Bennie felt like apologizing to every juror. They were a smart jury, with a higher education level than most. She and Hilliard had picked them in record time for a death-qualified jury, because Judge Guthrie had presided over voir dire and permitted only the most routine questions. It wasn’t her favorite way to pick a jury, but Bennie had relied on her instincts, biases, and judgment to wind up with a good, fair crew.

Crack! “This is Commonwealth v. Connolly, Docket Number 82634,” Judge Guthrie said. “Good morning, ladies and gentleman of the jury. We met earlier during voir dire and now it’s time to begin our work in earnest. Mr. Hilliard, are you ready for your opening argument?” His graceful tone sounded more like a question than an order, and Hilliard reached for his crutches, placed them expertly under his elbows, and rose from his seat.

“I am, Your Honor.” The district attorney nodded curtly in his dark, pinstriped suit, sharply tailored around his large, muscular frame. The jurors eyed him as he walked to the podium, grunting slightly from the effort of movements they all took for granted. Bennie watched their gaze lingering on the contradiction of a huge, strong body that couldn’t power itself even a single step forward. Well-meaning people, the jurors’ faces showed a sympathy they couldn’t help but feel. It was an open secret that Hilliard’s disability gave him a politically correct edge with them, though it clearly wasn’t intended. His disability was a nonissue for him.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “my name is Dorsey Hilliard and I represent the people of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania against Alice Connolly. The defendant has been charged with the crime of murder for the death of her lover, Detective Anthony Della Porta. I do not believe in lengthy arguments. I let my witnesses do my talking for me. So I will keep this brief.”

Hilliard raised his voice, his bass tones resonant and his cadence no-nonsense. “The Commonwealth will prove that on the night of the murder, the lovers argued, as they did with increasing frequency. After the argument, the defendant shot Detective Anthony Della Porta point-blank in the head with a handgun. The Commonwealth will prove that the defendant did intentionally, and in a premeditated manner, murder Detective Della Porta, one of the most respected and decorated detectives in the Philadelphia Police Department.”

Bennie shifted in her chair, thinking of the money she’d found under the floorboards. How the hell would she get it in?

“The evidence will show that neighbors heard the lethal gunshot and saw the defendant fleeing the scene of the crime. Police arrived at the scene and also saw her fleeing, holding a plastic bag. They saw her run into an alley to escape them. They were able to arrest her only by chasing her and finally tackling her to the ground. Even then, the defendant fought to escape, and what she told them when they arrested her will not only shock you, it will prove to you beyond any doubt that she is guilty of this crime.”

Back at defense table, Bennie tried not to squirm. She could only imagine what the cops would make up. At her shoulder, Connolly was shifting in her seat, though Bennie couldn’t tell if it was artifice or nerves.

After a pause, Hilliard continued. “Once the defendant was in custody, police conducted a complete search of Trose Street, including the alley that the defendant had run into. You will hear evidence that there was a Dumpster in the alley, and in the Dumpster, authorities found that plastic bag, which contained clothes belonging to the defendant. Experts will tell you that the clothes were soaked with the still-warm blood of Detective Della Porta.” Hilliard paused again, as if for a moment of silence. “By the last witness for the Commonwealth, each of you will be absolutely certain that the defendant killed Anthony Della Porta and is guilty of murder. Thank you for your attention, for your service to the Commonwealth, and to our country.” Hilliard eased into his crutches and returned to his seat.

“Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie said, “we’re ready for your opening argument.” He moved some papers on the dais, without looking up. The black marble backdrop behind the dais glistened darkly and the ersatz gold disk of the Commonwealth shone like a tarnished sun.

Bennie rose to her feet, her expression only apparently confident. She walked straight to the jury, bypassing the podium. She always delivered her arguments standing directly in front of the jury, talking to them eye-to-eye. Usually Bennie knew exactly what she’d say.

Not today.

Bennie slipped her hands in her skirt pockets and stood silent for a minute, head down, trying to compose herself. She thought of her mother, and Connolly. Then the black TransAm, for which she looked every trip to and from the courthouse, and the murdered inmates. The rarest thing in a courtroom was a lawyer not talking, and Bennie felt, more than heard, the courtroom fall quiet and the jury waiting, their eyes on her. She looked up, cleared her mind, and did another remarkable thing. She decided to tell them everything, and all of it the truth.

“My name is Bennie Rosato, and I represent Alice Connolly, who is accused of murder in this case. I remember selecting you for this jury, and you were an intelligent group, so I will address you as such. You have undoubtedly noticed that Alice Connolly and I look alike. We look like identical twins, in fact.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, pushing himself out of his seat with two solid arms. “Ms. Rosato’s familial relationships are absolutely irrelevant to this case.”

Judge Guthrie slipped his glasses from his nose. “Please approach the bench, counsel.”

“Yes, sir.” Bennie swallowed hard and strode to the dais, where Hilliard met her, standing next to a court reporter.

Judge Guthrie leaned forward. “What is going on here, Ms. Rosato?”

“I’m making my opening statement, Your Honor. I want to deal up front with a matter the jury has to be wondering about, as you must be.”

“Your personal relationships have nothing to do with the guilt or innocence of this defendant.” Judge Guthrie shifted unhappily and the rich folds of his black robing caught the overhead light. “Your twinship is a collateral issue at best.”

“Of course it’s collateral,” Hilliard agreed, his tone angry even at a whisper. “It’s more than collateral, in fact. It’s completely irrelevant and prejudicial.”

Bennie held up a slightly shaking palm. “That’s precisely my point. It is collateral, but it has the power to distract the jury so much they can’t focus on the evidence. If I don’t deal with this issue at the outset, the whole trial they’ll be thinking-are they twins or aren’t they?”

Hilliard’s shaved head snapped toward the judge. “Your Honor, does defense counsel really expect us to believe that she didn’t dress her client for court today? That she didn’t hide her for jury selection? Ms. Rosato wants the jury to make the connection between her and her client. Their hair and their clothes are the same. She’s managed to personally vouch for the defendant without saying a word.”

Bennie grasped the dais more urgently than she wanted to acknowledge. “I’m trying to defuse this situation, Your Honor, by putting it on the table. Ms. Connolly is on trial for her life, and as defense counsel, it’s an error not to afford me the latitude to dispose of any issue that will obviate her ability to get a fair trial. I have every right to finish my opening, Your Honor. I… have no choice.”

Judge Guthrie frowned. “I’m going to overrule the objection for the present time. However, Ms. Rosato, rest assured that if there is case law that governs this type of trickery, my law clerks will find it. In addition, any attempts the defense makes to personally vouch for the defendant’s innocence will subject you to contempt. You may continue, Ms. Rosato, but proceed with the utmost caution.”