“Thank you,” Bennie said, though she felt as if she’d been mugged. Hilliard walked back to counsel table, and she returned to the jury, eye-to-eye with an older black woman who sat front and center. Belle Highwater, age sixty-two, librarian; Bennie remembered from the jury sheets. The librarian’s straightened hair was graying and frizzy at the temples and her brow was divided by a furrow Bennie hoped she hadn’t caused.

“What I was about to tell you,” she continued, “is that there is an issue we have to deal with right now, before it gets in the way of this trial. It’s obvious to all of us, it’s staring us right in the face. Take a good, long look at my client, Alice Connolly. Go ahead, ladies and gentlemen, don’t be shy. Look now and take her in. Look at Alice Connolly’s face, body, clothes, and makeup, or lack thereof. Notice even the way she sits.”

The jurors’ heads turned obediently, and Connolly stiffened in her seat at the unexpected scrutiny. Bennie enjoyed her discomfort. Exposing Connolly’s stratagem to the jury would rob it of its power. Bennie was regaining control of the case. She couldn’t have planned it better. She hadn’t.

Bennie cleared her throat to get the jury’s attention. “Now, if you would, look at me. Compare my face, body, and clothes with my client’s.” Her arms rested at her sides as fourteen pairs of curious eyes swept her form. “Notice anything? It’s obvious, isn’t it? Alice Connolly looks like me, even dresses like me, doesn’t she?” Bennie paused, and the black librarian nodded. “When she walked in this morning, I was amazed at how much we look like twins. She even sits like me and will probably use some of the same gestures I use at counsel table. But the truth is, I have no idea if Ms. Connolly is my twin or not. I didn’t meet her until this case, so it’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

A juror in the front row, a young white man with a goatee and tiny Ben Franklin glasses, edged forward on his seat, intrigued. Bennie remembered him from the jury sheets, too: William Desmoines, age twenty-six, Temple grad, videographer.

“I am raising the issue only to answer as honestly as I can a question you must have. I cannot change the way I look, and I cannot change the way Alice Connolly looks. I cannot help that we look alike, nor will I hide it from you. All I can do is ask you not to focus on the similarity between me and Ms. Connolly, but concentrate only on the evidence and the testimony in this case.”

Hilliard’s eyes narrowed. At the bar of court, Judy stirred restlessly, hiding her confusion. Either it was the coolest opening argument she had ever heard or Bennie had lost it completely. Next to Judy, Mary prayed the rosary in her head. Pray for us lawyers, now and at our last billable hour. Amen.

Bennie walked to the corner of the jury box. “The prosecutor and I agree on only one fact: this is a court of law, and your job is to find the truth. You must determine whether Alice Connolly is guilty or innocent of the murder with which she has been charged. The prosecutor can parade witnesses at you, but at the end of the day, remember this: all they have is a bare, circumstantial case. No one saw Alice Connolly commit this crime, no one could have. By the end of this trial you will be convinced that not only can the Commonwealth not prove its case against Alice Connolly beyond a reasonable doubt, but that Alice Connolly is completely innocent of the murder of Anthony Della Porta. Thank you.”

Bennie walked to her chair and sat down, avoiding Connolly’s eye. She had no idea how she’d prove what she said. She just knew that it was true and she was the one meant to prove it. Here and now.

Wind sent discarded newspapers rolling along the grimy city curb. It was a blustery, gray morning, teetering on the edge of a summer thunderstorm. If the weather couldn’t make up its mind, neither could Lou Jacobs. He stood on the stoop of the rowhouse and hesitated before he knocked. His fist hung in the air, hovering clenched before the front door. He felt damn uncomfortable helping get a cop killer off. Then again, he felt damn uncomfortable that the cop may have been dirty. Lou had spent the past few days asking everybody he knew about the black TransAm. Nobody knew the car. Lou had even cruised around, trying to pick up the TransAm on a tail, but no soap.

Lou stood at the front door like a sophomore on his first date. He was starting to think the TransAm meant zip. As for the money under the floorboards, that was touchy to bring up with his friends, and Lou would never slam another cop without proof. That money could have come from anywhere. The lottery. The slots. Savings. Anywhere. Then he thought again. Yeah, right. Half a mil? Goddamn Sam!

Lou knocked on the door but no one answered. He had to finish the job he’d started, canvassing the neighbors. It was the only way he knew to do a job. Slow and steady wins the race. The address of the rowhouse was 3010 Winchester Street, the street in back of Trose; it was the first house where the alley came out and where McShea and Reston had collared Connolly. Lou had to believe he’d find something on Winchester if he just took it methodical.

Half a mil.

Lou thought about knocking again, then lowered his arm and stood there like a stupid ass. Couldn’t even decide whether to knock. Half of him wanted to know what was going on; the other half would just as soon let it lie. The neighbors had IDed Connolly running down Trose, then Winchester. They all said the same thing. Lou could feel it to his marrow: Connolly was the doer. Whatever Della Porta had been into, she was into deeper, and he was the one who got dead in the end. Lou didn’t like helping her walk.

Hell with it. Screw her. He turned from the door and climbed back down the stoop, buttoning his blazer around his waist so it wouldn’t fly around. He strode down the street, trying not to think about the money. He woulda loved to have even five thousand in the bank for a cushion, but he didn’t, not with his alimony payments. The economy was through the roof and his ex-wife was the only one who couldn’t find a job. She was a welfare queen, and he was the Democrats.

Lou put his head to the wind. He’d never taken a bribe as a cop, not a nickel, though he had plenty of opportunities, all small-time. If Della Porta was dirty, he was a sack of shit, and shame on him. Now that he was dead, his shame should die with him.

Lou reached his brown Honda and dug in his pants pocket for his keys. He didn’t need this aggravation. It wasn’t what he signed up for when he went with Rosato. This kind of shit was up to Internal Affairs, not to him. He was just a beat cop, retired, and though he had always done careful police work, he’d realized a long time ago that he wouldn’t be one of the great ones. Didn’t have the head for it, or the taste. The killer instinct some of them had or that politician’s touch.

Lou got inside his car and was about to turn on the ignition when the guilt got to him. He always thought of himself as a man of his word. He had given Rosato his word and he couldn’t let her down, especially not now, with her mother gone. He could see it broke her up, more than she let on. Maybe more than she knew. Lou understood, he was like that when his mother passed. Besides, he always kept his word as a cop, even though he wasn’t a higher-up. He was proud of the integrity he brought to the badge.

With a sigh, he switched off the ignition, got out of the car, and went back to 3010 Winchester Street.