Jury of One (52 page)

She released a laugh. She didn’t know what the term
ready
meant. Paul was right; she had spent so many years with the brakes on, she couldn’t even find the accelerator. But it felt—what was it with him?

Possible. Yes. Possible.

“Slow,” she said to him.

“Hey, slow is good,” he answered. “I like slow.”

A
RECENT POLL IN
the
Watch
found that Governor Langdon Trotter had suffered a drop in popularity in recent weeks. The article attributed it less to the revelations in the Miroballi trial than to his reaction to it. The governor had issued a single statement on the entire subject, which Shelly could recite by heart:
My personal life will remain personal and not public. I hope the voters will have the wisdom to judge me on my four years as governor. I will gladly stand on that record. I expect my opponent to direct her attacks at me and not my family.

The media, in typical fashion, had chased the various tentacles of the story, from the Miroballi shooting to Shelly’s sexual assault complaint years ago. A story last week, from an anonymous source in the police department, indicated that the Internal Affairs division was focusing closely on whether Officer Julio Sanchez had tampered with the crime scene after the shooting. That same source indicated that Internal Affairs had opened a review of the circumstances surrounding Shelly Trotter’s report of her sexual assault years ago, and whether illegal means were used to conceal facts and pressure Shelly into dropping the charges.

Shelly didn’t know how they obtained half the stuff they did, but the reporters had dug up some good information. They learned that the detective who had initially fielded the case was a woman named Jill Doocy, now living out east and raising her children. The case had then been transferred to another junior
detective named Howard Stockard—the man who had convinced Shelly to drop the charges. It was unclear why the case had been transferred, but it was known that Howard Stockard had worked in the same station for a time with then-Officer Anthony Miroballi, who was now a lieutenant.

Stockard was deceased, and Jill Doocy said that she did not recall the specifics, which might or might not have been true. What was true, however, but unknown to Shelly as a teen, was that the crime Shelly had reported was statutory criminal sexual assault—it was rape regardless of whether Shelly consented, because she was a minor at the time and Ray Miroballi was not. The fact that she gave birth to his son was indisputable proof that Ray Miroballi had committed a felony. Thus, Detective Stockard’s questions back then—his suggestion that she had consented to the sex but was having remorse after the fact—were entirely improper if he knew that the person who had raped Shelly was Ray Miroballi.

And he did know. Because the media had found Dina Patriannis, just as Alex’s investigator had, and she confirmed that she had identified Ray Miroballi to Detective Stockard.

Shelly sat on the park bench and enjoyed the sun on her face. Soon, the police would be contacting her about that long-ago incident, she imagined, and she would tell them what she knew.

She knew now, for certain, what she had suspected all along—Ray Miroballi’s brothers had been the ones who had broken into her apartment and threatened her. She had thought at the time that they had acted out of familial loyalty, or because they were involved in drugs along with their deceased brother. She knew differently now. They knew who Shelly was, obviously, from way back when. They must have hit the ceiling when they learned that Shelly Trotter, of all people, was defending the person who killed their brother. What the hell was
she
doing on this case? They were afraid. They were afraid that Shelly knew that Ray Miroballi had raped her, and if she knew that much, it wasn’t much of a leap to implicate Tony and Reggie Miroballi in the cover-up of that rape.

It would never be proven. She couldn’t possibly make a case against them. And in the end, it probably could never be conclusively proven that the Miroballi brothers pulled strings for their
little brother back then. With Detective Stockard dead, there would be ample reason to think that Tony Miroballi used a chit with Stockard, but no proof. There almost certainly would not be criminal charges against the Miroballis, if for no other reason than the statute of limitations probably had expired. And in all likelihood, there would be no departmental disciplinary action against them, either. Shelly would have to rest with the comfort that anchors would be attached to their legs in the department; they might keep their jobs but would not move up.

And she wasn’t sure how much she cared about that. She had made a commitment to remove the “Rewind” button from her brain. She preferred to look at what was in front of her.

Alex sat in a sandbox in the park with his daughter, Angela, who wore a set of pink overalls, preferring to scoop the sand with her hands instead of the tiny shovel provided to her. From her spot on the bench, Shelly saw the look of relief on Alex’s face. Things were not perfect for him. He had lost half of his junior year of high school while incarcerated; with that setback and tough financial times for him and his daughter, he was inclined to drop out and get a full-time job. Shelly had used all of her powers of persuasion, including the offer of financial assistance, to convince him to stay with it and graduate. That, after all, was what she was best at—keeping kids in school.

Elaine Masters—Laney—finally had been informed of the relationship between Shelly and Ronnie, though Shelly had not been present. According to Ronnie and Alex, she had not appeared to have particularly strong feelings one way or the other about Shelly. That was because Laney was an addict, and alcohol had become the consuming focus of her life. Shelly wanted to help, but it was not as if she could pounce into their lives and start making changes. She could only hope that, someday, Laney would find the strength to want to help herself. And if she did, Shelly, Ronnie, and Alex would be there to help.

Ronnie Masters, standing only a few feet away, was filming Alex and Angela with a camcorder (courtesy of Paul Riley), providing running commentary and trying to coax Angela to speak for the camera. Ronnie would definitely graduate, and he had that legislative scholarship to Mansbury College after his senior year of high school. Mansbury was just a car-ride away,
so Ronnie could commute, stay close to Alex and little Angela. And Shelly.

His grades were excellent, and all things considered, he had done well with very little to start with. Still. She had seen State Representative Sandoval on occasion, on a school issue, and she would love to ask him how it was that he had decided to direct one of his coveted scholarships to a boy who had not even applied for it, whether the idea might have come from a certain governor looking for a favor.

She smiled at that thought. The scholarship had been awarded months before Alex shot Officer Miroballi, before Langdon Trotter had any idea that Shelly would discover anything she ultimately learned. She had underestimated her father. Then, and all along. It was amazing to her, having been a lawyer herself for almost ten years, having seen so many stories between the lines, so many shades of gray in a black-and-white system—that she had painted her father with such a broad brush.

It was with a twinge to her heart that she noticed Ronnie’s thick dark hair, the face that before her eyes was starting to square at the jaw—the tough Italian features he had inherited from his father. It was true. He looked like Ray Miroballi, at least the photos Shelly had seen of him. But there was also the light blue of his eyes, the fullness of his mouth, that made Shelly think of her own father.

Ronnie turned the camcorder suddenly and approached Shelly.

“We’re talking with Shelly Trotter,” he said in an official voice. “Vigilant defender of troubled youth by day, beautiful karate black-belt by night. Shelly, what’s your secret?”

She blushed. “I don’t have any secrets. Not anymore.”

“Is it true that you’re my mother?”

“That is true,” she answered. “And I’m proud of it.”

“Then don’t just sit there,” he said. “Go get me some lunch.”

She winked at him and waved him away. Maybe she saw some of herself in him, too.

I have relied on the efforts of so many people in completing this novel. For explaining some of the technical aspects of adoption, I want to thank Illinois State Representative Sara Feigenholtz, who has been a wonderful friend as well as a source of information. On details concerning law enforcement, especially on the federal level, thank you to John Lausch, a federal prosecutor in Chicago, for his comments and insight.

A special thanks to Vince Connolly, a former top federal prosecutor in Chicago and now one of the most successful white-collar criminal defense attorneys in Chicago. Vince provided technical assistance as well as a read of an early version of the novel. His help and friendship have been greatly appreciated.

Any mistakes or inaccuracies on these technical issues are not to be attributed to these very generous people, but to me.

Thank you to those who read over earlier drafts of this novel and offered their valuable input: Missy Thompson, Adam Tullier, Dan and Kristin Collins, my mother, Judy Ellis, and my father-in-law, Ed Nystrom.

Thank you to all of my family for their love and support: July Ellis; Jennifer, Jim, and Jenna Taylor; Ed and Sally Nystrom; and Angela, Mike, Elizabeth, Matthew, Thomas, and Nicholas Riley.

A special thanks to Jim Jann, who once again has volunteered a great deal of his time and energy to offer his input on this novel. Jim has one of the best literary minds in the business, and he isn’t even in the business. I hope to be editing one of his novels soon.

Thanks to everyone at my law firm for their support and enthusiasm over the years: David Williams, Doug Bax, Dan Collins, Kerry Saltzman, Lisa Starcevich, Chris Covatta, Michelle Powers, Adam and Grant Tullier, Rebecca Johnson, and Debbie Philips.

Thanks to David Highfill, my editor, who worked with me on the rather arduous journey that was the writing of this novel. Thank you to everyone else at Putnam for their faith in me. Thanks to Jeff Gerecke, my agent, for once again helping me to keep a steady hand.

Thank you, finally, to Susan Nystrom Ellis, my wife, editor, consultant, lawyer, psychiatrist, and best friend. You are everything to me.

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