was wearing a button-down blue shirt and khaki trousers. His hair was combed and parted. She thought that a couple of the female jurors, and one of the male ones, found Ronnie attractive. She could see that.

Ronnie spoke with a strong voice as he gave his full name and spelled his last name. He explained that he lived with his mother, Elaine, and Alex in a small home in Mapletown, a neighborhood to the south of the commercial district. Ronnie testified for a long while about his life with Alex.

“I’d do anything for him,” he said. “He’d do anything for me.”

“Would you lie to protect him?” Morphew asked.

“Well, I guess I did do that,” he conceded. “I would always try to help him.”

“Are you here today of your own free will?”

“No, I’m not. I’m here because you made me come. And you’re making me testify under oath. So I have to tell the truth.”

They talked about the plea agreement for several minutes. Ronnie had been approached by police and investigators from the county attorney two nights ago, after his visit to Alex Baniewicz at the detention center. They had told him they suspected his involvement in the Miroballi shooting. He had requested a public defender and entered into a plea agreement.

“You understand, Mr. Masters, that if you tell a single lie in this courtroom today, we will rip up this plea agreement?”

“Yes.”

“And you can be fully prosecuted for the crime for which you currently have immunity? If you lie.”

“I understand that.”

“All right. Let’s talk about the eleventh of February, this year. Take you to seven o’clock that evening. Do you remember that?”

“Yes. I was getting ready to pick up Alex from the club where he plays basketball.”

“Alex Baniewicz, the defendant?”

“Yeah.”

“What club was that?”

“City Athletic. They have an open gym every Wednesday night. Alex plays until eight. Sometimes it goes on a little. So I left around, maybe seven-twenty. It takes me about twenty-five minutes or so but you never know.”

“You drove to the City Athletic Club to pick up the defendant?”

“Yeah.”

“And tell us what happened next?”

“Well, I was driving down Bonnard—that’s the street just to the south of the club.”

“The club is on Bonnard and Gentry?”

“Right. Bonnard’s the east-west street. So I was driving east on Bonnard, after getting off the highway. Anyway, I get to the intersection and I see a police car with its lights flashing. And I saw someone that looked a lot like Alex running from a cop.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, these guys were to my south. I saw Alex run into an alley. So I went east past Gentry to the next street, Donnelly. I went south down Donnelly to the alley. Like, the alley from the other side that Alex went in.”

“Donnelly is a one-way street going north, is it not?”

“Yeah, it is. I went the wrong way down a one-way street.”

“Why the urgency?”

He shrugged, offered a plaintive smile. “You see your brother running from the cops?”

Morphew nodded. “What were your intentions in going there?”

“I don’t know. I just, sort of did it.”

“Did you, in fact, reach the alley by car?”

“Yes. Well, pretty much. I pulled my car up just a little past the alley and walked over to it. Ran, is more like it.”

“What did you see or hear when you made it to the alley?”

“I saw Alex and a cop.”

“Did you know who the cop was?”

“I had never met that person before in my life. I knew Alex, of course.”

Never met that person.
That didn’t mean he didn’t know who he was. Ronnie was being cute here, she sensed.

“It was the two of them,” Ronnie continued. “Alex and this cop. I saw the cop and Alex going for guns. Alex pulled out his gun and shot the cop.”