Mistaken Identity

80

Several hours later, Judy had fallen asleep in the chair beside Mary, who had skimmed almost three hundred cases, each going back in time earlier than the last. Though she hadn’t read each one completely, Mary had gotten a thorough overview of Dorsey Hilliard’s career as a prosecutor. He had won many more than he lost and his legal arguments were right on the money. He’d never been found ineffective as a lawyer, the most common grounds for collateral appeal, and many of the judicial opinions referred to the clarity of his closing, which didn’t bode well for the Co

Mary had found endless cases that Hilliard had tried and several in which he had appeared as a witness, to testify about the effectiveness of other counsel. She had even found a civil case he had brought against an insurer on his own behalf, for expenses relating to physical therapy for his handicap. The insurer had balked at reimbursing Hilliard, and at twenty-one years of age he had sued them for it and won. Mary found herself cheering inside. Hilliard hadn’t even been to law school at the time. How long had he wanted to be a lawyer? How long had he lived with his disability?

Mary remembered the little boy on the white pony, being taught to ride by her classmate. His dark eyes, waiting for her answer. He understands more than you and me, Joy had said. Mary sensed that she had let him, and Joy, down, but part of her wasn’t ready to let go of the law. It wasn’t that she enjoyed being a lawyer, but she had become intrigued in this case after they’d attacked Be

81

“Mike and Ike still behind us?” Be

“Sit down, they’re back there.” Lou braked at the light in his Honda. Rain pelted the windshield but the wipers didn’t clear the view, and he switched on the defroster. “Told you it wasn’t a setup. Cop spilled his guts.”

“You don’t know that, Lou. It could still be a setup.”

“How?”

“It could have been bad information to throw us off. Or get us killed.”

Lou looked over. “Come on, it was legit.”

“Also, somebody could have been watching us.”

“Nobody was watching us. We woulda seen it, or the cop would have.”

“Oh, yeah?” Be

Lou moaned, even over the sound of the defroster. “Christ, Rosato, check it with Mike and Ike. They woulda seen if somebody was watching us.”

“Somebody could still be watching us.”

“You drive me nuts. You’re gettin’ paranoid now.”

“Maybe because a cop tried to kill me, and my Ford is dead.”

Lou didn’t say anything for a minute. “I think we got some good info there. He was a real stand-up guy, that cop.”

“Yeah, but it won’t help the case.”

Lou glanced over. “Nothin’ you could use? Latorce was killed the same way Della Porta was, a shot to the head.”

“That doesn’t get you far, you know that.”

“What about the fact that the Brunell collar never happened? Can’t you use that, to show evidence of corruption?”

“By Citrone, who, on this record, has nothing to do with Della Porta’s murder? No, in a word.” Be

“You’re worried.”

“An understatement.”

“I’ll run down the Brunell lead.”

“No, it’s dangerous.”

“What if there’s a co

“It’s too dangerous. It’ll come too late anyway.”

“I’ll make something happen.”

Be

“Rosato, shut up.” Lou sighed, and the Honda accelerated smoothly. “Where you goin’, back to the office?”

“No, I’ll work at home.

“Your boyfriend will like that.”

Be

82

Mary checked her desk clock. It was five-thirty in the morning, almost dawn. The sky was a grayish-blue outside her window and she could already see the begi

Hilliard trying a case for aggravated assault. It had to be his first major case. A barroom fight. One guy slashing another, too close to the jugular for a lesser charge. Nothing untoward about the case, and Hilliard won. Good. By now, Mary was on the prosecutor’s side, picturing him as a handsome young black man, arguing from the heart, propped up by crutches that scarcely seemed necessary. She hit the key for the eighth case.

Almost fifteen years ago. A simple assault. Hilliard wins. Nothing strange in the case. Nothing co

LAST CASE, read the screen.

Mary blinked. It was hard to believe she was at the end. The last of a thousand-odd cases. Only an idiot would come this far. She hit the key and the case popped onto the screen. Its date was in the sixties, a full twenty years before the previous case. Hilliard would have been a toddler then, if not a kid.

Mary shook her head. A computer glitch. Dorsey Hilliard would have nothing to do with such an old case. “Commonwealth v. Severey,” read the caption, and Mary skimmed the headnote summary with disappointment. The defendant, Andre Severey, had been convicted of murder in the death of a kid stepping off a SEPTA bus. Severey had been aiming at a rival gang member on the street, and a stray bullet had killed one child and wounded another.

Mary sat up in her seat, her body tensing as she read. The bullet had cut the spinal cord of the wounded child, who had lived only a block away. Mary’s eyes raced to the end of the sentence. The child’s name was Dorsey Hilliard.

Mary sat still at the keyboard. My God. That was how Dorsey got his injury. She hit the key for the next page, though she guessed what she’d find. Under the prosecution was a single name:

Henry R. Burden, Esq.

Mary read it over and over but it didn’t change. It had to be Burden’s first case in the district attorney’s office; he was only an assistant then. What did it mean? Burden had convicted the man who put Hilliard on crutches. Gotten a life sentence, without parole.

Mary thought about it. Severey was convicted of murder, though it smacked of overcharging. It was a heinous crime, but not premeditated enough. Was Hilliard beholden to Burden for the conviction? Mary felt she would be. Was there a co

Mary reached for the phone to call Be