Mistaken Identity

57

On the witness stand, Officer Sean McShea wore a navy-blue uniform that strained at its double seams to accommodate his girth, and his peaked cap rested next to a worn Bible with red-edged pages. He spoke into the microphone with authority and warmth in equal measure. “How long have I been with my partner, Art Reston?” McShea asked, reiterating the prosecutor’s question. “Seven years. Not as long as my wife, but she’s a better cook.”

The jury laughed, but Be

Hilliard was smiling, leaning on his crutches at the podium. “Now, Officer McShea, let’s turn to the events of the night in question, May nineteenth of last year. Did there come a time when you and Officer Art Reston received a radio report about a gunshot fired at 3006 Trose Street?”

“Yes. The report came over the radio when we were a block away, traveling north on Tenth Street. We happened to be in the area when we heard the report. Since we were so close, we kept driving on Tenth Street to Trose.”

“Did you formally respond to the call?”

“No.”

“And why was that?”

“As soon as I heard the report, I just hit the gas and reacted. I knew the address was Anthony’s, uh, Detective Della Porta’s, and I knew we were close enough to do something about it.”

“In retrospect, should you have radioed in that you were responding to the report?”

“Yes, but I was concentrating on saving a cop’s life.”

Hilliard nodded, approvingly. “Officer McShea, what did you and your partner do next?”

“We drove to the corner of Trose Street and stopped the car.”

“Did you see anything on Trose Street?”

“Yes. We saw the defendant. She was ru

Be

“Overruled. The witness is expert enough to make such conclusions, Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie said, his lower lip puckering. It etched two tiny lines at each corner of his fine mouth and wrinkled his chin wattles into his bright bow tie. “Please proceed, Mr. Hilliard.”

“Officer McShea, how did the defendant appear to you when she was ru

“Objection,” Be

“Overruled,” Judge Guthrie said, and Be

McShea cleared his throat. “She looked panicky, stressed. My kids would say she was ‘freaked.’ ”

Hilliard walked to a large foamcore exhibit, a black-and-white diagram of Trose Street, which had been set up on an easel and faced the jury. “Referring to Exhibit C-1, would you show the jury where you first spotted the defendant that night?” Hilliard gestured to the exhibit resting on the easel’s ledge, raising his crutch like a personal pointer.

“Sure,” McShea said, wielding the pointer with practiced motion. “We saw her right in front of the day care center, which is 3010 Trose Street. She ran past the day care center, westbound, past 3012 and 3014, to the alley.”

“Officer McShea, would you tell the jury what you and Officer Reston did after you saw the defendant run west on Trose Street?”

“We pulled the patrol car up to Trose Street and just as we were about to turn the corner, we saw the defendant ru

“Describe for the jury, if you would, what you refer to as your pursuit of the defendant. Use the exhibit if you need to.”

“The defendant was ru

“Did either of you identify yourself as police officers during this pursuit of the defendant?”

“Yes, it’s procedure.”

“How did you identify yourself as a police officer?”

“I shouted, ‘Freeze, police.’ I know my lines.”

Hilliard smiled. “Did the defendant stop ru

“No, she ran faster. My partner subdued the defendant by tackling her to the ground. She was struggling pretty bad, and he was trying to hold her down. I arrived on the scene and ordered her to get down, so I could cuff her.”

“Officer McShea, when you say the defendant was ‘struggling pretty bad,’ what exactly do you mean?”

“She was kicking, biting, and punching with her arms. She struggled on the ground and kept kicking upward at my partner, in the groin area. I was shouting, ‘Get down, get down,’ but she wouldn’t listen. Before I got her cuffed, she tried to get up and run away again.”

“Did the defendant say anything to you while you were handcuffing her?” Hilliard asked, and Be

“Objection!” she said, rising quickly. “The question calls for hearsay, Your Honor.”

“It’s not hearsay, it’s coming in for the truth, and it’s an admission anyway,” Hilliard said, and Be

“May we approach, Your Honor?” Be

“If it’s an admission, it comes in, Ms. Rosato. You know the rules.”

“There was no testimony about any admission at the preliminary hearing. Whatever this admission is, it should have been supplied to the defense, and it wasn’t.”

“Your Honor,” Hilliard piped up, “the Commonwealth was under no obligation to offer each and every statement to the defense, and Ms. Rosato has total access to her client. She could have asked her.”

Be

“I’ve already ruled,” Judge Guthrie interrupted, shaking his head. “The statement is admissible.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, and returned to counsel table. Be

Hilliard walked over to the witness stand. “Officer McShea, what did the defendant say to you when you arrested her?”

Officer McShea spoke clearly into the microphone. “While I was cuffing her, she said she did it, and she offered us money to let her go. She offered us thirty thousand dollars apiece and when we said no, she upped it to a hundred.”

Silence fell in the courtroom, as if the trial had suddenly stalled in a pocket of dead air. An older juror in the front row leaned back in her chair and a young woman next to her blinked. The black librarian scowled at Co