She grimaced but did not take the bait.
“For one,” said Paul, happy to answer his own point, “you hate to lose. That case we had? I’ve never seen anyone so upset at losing.”
“Every trial lawyer hates to lose.”
“True, but it usually comes down to money. Plaintiffs’ lawyers hate to lose because they want in on the award. Guys on the side of the deep pockets, they want more business, and that comes from winning. You? You weren’t going to take any of that kid’s money, if he had won. There was nothing in it for you at all.”
“Fairness,” said Shelly. “Justice.”
“Oh.” Paul waved at her. “Sure, fine. But there was more there, Shelly. You have a chip on your shoulder, and I mean that in a good way. You take losing personally. You absolutely hated losing to me-in part because you thought I was a pompous ass, sure, but more than anything because you just hate losing, period.” He smiled at her. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
She shut her eyes. This guy was right on in his analysis. She seemed to spend her life fighting one battle or another.
“The other thing you offer,” he continued, now enjoying himself, “is passion. You care about this kid more than anyone else will. You’ll work harder than any of them. And I’ll be there to lend a hand.”
Shelly felt a tremendous tightening of her shoulders, a shot of anxiety to her heart.
“If I didn’t think you were capable, Shelly, I wouldn’t have recommended you. I don’t give false praise.”
It was the last thing she wanted to hear. What bothered her most was, she knew Paul was right. Despite herself, and somewhat surprisingly to Shelly, she had few doubts about her abilities as an advocate. She had already come around to Paul’s way of thinking. A jury was a jury. A case was a case. She had tried countless cases, some to a jury and some to the bench, and she had won most of them. She might need assistance with forensics, or particular rules governing criminal cases, but at the end of the day she was merely shaping the evidence to support her client’s position, something she had done a dozen times before a judge or jury. The only difference was the stakes. That had been her reason for seeking out Paul. She was trying to pass the responsibility. But Paul had been right when he said that Shelly would bring a determination to this case that no one else would-and he didn’t know the half of it. Maybe that’s what Alex saw, too, why he wanted Shelly to defend him. Given the options, Shelly was hard-pressed to quarrel.
“Can I trust this federal prosecutor, Romero?” she asked Paul, and she realized in doing so that she had made the decision. She would defend her son in a capital murder case.
“Don’t know the guy personally.” Paul waved to someone who walked into the joint. They exchanged jocular pleasantries before Paul leaned into Shelly. “This much I can tell you. A.U.S.A.s don’t think much of county prosecutors, and vice versa. It’s a turf thing. This guy Romero’s not going to be thrilled at the prospect of sharing confidential information with Elliot Raycroft or any of his underlings.”
“Meaning-”
“And that’s doubly true,” said Paul, lifting a finger, “if they suspect that county prosecutors are involved in this drug operation.”
She looked at Paul.
“Cops are pretty insular, yes. But protecting your drug dealers on the streets is a lot easier if you have some help from the guys who charge crimes. Is it the most likely scenario? No. But if it’s even a possibility, Romero is not going to want to tip anyone off.” Paul threw some money on the counter and called out thanks to the owner. “All I’m saying, Shelly, is this. Make sure you’re seeing things with your own eyes.”
19
The funeral for Officer Raymond Mitchell Miroballi, which had taken place two weeks ago, had been covered extensively in the television and print media. At the time, Shelly couldn’t stomach reading or hearing about it. Instead, she had held on to the papers and now, for the first time, pored over news accounts.
The photograph of Raymond Miroballi in the paper was from the neck up. Miroballi was in uniform and cap, probably from several years ago when he became a cop. He had full, high cheeks, small eyes, a powerful neck.
The Miroballi boys were all cops. Ray was the baby at age thirty-eight, the youngest of three brothers, the other two also members of the city police force-Detective Second Grade Reginald Miroballi, forty-two, and Lieutenant Anthony Miroballi, forty-four. Ray Miroballi was the father of three children, ages ten, eight, and seven. He was married to Sophia Miroballi for twelve years and lived on the city’s south side, only a block away from where he grew up.
There were no pictures of Ray Miroballi’s brothers in the articles. She wouldn’t be able to provide identification anyway, given the ski masks they wore. Was that it? Had it been Ray’s brothers who had paid her a visit last night? She knew they were cops-they made a point of letting her know that-but they could have been other cops working with Ray Miroballi in their drug scheme. The only thing she knew with certainty was that anyone smart enough to concoct that scheme to break into her apartment had brains enough to craft an alibi as well.
She read again about the life of Ray Miroballi and his children. The paper listed facts. The details, Shelly Trotter would never know. His sense of humor. The things he did with his kids. Was he tyrannical? Did he spoil the children? A devoted husband? Happily married? How would his kids grow up now, having lost their father?
This was why she didn’t relish being a criminal defense attorney. She believed in the system with all her heart but didn’t want to be part of it, couldn’t be a part of it. What was the saying? A liberal was a conservative who had never been a victim of a crime. Well, she was probably considered a flaming liberal by most conventional standards, but not when it came to the rights of the accused. Who had protected her when she needed it?
Maybe her views had softened over time, but she made a distinction in any event with children. For them, the presumption of innocence was a multilayered concept. Kids who had turned down a wrong path at a young age could not be fully blamed for their actions. At such a young age, could the connection between their upbringing, their influences, be so casually severed from their actions? They shared fault, of course, but so often only their share was addressed by the justice system. Defending them was not so much seeking absolution for their acts but giving them another chance at an age when they still had so many options. Locking kids away in a delinquency home was rarely the answer. Kicking them out of school was never the answer, yet it had become, increasingly, the chosen course for school systems. Burdened with shrinking budgets and depleted resources, a school board simply found it easier to say to hell with some problem kid. That was just not acceptable to Shelly. Every kid deserved a shot at a good life.
She found herself reading and rereading paragraphs, her eyes passing over words as her thoughts were consumed by Alex. Alex, her client. Alex, her son. How was she supposed to react to that news? Neither she nor Alex seemed to know. Maybe in a normal setting, they could slowly move toward a relationship that was appropriate to the situation. But they were already friends, and now she was defending him from a capital murder charge and wondering what he wasn’t telling her. She had always loved her child, from the moment she gave him up, not even knowing it was a “him” as opposed to a “her.” But now, seeing this boy in the flesh, was she supposed to flip a switch and feel maternal love?
She shook her head harshly. If she couldn’t get Alex off these charges, there wouldn’t be much of a point to any of this talk of mother and son. She had to be his lawyer first. She looked up and saw Rena Schroeder standing in the threshold of her door. She had been there, Shelly sensed, for a lengthy moment. Shelly blinked out of her trance.