Authors: David Ellis
Morphew paused a good long moment, then pointed at Alex. “You’re sure it was Alex—the defendant—who shot Officer Raymond Miroballi?”
“Yes.”
The jurors seemed impressed with this. Shelly realized how
much Dan Morphew must have worried about proving that Alex, in fact, was the shooter. He had probably taken for granted that Shelly would concede that fact, given her plea of self-defense; his heart had probably done a few leaps when she cross-examined Eddie Todavia, and then more so when Sanchez said he couldn’t identify Alex.
He was putting Ronnie Masters on the stand, even though Ronnie was testifying that both Miroballi and Alex went for their guns. That was consistent with self-defense. Morphew must have felt desperate to put the gun in Alex’s hand if he was willing to live with this testimony from Ronnie.
Shelly’s stomach was cramping up. She felt the perspiration in her hairline, her underarms.
“Now, Mr. Masters,” Morphew continued, “you say that when you first came into the alley, the defendant was removing his gun from his pocket, and Officer Miroballi was reaching for his?”
“Yes.”
“And whose gun got out first?”
“I saw Alex’s first.”
“And you said that you saw nothing before this moment?”
“I did not.”
“You heard nothing?”
“I did not.”
That was the best Morphew could do. His point being, Miroballi was probably just trying to react to Alex. The fact that Alex got out his gun first meant that Alex was the aggressor. That was the one dent that Morphew could put in the self-defense case, making Alex the initiator of the events because he pulled the gun first. Although Ronnie had simply said he
saw
Alex’s gun first.
Being cute again?
“What happened next, Mr. Masters? After the shooting?”
Ronnie adjusted in his chair. “Alex turned around and ran.”
“Did he see you?”
“Yeah. I ran to my car and left. I didn’t look back. I was scared.”
“And do you know what Alex did?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Where did you go?”
“I went home.”
“Later that night, did you receive a visit from police officers?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they ask you questions about Alex and the shooting?”
“Yeah.”
“And you lied to them, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You lied to help Alex.”
“Yes. I didn’t—I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“Are you telling the truth now?”
“Yes.”
“Were you aware that the defendant had met with Officer Miroballi?”
“Before the shooting? No, I didn’t know.”
“Did you talk to the defendant about Officer Mirohalli?”
“Well, only after the shooting. I didn’t know he’d been talking to the guy before that.”
“When did you talk to the defendant about that?”
“One time when I visited him. It was a couple weeks after he was arrested.”
“Was the date February twenty-fifth, 2004?”
“Yeah. I went to see him at the detention center. I asked him what the deal was with him and Miroballi.”
“And what did he say to you?”
“He said he’d been playing a dangerous game with Miroballi.”
“A ‘dangerous game,’ he said?”
“Yes.”
“Did he elaborate on that?”
“No.”
Morphew leafed through his notes. “Thank you. I have nothing further.”
Shelly felt her stomach flip.
“Are you ready for cross-examination, Ms. Trotter?” the judge asked.
She pushed herself slowly to her feet. She was ready.
T
HEY LOOKED AT
each other for a long while. She didn’t know what to make of his expression. Challenging, to put a word on it. He seemed anxious, but who wouldn’t in this situation? He did not take his eyes off her. So much passed between them at this moment.
She had tried, she told herself. She had tried to give this boy a good life. The circumstances—most notably the fact that her father was an elected official averse to embarrassment—had led her away from a conventional adoption, to a private attorney adoption procedure that often connected older people, too old for the state agencies, with the not atypical result that his father died when Ronnie was young. His mother, Elaine Masters, was a good woman but not strong enough to persevere. She was an alcoholic who provided some, but not enough, for this boy.
A mother is responsible for how her child turns out. Not completely, no, but to a large extent. Was all of this her fault on some level? She didn’t know the answer. It was pointless. Objection, irrelevant. Her job was at hand. She had avoided it with all her might but now it was time.
If you had told me,
she did not say to him,
we could have figured something out.
Shelly decided to forgo the lectern and stood before Ronnie, her arms together behind her back.
“Mr. Masters.” Her voice was flat, hoarse. “We know each other, don’t we?”
“Yes, we do.”
“You and I have talked about this case, haven’t we?”
“Yes, we have.”
“You never told me that you were there in the alley that night of the shooting.”
“I never told you a lot of things.”
“You—” Her throat caught. She ignored his comment and kept going. Her legs were trembling. She considered, for a moment, returning to the defense table and questioning him while seated. “You never told me that you saw Alex shoot the officer, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
So he was cooperating so far. Surely, he did not have an agenda here. He obviously had wanted to keep himself out of the soup. He had accomplished that with his plea deal. But surely he wasn’t looking to bury Alex. Surely he would work with her as much as he could.
Right?
“You said that you saw Alex’s gun first.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t tell us, can you, which person reached for a weapon first.”
“No. I can’t. For all I know, it was the cop that went first.”
Good. Good.
“You didn’t see a second gun on the floor of the alley, did you?”
“No. There wasn’t a second gun that I could see.”
“So if someone were to say that Alex had dropped a first gun—in an attempt to ‘trick’ Officer Miroballi, let’s say”—because this was exactly what Morphew
had
said in his opening statement—“you would say that this wasn’t true.”
“It wasn’t true,” said Ronnie. “There was no second gun. Not then.”
She watched him. Obviously, his testimony was excellent so far. He returned the stare with a life to his face that hadn’t existed on direct examination. Was he trying to tell her something?
No, she could not trust this boy. This child of hers.
“You never saw drugs in Alex’s possession during the time you were in the alley, did you?”
“No. Alex? No, he ran right past me and I didn’t see anything fall out.”
“Did you see the drugs at all?”
“No. I told you what I saw. I saw the cop and Alex with their guns. Alex shot him in self-defense.”
Dan Morphew leapt to his feet. “Objection, your Honor. There is no basis for that testimony. It is a legal conclusion and it—there are no facts to support it. No foundation. This witness”—Morphew wagged a finger at him—“this witness said he saw nothing until the moment the defendant went for his gun. He said he knew nothing of a relationship between Officer Miroballi and the defendant until later.”
“That’s true,” said Ronnie.
The judge held out a hand toward Ronnie. “Son, there is no question before you. The objection is sustained. The testimony relating to ‘self-defense’ is stricken.”
The blood had rushed to Dan Morphew’s face. It was not simply a reaction to an adverse piece of testimony, Shelly assumed. It was the fact that Morphew himself had sponsored this witness, and now he might be heading south on the prosecutor.
She was more interested in Ronnie. He had readily agreed with Morphew’s objection. And now he was looking to the side of Shelly. She turned, followed Ronnie’s line of vision to Alex, who was shaking his head slowly with a cold stare. He was saying
no
without words.
Alex caught Shelly’s eyes on him and sighed. He dropped his head and continued to shake it, now more furiously.
What was going on here? Was she being baited by Ronnie?
Shelly took a step toward Alex and then stopped. She had conferred enough with Alex, who had stymied her every move. She was going with her gut. She was betting that Ronnie Masters would help Alex.
“Mr. Masters,” she said, “you said before that you had never met Officer Miroballi. But did you know
of
him?”
Ronnie’s chest heaved. “I knew he was a cop. I knew he had cops for older brothers, too.”
Shelly’s eyes narrowed. She looked again at Alex, who stared at the table. Then back at Ronnie. Her mind raced as if her life
flashed before her eyes. Ronnie had been the one who advised her to get rid of the federal case against Alex—because, she realized, he knew that the truth of what happened, when borne out at trial, would not be what Alex had told the F.B.I., would expose Alex as a liar to the F.B.I. She pictured Ronnie going to Alex last night, full of bluster, against her repeated warnings not to talk in that interview room because the government could listen—
Her mouth opened, ever so slightly. A soft moan of recognition escaped from her throat.
Okay. Ronnie had known exactly what he was doing last night when he marched in there. He wanted to be recorded. He wanted to get the county attorney’s attention.
Why?
She looked at Alex. It was like a tennis match for her now.
Alex hadn’t let Ronnie say something that Ronnie had wanted very much, apparently, to say. Ronnie had a story to tell, and he didn’t want anyone stopping him. Not Alex, not Shelly, not anyone. So he got the prosecution to put him on the stand and give him this opportunity, in open court, where nothing could be reversed.
“I’m sorry,” Ronnie whispered to Shelly, under his breath.
The judge leaned forward. “The witness will only answer questions put to him.”
Shelly nodded. “What did you know about Officer Ray Miroballi and his brothers, Ronnie?”
“His brothers covered for him, Shelly. His older brothers were cops.”
“Objection!” Morphew was on his feet again. “There is no evidence that the deceased officer has done anything wrong in this case, your Honor. In fact, the only testimony has been that Officer Miroballi was not involved”—Morphew stopped himself. “Judge, we object to the lack of foundation.”
“I will sustain that objection. Ms. Trotter, I realize that you are entitled to some leeway here, but I want foundation laid before there are any more outbursts like this. Lay the foundation. And Mr. Masters”—he looked down at Ronnie—“you will only answer questions put to you.”
Shelly held her breath. “Ronnie, do you have evidence that
Officer Raymond Miroballi committed a crime that is related to this case?”
“I do,” he said carefully.
“Related to this case?”
“Very much so. And I have more than evidence. I have proof. I have absolute, total proof.”
“With your own eyes?” she asked, following the judge’s admonition.
A sound came from his throat. Not quite a laugh. “With my own eyes,” he said. “My own nose. My face. My hair. My arms and legs.”
She kept her eyes on him. His eyes. His nose. His mouth. His—
“No,” she heard herself say.
She took a step back. She brought a hand to her mouth. Of all things, she thought of Governor Langdon Trotter in the midst of a re-election campaign that was his to lose.
“Ray Miroballi is my father,” Ronnie said.
Shelly made an effort to turn away, toward the defense table, to look for her chair as if it were a life-preserver.
“He raped you, Shelly, and they covered the whole thing up for him.”
She became vaguely aware of Alex rushing from the table toward her, then everything turning upside-down.
And then everything turning black.
D
AN
M
ORPHEW WALKED
into the office within the judge’s chambers, a room typically reserved for the clerks and interns who worked in the state courts. Shelly was seated on a couch, her elbows on her knees.
He handed her a glass of water. “Drink,” he said.
She accepted it from him and he was right, it did help somewhat, the cool water in her mouth.
It was early in the afternoon. Several hours had passed since Ronnie had testified in open court. Shelly had been taken into the judge’s chambers after fainting, where she rested for over an hour. Finally, when she had regained some measure of strength, the judge had summoned Ronnie Masters and his lawyer into his chambers, along with Morphew and Shelly.
Ronnie’s public defender had freely offered a blood test for his client to confirm that he was linked by DNA to Ray Miroballi. Nobody in the room seemed to doubt this fact, but Ronnie submitted to a blood test nonetheless. Shelly also agreed to do so tomorrow. And the state had plenty of Ray Miroballi’s blood for a comparison.
Dan Morphew looked like he had gone fifteen rounds with a heavyweight. Shelly probably looked like a zombie. And the judge, who on some level probably appreciated the courtroom theater, nonetheless did not enjoy spectacles during the most prestigious case he had handled in his short tenure as a judge. He told the lawyers that they had tomorrow off. The obvious explanation
for this would be concern for Shelly’s health. A lawyer who passed out during trial was probably dehydrated, malnourished, and sleep-deprived to the point of exhaustion. But Shelly figured the judge wanted the parties to have the chance to talk, to perhaps make this case go away.
Morphew took a seat at a desk near the couch where Shelly was sitting. It was just the two of them now. The judge was in his chambers. He had dismissed the jury for today and tomorrow.
“You feeling better?” he asked.
She took another sip of the water, made an equivocal noise as she drank.
“You didn’t know any of that, did you, Shelly?”
She set the cold glass against her forehead briefly, then down on the floor.