For someone whose ultimate goal here was to argue self-defense, this was not the impression she was trying to give. Was she still pleading self-defense?
God, what a case. She longed for the easy stuff again, the school disciplinary cases, the civil lawsuits, even the juvenile stuff, where one’s assignment was largely straightforward.
She forced some breakfast down her throat in the court cafeteria below the courthouse. She drained two cartons of orange juice but barely touched the grapefruit or toast. She read the entire article only because it was possible that some of the jurors had done the same, and she wanted to know what might taint their opinions.
The reporter expressed surprise at the turning of the tables on Todavia, after the defense had notified the prosecution of a self-defense theory. The first day of trial was entertaining theater, said the writer, ranging from a damning opening statement to one particularly humorous episode to a tough cross-examination of the admitted drug dealer.
Little of substance, other than the reporter’s complete misreading of her strategy. She tapped the table and headed up to the lobby of the courthouse. She saw a camera crew and a news reporter pacing in circles. She had almost slipped past when the man called to her. She refused comment but she couldn’t exactly run; she was in a line for the metal detectors. Used to be, lawyers could flash their credentials and get past all that, but security-conscious officials would have none of that now. Everyone got checked.
So she was a captive audience. The reporter threw several questions at her as she looked into the lights and saw the red button light up on the camera. She muttered a couple of professional pleasantries, but he wouldn’t leave.
“Are you giving up on self-defense?” No comment. “Do you think someone else killed Officer Miroballi?” No comment.
“Are you supporting your father’s re-election campaign?”
She looked at the reporter and smiled. “That’s my business.”
Finally, it was her turn through the metal detector, and she was on her way to the courtroom at eight-thirty. Alex was seated in his chair. He looked positively dreadful. Cleaned-up and appropriate, sure, but up close, the purple circles beneath his bloodshot eyes had darkened.
She patted him on the shoulder. “You clean up nice,” she told him.
He looked at her and flashed a glimpse of his old self. “Death row chic,” he said, tugging his suit collar.
“Hey, come on now.”
Shelly looked over her notes one last time. Alex had his pad of paper out as well. He had taken notes and slipped the occasional comment or question to Shelly. She invited his participation. If he was anything like her, he had to feel like he was doing something.
The courtroom was just as blue as the day before, possibly more so. She sensed that some of the police officers in the front rows were different from yesterday. She imagined that it was considered an off-duty obligation to attend the slain officer’s trial.
Sophia Miroballi walked in with her mother, presumably, just before nine, but a space had been kept open for her. Notably absent was any familial representation from the defendant’s family. Elaine Masters-Laney-worked the day shift and probably had difficulty moving it around. That assumed she had tried to make such arrangements. Shelly couldn’t be sure of that. She had adopted Ronnie late in life-typical for attorney adoptions-and her husband had died, leaving her and Ronnie with little in terms of financial support. Laney, in rather dire straits herself, had taken on another boy, Alex, which said something about the kindness in her heart. But somewhere along the way, she had lost control. Laney had turned to booze. Shelly was not unsympathetic but, for Christ’s sake, the woman could offer a modicum of support for Alex right now.
Dan Morphew rushed in just under the bell. He seemed harried, and he was taking it out on his two assistants. Why the long face? She felt a bit of relief, regardless. Always nice to see your adversary sweating. She tried to watch him without watching. He was whispering something quite serious to a young assistant, and then he pointed at Shelly.
The jury entered the room and took their seats. Shelly wore her pleasant face. Morphew hardly even looked up when he spoke to the judge. “Call Monica Stoddard,” he said.
The witness walked into the room and caught some attention from the audience. She was tall and athletic and not unattractive. She was dressed her best in a blue suit and heels, simple jewelry. She seemed nervous as she was administered her oath. Many people were when they got in that box.
“Good morning, ma’am,” said Morphew, making it to the podium with a notepad. “Please state your name and spell your last name for the record.”
He took her through her job description and background. He seemed to spend a little too much time on her education and positions as an architect over the years. He was building her up so she could buttress the testimony of a homeless person, the only other eyewitness to the shooting. Finally, Morphew made it to the building where she worked, the Forrester Insurance Building, which was across the street and to the south of the alley where the shooting occurred. She was working late in her office on the nineteenth floor. He took her to the relevant date and time.
“I saw a boy running from a police officer. He was wearing a coat and a cap.” She was using her finger to point at her imaginary view. “He ran into the alley and the officer was behind. The officer was not as fast.”
“Go on,” Morphew urged.
“Well, the boy disappeared out of my view. The officer made it to the alley and stopped somewhere in there, but still in my view.”
“You couldn’t see the entire alley from your window?”
“No. The officer ran for just a couple of seconds. Well, here.” She adjusted in her seat. “He stopped first at the very front of the alley. Like, still on the sidewalk. He had a radio in his hand and I think he said something into it. Then he walked a few steps. He didn’t go that far.”
It didn’t seem that Morphew had prepared this testimony very well. That seemed odd. She was not a critical witness, but still. What had been occupying Morphew’s time since yesterday at trial?
“Then tell us what you saw.”
“I saw the officer talking. I mean, I couldn’t hear anything. But he seemed like he was talking to someone. Then he seemed to jerk, kind of, and then I saw him fly backward and fall on the ground. He’d been”-she ran a hand across her face.
“He’d been shot in the face?”
She closed her eyes. “Yes.”
“Ma’am, you mentioned that the officer had a handheld radio in his hand.”
“Yes.”
“What about his other hand?”
“I think it was free. He wasn’t holding anything.”
No. Shelly checked her notes on that. No.
“What about when he was talking to whoever it was-did he do anything different with that hand then?”
“Not as far as I could see, no.”
“And you could-well, that’s fine. That’s fine. Now, did this officer do anything, at any time here, that you would perceive as threatening or aggressive?”
Shelly thought to object but she would lose, and that would highlight the testimony.
“I didn’t see him do anything like that, no.”
“Did you ever see this officer, at any time, draw his weapon?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“And did these events take place in the city, county, and state in which this courthouse is located?”
“Yes, they did.”
Morphew nodded. “That’s all I have, your Honor.”
Shelly had little for this witness. She stood at her chair. “Good morning, Ms. Stoddard. I’m Shelly Trotter. We’ve met before.”
“Yes. Good morning.”