“Just-please. Just tell me the truth.”
He considered her for a moment, then threw up his hands. “Alex was selling coke to some asshole at work. Some young rich guy with so much money to spend, he can pick up a couple grams of blow on the weekends and get wired. I think there were two guys. He sold, like, five grams a week, I think. I didn’t like it but he didn’t exactly ask my permission. I said, just keep it away from the house. Which he did. You can ask the feds that, because they came through here like a tornado. Turned the place upside down.”
“The F.B.I. searched your house.”
“Yep. Alex kept the stuff in his car, see.”
Right. She knew that. “Go on.”
“I knew he had this thing with a cop.” Ronnie adjusted in his seat. “The guy had figured out Alex’s deal, I guess. He wanted some off the top.”
“Alex told you about this,” she confirmed.
Ronnie nodded. “Made his situation tougher. He had to sell a little more to clear the same profit.” He shrugged. “That’s what happens when you do that shit. I told him.”
Shelly had, too. “Did you know the F.B.I. was interested in the cop? Miroballi?”
“Yeah. That was Alex’s ticket. Only way he could stay out of prison.”
“And did you-did Alex ever indicate to you that the cop, Miroballi, had gotten wise to the F.B.I. operation? Or that Miroballi seemed suspicious? Started to act differently? Threatened Alex? Anything like that?”
Ronnie followed her questions closely, leaning in. He paused. “Did Alex say he told me about that?”
“I’m asking you, Ronnie.”
He scratched his chin. “Okay, I get it.”
“Get what?”
“You’re saying self-defense, so you need proof that Miroballi had figured out that Alex was working for the feds.”
She had never said the words self-defense to Ronnie. She felt a burn in her chest. “Ronnie, you and Alex can’t talk about this case when you visit him.”
“He’s my bro-”
“They can listen to you.” She touched his knee to deflate her words. “You aren’t his lawyer, Ronnie. There is no confidentiality. They can listen in on your conversations. Legally. You aren’t his lawyer and, technically, you aren’t family, either. You have to watch your every word in there.”
Shelly wasn’t entirely sure that Ronnie was disqualified from familial confidentiality. He was the son of Alex’s legal guardian. Maybe that would qualify. That was a legal question that required research into the Department of Corrections regulations. Easier to play it safe and tell the boys to keep their mouths shut. “If you want to discuss something, do it through me,” she advised. “Okay?”
“Okay.” Ronnie, she could see, was not accustomed to feeling dumb.
The front door swung open. Shelly recognized Elaine Masters from the one time they had met. Shelly put her at midfifties but had to discount her estimate for the effects of alcohol. Laney appeared to be losing the battle with age, and perhaps with life. Her eyes were bloodshot and sad. Her cheeks had dropped considerably. Her hair was a bad color-job of red. The smell of alcohol spread immediately through the room. She cast a look at Shelly.
“Who’re you?” she managed.
Shelly got to her feet and offered a hand. “We’ve met, Mrs. Masters. I’m Shel-”
“Oh, yeah.” She waved at Shelly and staggered past her. Ronnie was on his feet and standing in front of the room that served as Angela’s nursery. He shifted his feet, as if he were guarding her in a game of one-on-one. “What’s your problem?” she asked him.
Ronnie took her arm and directed her away from the makeshift nursery, toward the hallway. “Sleep it off, Laney,” he said gently.
Laney wrested her arm free. “Tell me what to do,” she mumbled, but she kept moving.
Shelly glanced at her watch. It was close to eight o’clock in the evening.
When Laney had made it down the hallway, Ronnie looked at Shelly. His face was flushed. “She just needs to blow off some steam after work. She’s got a job as a dock clerk at a parcel service. She got promoted last year. It’s just, after work, sometimes she-”
“Ronnie, it’s none of my business.” She raised her hands. “Really. I should get going.”
Ronnie looked down the hallway. Shelly, from the doorway, could only hear the sounds of his mother banging a door. “Okay, well, I’ll see you later,” he said.
22
Alex Baniewicz had been indicted by a grand jury two days earlier on two counts of felony murder, which covered murder in the course of another felony-possession of cocaine-as well as murder of a peace officer. The prosecution was required to show probable cause to hold Alex over for trial and had two choices in doing so-they could go to a grand jury for an indictment, or have a preliminary hearing, at which the prosecution would present evidence to a judge and give the defense the opportunity for cross-examination. Shelly had hoped for the latter, not because she expected to beat the case but so that she could watch the witnesses testify against Alex, observe their demeanor, and begin to formulate strategy. The county attorney had opted, as he often did in high-profile cases, for a grand jury, where the likelihood of obtaining a true bill was about as strong as the sun rising in the morning.
Shelly got to court early for the arraignment. Alex was brought in and escorted to the seat next to her. He had been deteriorating on a daily basis, she thought, showing immediate and perhaps permanent wear from the incarceration and pending proceedings. She spoke words of encouragement to him, lawyer-client stuff, which remained the only basis on which she was able to conduct a conversation with the young man. It was ironic that, since Alex had shared the information with her, she’d grown more distant from him. It had been easier, apparently, to be his friend than his mother. She couldn’t make sense of such things, but she settled herself with the knowledge that beating this case was paramount, and her focus on that was excusable. Win the case, then figure the rest of this out.
Dan Morphew, the assistant county attorney handling the case, took his seat and nodded to Shelly. She left Alex and walked over to Morphew. He was a hearty man, large and round, middle-aged. No ring on his finger, so either single or divorced. He had the look of a big Irish drinker, she couldn’t help but think, washed-out pale as they came, with splotches of red dotting his long cheeks and his nose, flakes of dry skin on a formidable forehead. His hair was cut in military fashion, probably the best choice with a receding hairline and a bald crown, but she assumed he chose the style so he wouldn’t have to bother. His clothes were no different, inexpensive and not well pressed.
He got to his feet with some effort and offered a hand. “Dan Morphew.”
“Shelly Trotter.”
“Keeping busy?”
“Hasn’t been hard.” She handed him her new business card. She would be using office space at Shaker, Riley amp; Flemming. Paul Riley had offered her an open office. His idea. Another way he could help, without committing his own time. Shelly had found it difficult, somehow, to accept this arrangement gratis. So they worked out a deal. The young lawyers at Shaker, Riley were required to do pro bono work each year, yet there was little structure in place, no single lawyer supervising their work. So Paul, who had realized that Shelly was without a paycheck now, hired her as a pro bono consultant. She would be the lawyer to whom the associates would turn for advice on their public-interest work. “My temporary home,” she said.
Morphew’s reaction showed he recognized the firm. “Riley’s place. Impressive.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m really moving up.”
“Have a seat a second?” Morphew returned to his chair and grimaced. “Back problems,” he explained. “Two surgeries.” He shook the card in his hand. “You know Paul?”