Jury of One (8 page)

He will know. A day from now or thirty years from now. And he will never look at her the same again.

S
HELLY LIVED ON
the north side of the city, in a neighborhood generally described as a “developing” community, which meant, as far as Shelly could tell, heavily populated by minorities but getting whiter. She had lived here since she graduated law school. She was near the lake and the park, near a bus line that got her downtown in less than half an hour. It was a rental neighborhood primarily, mostly young gay men and Latino families with kids. It was well-lit, quiet, and affordable.

Her apartment was in a four-story brownstone in the middle of the block. It was about a thousand square feet stretching long and thin, with exposed brick walls and old hardwood floors. She got decent light from the southern exposure and a large bay window. She had no patio per se but a landing for the fire escape, overlooking the alley to the rear of the building, served the same purpose when it was warm.

She arrived home that night at nine. It had been four days since Alex was arrested. She had represented him at his bond hearing, in which the court took all of thirty seconds to order Alex held without bond. She was still waiting to hear from Jerod Romero about working out a plea for Alex. In the meantime, she was struggling to find a lawyer for Alex, someone who worked on homicide cases on a regular basis. She had visited fourteen lawyers in three days, all the while trying to keep up with her regular work at the law school.

She was beginning depositions in a case tomorrow, a lawsuit
the Children’s Advocacy Project had filed against the city’s board of education, seeking to increase money and resources to education for the deaf. The board said the time and manpower was needed to teach the mainstream pupils, and forcing resources elsewhere would hurt the majority to benefit the few. Shelly was stretching constitutional principles to argue that deaf kids should be “mainstreamed” with the general student population but given the necessary extra resources. The answer from the city was always the same—no money, no people, no space. Shelly was not unsympathetic. The city’s position was not unreasonable, but it was unacceptable. She filed suit in federal court, where the life-tenured judiciary was far more willing to knock the city around, but even then, any remedy would take years to implement. So much work, to wait so long for what most likely would be only an incremental improvement for deaf and hearing-impaired children.

She was sitting on her bed with the television on. It was primary election day in the state, and results were beginning to pour in after ten o’clock, three hours after the polls had closed. Along the bottom of the screen, numbers were scrolling along. It was a big election primary because all of the constitutional offices—governor, secretary of state, attorney general, and the others—were in play. The gubernatorial primary on the Democratic Party side had been particularly contentious. She was watching a tape of the acceptance speech of the incumbent Republican governor, Langdon Trotter, who had not been challenged in the G.O.P. primary. Still, he had decided to hold a victory rally to get the free airtime.

“We will continue with our goals,” he told a raucous crowd. “We will not back down. We will not change our positions from the primary to the general election.”

The governor was referring, she gathered, to one of the Democratic Party candidates, who previously had espoused pro-life views while in the state senate but, while running for governor, changed his stance to the more conventional Democratic Party position.

“We are pro-life and we are proud of it!” he proclaimed. “We will not turn our backs on the innocent unborn!”

She shook her head and looked back down at her notes. She
had been reviewing deposition outlines prepared by the law students. CAP was part of a legal clinic, which meant that students did much of the litigation work. Shelly would often try the cases herself when they went to trial, but she usually had at least one student working with her. For the deaf-ed lawsuit, two of her third-year law students would take most of the depositions.

The portable phone rang. She considered avoiding it but picked it up off her nightstand.

“Shelly.” It was her brother Edgar on the phone. Edgar, clear-eyed and serious, whose hair never moved, even as a child, whose posture never strayed from erect, who worshipped and mimicked their father. “So you’re there.”

“So I am,” she said. “Very busy time for me,” was the most she would apologize.

“Yes, I’ve heard. You’re taking the cop killer, I see.”

The news must have reached the papers. Shelly didn’t read the news on a daily basis anymore. Or maybe Edgar just had the information by virtue of his job.

“He’s my client, yes.” Probably not for long, if it were up to Shelly, but she didn’t see the need to relieve her brother’s agitation. Seven years her senior and the opposite gender, Edgar had found little common ground with Shelly over the years. He doted on her as a child, truly loved her, she believed, but Shelly had found it difficult to return the affection. The love was there—it was there for all of her family—but there was no connection, no warmth. Edgar was no different from Mother, giving her little credit for original thought or substance. She would grow up like Mother, raise some kids.
Oh, a law degree? How cute! She’ll meet a nice lawyer.

“Shel, really—a drug-dealing cop killer?”

“I don’t think we should be discussing this. I believe it’s called a conflict of interest.”

Edgar was the superintendent of the state police force. He had received the appointment three years earlier.

“I’m still your brother.” He paused. “I just can’t believe—Why do you spend your time— Shelly, really, is this why you got a law degree? I thought you were helping schoolkids. What happened to that?”

“I do help schoolkids. I helped Alex once. He needs my help again.”

A sigh from the other end. “Okay, little sister. I don’t understand it, but okay.”

“I have your permission?” Shelly tightened her grip on the phone.

“Boy, you get a bug up your ass. I’m worried about you, Shel. Can’t a big brother look out for his little sister?”

She closed her eyes.

“This stuff will eat you alive. This is going to be a capital murder case. And he’s going to lose. You understand that, right?”

“I understand the stakes and the odds, Edgar.”

“Listen, little sister. Another thing. This is a cop killing.” He paused, as if Shelly were supposed to understand. “I control state police. I don’t control city cops.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, drive the speed limit in the city, okay?”

She shuddered. The same thought had occurred to her—retaliation from the local force. “I always obey the laws.”

“I put in a call to Fran Macey.”

“Who?”

“Francis Macey. Superintendent of the city police.”

“Did you now?” Her blood was boiling. “So now he knows to call off his goons?”

“Shelly, cops wake up every day not knowing if it’s their last. They approach every pulled-over vehicle wondering if there’s a shotgun waiting for them. We do the shit work so everyone can sleep safely at night. So when one of their own—”

“Edgar, I know what cops do. Lawyers defend people accused of crimes. That’s what I’m doing.” She left out her best line, the one about Edgar never spending a single day in uniform himself. “I won’t give the police any excuse to harass me. I will drive the speed limit and I will only cross at crosswalks when it says ‘Walk.’ If the light changes and tells me to dance on one foot, I’ll do it. Okay?”

“Jeez, Shel.”

“And thank you, once again, for assuming I can’t take care of myself.”

A small chuckle from her oldest brother. He mumbled something off the record. “At least call Dad tomorrow, would you?”

“I’ll try,” she said. She hung up the phone.

On the taped address on television, Governor Langdon Trotter was calling for stricter terrorism laws, for an expansion of the death penalty to include those who sell drugs to our children. She placed the portable phone on the bed and watched the governor complete his short speech, then wave to the crowd. His family gathered around him. His wife, Abigail, kissed him lightly on the mouth. His two sons patted his shoulders and hugged him when it was their turn.

The screen cut back to the anchor desk at Newscenter Four, to Allison Henry. “An interesting side note,” she said, “on this celebratory evening for our governor, is that Governor Trotter’s only daughter, Shelly, is the lawyer for the young man charged with the murder of Police Officer Raymond Miroballi two weeks—”

Shelly turned off the television and closed her eyes a moment. Then she returned her focus to the outlines for tomorrow’s depositions.

S
HE FELL ASLEEP
that night sitting up with work on her lap. She popped awake when she heard the noise. The buzzer to Shelly’s apartment resembled the plaintive squeal of a wounded animal. Shelly had grown used to it, though she rarely had visitors.

She turned to look at the clock on her nightstand and felt a pain in her neck from having fallen asleep sitting up. It was just past three in the morning.

The buzzer squealed again. She gathered herself a moment as her heartbeat raced. She reached under her bed for the billy club her brother Edgar had given her, a cop’s club, heavy as a baseball bat but more painful on contact. She went to the intercom in her hallway and pressed the “Talk” button.

“Who is it?”

She pressed the “Listen” button.

“Are you Mrs. Trotter? Alex’s lawyer?”

“Who is this? I’m calling the police right now.” She was holding the portable phone in her hand.

“Manuel,” he answered. “My name’s Manuel. Alex told me to talk to you.”

She paused. There was a sense of urgency to his voice. She held the “Listen” button down for a moment and considered her thoughts.

“Don’t—don’t call the police,” he said.

“Why are you here?” Shelly demanded.

“Man, listen. I’m here to help you. But I can’t be around here. They’s looking for me.”

“Who is looking for you?”

“The
policía.
You can’t call ’em.”

“The police are looking for you?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said. ’Cause of Alex.”

“Walk down the stairs,” Shelly said.

“What? Lady, I’m telling you—”

“Listen to me. Walk down the stairs, out to the gate. So I can see you.” The entrance to the walk-up brownstone had an awning, so Shelly’s view of the visitor, if she walked to her front window, was obstructed. But she could see the gate by the sidewalk. “Walk down the stairs to the gate, count to twenty, then walk back up.”

Shelly turned off the hallway light and walked in darkness to the front window. She pressed her face against the glass and looked down, watched a young man descend the eight stairs and stand at the gate. He raised his arms as if on display. After a count of twenty, he took the stairs back up to the intercom.

Shelly looked around but saw no other movement outside, a peaceful evening on her block. She walked back to her intercom and pressed the “Talk” button.

“I want you to understand a couple of things, Manuel,” she said. “I have a gun up here and I’ll use it. I know how to use it. You get me?”

She pressed the “Listen” button.

“—get you, lady.”

With a shot of adrenaline filling her body, Shelly pushed the “Enter” button for three seconds. Then she walked to her bedroom, put on sweatpants to go with her T-shirt, removed an extra set of sweatshirt and sweatpants, went to her kitchen, and took out her camera. She opened the door with the chain still on and listened to the footsteps of the man. She watched a young man, about Alex’s age, take the final staircase with a nervous glance around. He was smaller than Alex and darker, sweaty and disheveled. She saw the look in his reddened eyes. He was a junkie. He reached the top and looked at Shelly through the crack in the door.

“Stop there,” she said.

The boy was wearing a black football jacket and worn jeans. He did what she asked.

“Take off your jacket.”

He complied, tossing the jacket by the staircase.

“Take off your pants.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Take off your pants or I shoot.”

He shrugged but followed her instructions, first removing his high-top gym shoes, standing before Shelly in a gray T-shirt and cheap boxers and sweatsocks.

“Throw them down the stairs,” she ordered.

The boy had gotten the picture now, that Shelly was afraid he was armed. He tossed his clothes and shoes down the staircase.

“We can talk here,” she said. “Lean against the wall and put your palms against it.”

The boy shook his head but complied. Shelly held her camera through the crack in the door and snapped his photo.

The boy flailed his arms at the flashing of the camera. “What-choo doin’, woman?”

“If you move again, I’ll shoot.” She closed the door and looked through the peephole. The boy settled against the wall. She put the camera underneath the dishwasher, where a board was missing. Then she went back to the door and cracked it. “You’ll never find that camera,” she said.

“Lady, I don’t want your fuckin’ camera.” The boy was exasperated. Nervous, strung-out, and tired.

“Talk to me.”

“Man, the police’s gonna kill me. They know I know about ’em.”

“What do you know?”

“Man, I saw what happened.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Alex”—the boy adjusted the volume of his voice—“y’know, the cop gettin’ shot and all.”

“What do you know?” Shelly’s eyes kept looking past the boy, at the stairwell.

“I saw the whole fuckin’ thing.”

Shelly kept her breathing even. This was exactly what she needed.

“Tell me what you saw.”

“I saw it, lady. Jesus.” He gathered his arms around himself.
It was always drafty in the hallway, and the temperature outside could not have been above twenty degrees.

“He didn’t do it, is what I saw.”