Free Mistaken Identity by Lisa Scottoline Page B

assistant district attorney, Dorsey Hilliard, drummed dark fingers on the prosecutor’s table, his head shaved to a bumpy polish and glistening brown, wrinkling into a bullish neck. Aluminum crutches rested on the floor at his feet, their elbow cups stacked like spoons, but it was almost as if they belonged to someone else, since Hilliard looked muscular and strong in a suit of custom pinstripes. The prosecutor had a reputation as one of the toughest in the city, and Mary fidgeted in her seat. ANYWHERE BUT HERE, LORD , she wrote on her legal pad. NOT INCLUDING THE OFFICE. OR LAW SCHOOL . She stopped writing when Bennie strode toward her and sat down at counsel table.
    “This ought to be exciting,” Bennie whispered.
    “Can’t wait,” Mary said, forcing a smile.
I’d rather set my hair on fire.
    “All rise for the Honorable Harrison J. Guthrie, presiding,” called the deputy. The lawyers stood as Judge Guthrie entered from a small door, ascended the dais with some effort, and settled his wizened frame into a high-backed leather chair. His head was a wispy white cap and his face bore the refined yet craggy lines of a patrician and an accomplished sailor. His blue eyes shone bright behind tortoise-shell reading glasses and his trademark red tartan bow tie perched like a plaid butterfly at the neck of his black robes.
    “Ms. Rosato,” Judge Guthrie said, his voice firm despite his age, “you have requested an emergency hearing, and the Court has granted your request. As I recall, you don’t usually make such requests frivolously.”
    “Thank you, Your Honor,” Bennie said, pleased. She rose to her feet, recalling the last time she had been before Guthrie. The Robinson case, in which a cop had beaten a small-time drug dealer, apparently for thrills. The judge’s healthy damage award had drawn substantial criticism, though it was the right result. “I would like to enter my appearance in this matter, Your Honor.”
    “A rather perfunctory chore, Ms. Rosato.”
    “Usually, Your Honor. However, former defense counsel has refused to accede, even though the defendant wishes to retain me. I therefore find myself forced to seek resolution of this matter by the Court.”
    Warren Miller, the young associate from Jemison, Crabbe, rose halfway to his feet. A slight, dark-haired lawyer, Miller wore rimless glasses, a three-piece suit, and the pallor of a hothouse orchid. “For the record, uh, we take issue with … that recounting of the facts, Your Honor.”
    “The Court will hear from you in due course, Mr. Miller,” Judge Guthrie said, and Miller withered into his seat. “Now, Ms. Rosato, you have also requested that we bring down the defendant, Ms. Alice Connolly, and I granted that request, though the notice was short. You must know it was a great deal of trouble for the Court and the sheriffs.”
    “I’m sorry the Court was inconvenienced, Your Honor. I didn’t have much notice myself and since this is a capital murder case, I was sure the Court would want the defendant to be heard.”
    “Yes, yes, of course,” Judge Guthrie said. He slid his reading glasses from his nose and waved at the deputy with them. “Perhaps we should have the defendant brought in. Will you, Mr. Deputy?” A courtroom deputy in a navy blazer disappeared behind a side door in the paneled wall and emerged a second later, followed by a Philadelphia police officer with a black windbreaker over his uniform and an earphone plugged into his left ear. Behind the cop walked Alice Connolly in her orange prison jumpsuit.
    Bennie stood when Connolly entered, but Mary sat as if fixed to her chair, her eyes widening. Alice Connolly looked so much like Bennie she could be her twin. The defendant had a cynical smile, her hair was bright red and raggedy, and she was thinner, but her features looked the same. What was going on? Mary didn’t think Bennie had a twin, much less one accused of murdering a cop. This case was looking worse and worse. She