Mission Hill (15 page)

“Those records were sealed.”

“Does that mean it's true?” He's excited to have caught me off guard.

“Please don't make the story about me. It will detract from the trial.”

“You made yourself part of the story when you took it on. You could have assigned it to anyone.”

“Case assignment decisions aren't news.”

“It's news when the prosecutor, in a high-profile murder trial, has a personal vendetta against the defendant.”

“Do me a solid. Keep it under wraps for now.”

“We all have a job to do.”

“I'll owe you one.”

Carl considers the proposition. “Deal, but I plan to collect,” he says.

“I have no doubt.”

We walk along Cambridge Street. The sidewalk is crowded, and the street is jammed with traffic as government workers head home for the night.

Just as I'm about to step into the crosswalk, Carl throws another curveball. “What do you think about the gun?”

“What gun?”

He pauses, keeps me waiting as he checks his phone, and scrolls through his e-mail. He's messing with me and I want to shake the answer out of him.

Finally he says, “The ATF ran the shell casings from Tim's murder scene through their system.”

“Did they get a hit?”

“Yes, the murder weapon was used in another shooting.”

My mind races. This could be the break that we've been looking for.

“Which shooting did it connect back to?”

“That's not what's important.” He pauses and looks at me. “The gun was stolen out of the police evidence locker last month.”

I rush back to the office and go directly to the executive suite. It's close to seven, and Owen and Max are the only ones still here. They're in Owen's office lounging, ties loosened. Every bit of wall space is covered with Boston sports memorabilia. Autographed baseballs from the 2004 and 2013 World Series. A Patriots jersey, signed by Tom Brady. The obligatory Boston sports fan poster of Bobby Orr, flying through the air. There are also a dozen photos of Owen's three children, dressed in various sports uniforms.

Max is guzzling an Amstel Light. Owen is wrestling with a bag of Doritos. He rips it open, stuffs a handful of chips in his mouth, and then licks the orange dust off his fingers. He gave up alcohol after his oldest, Patricia, was born, and he's packed on the pounds, which is an accomplishment considering the hours he spends running around baseball diamonds and soccer fields, coaching his kids.

They're talking about Tim's pension. Owen managed to find a loophole in the system; he qualified Tim's family to get benefits that go only to people with twenty years of service. Owen took Tim's death hard, and—unlike me—he's been there for Julia.

Max offers me a beer, Owen holds up the bag of chips, and I decline both.

I drop my files on the table and sit in a chair. “Did you hear about the gun trace?”

They shake their heads.

“What do you know?” Max asks.

“Remember the guns that were stolen out of the evidence locker last month? One of them was used to kill Tim.”

“Holy shit.” Max twists the cap off another beer and snaps his fingers, sending the bottle cap spinning across the room.

“I spoke with Dermot this morning and he didn't mention a word about it,” Owen says.

“I can see why. The murder weapon was stolen from Boston police custody,” I say.

“There's no way a cop killed Tim,” Owen says, crumpling up the Doritos bag and tossing it basketball-style into the trash can.

“Where are you getting this from?” Max says. “I hope you're not trading information.”

“Don't worry.” I stand, gather my things, and move toward the door.

“The commissioner called,” Max says. “BPD found a burner phone in some brush, fifty yards from where Tim's body was found.”

Burners are inexpensive prepaid disposable phones. The owners don't have to sign contracts or give personal information in order to buy one, making them nearly impossible to trace.

“Tim's prints and DNA are on it,” Owen says.

I sit back down. “Did they do a phone dump?”

Owen nods. “Tim got two incomings, both from the same number. One of the calls came in right before he was killed.”

“Do we know who it was from?”

“It came from another burner and lasted less than a minute,” Owen says.

“It was probably to arrange the meet-up,” Max says. “Bottom line—Tim planned the meeting. He went there voluntarily, which means he probably trusted the guy.”

“On second thought,” I say, “I'll take one of those beers.”

 

Chapter Twenty-seven

After a few days of testimony from medical experts, forensic analysts, and first responders, Tiffany Reed takes the stand—her mascara is smudged, her eyes red. Judge Volpe allowed my request to ban the media from filming her—microphones are set up to record her voice, but the cameras are all pointed at me.

The courtroom is quiet as I press the start button on my laptop. Everyone in the gallery leans in to listen.

“Nine-one-one, please state your emergency,
” a dispatcher says.

“Oh my God. People have been shot. My sister, she's bleeding. Please send an ambulance. There's three of them. Please, hurry. Oh my God.”

Tiffany closes her eyes and stifles a gasp. Her hands tremble as she relives the horror. I usually sit with my witnesses and listen to the 911 recording as part of trial prep, but knowing it would make for more dramatic testimony, I didn't play the tape for Tiffany ahead of time. She's lost in the memory of the night her sister died in her arms.

My mind travels back to the night that I saw Tim in the tow lot. I don't think that I'd ever be able to do what I'm putting Tiffany through—sit on the witness stand and describe what I saw, heard, felt. Looking at Tiffany, I try to convince myself that I'm not a bad person.

“Okay, stay with me, help is on the way,”
the dispatcher says calmly.
“Can you tell if anyone is still alive?”

“I don't know. Please, hurry.”

“Can you give me a description of the shooter?”

“No. I don't know. Hurry, please.”

I turn off the recorder. “You arrived on the scene in the immediate aftermath of the shooting?”

Tiffany looks down at her lap, shreds a tissue. “Yes, I heard some popping noises when I was coming down the street. I think there were four of them.”

Both Tiffany and I are speaking quietly, almost whispering, giving jurors the impression that they're privy to a private conversation.

“What happened when you arrived at the house?”

“I saw her.” She suppresses one hiccup and then releases two more.

“You saw Jasmine?”

“Yes.”

“Your twin sister?”

“Yes.”

The crime scene photos are on my table, sorted and labeled. Tiffany is supposed to identify them, so I can offer them into evidence and project them onto a screen. Tiffany's identification of the crime scene photos will be compelling. It'll make for one of the most emotional moments of the trial. She takes another tissue from the box in front of her, and blows her nose. She bites her lip, and tears pool in her eyes.

“No more questions,” I say.

“Mr. Blum, any questions?”

Blum rises, but remains at his table to telegraph that he'll be brief. His jacket has a rip in the right-hand pocket, an interesting changeup from the stains and smudges. The wool fabric even looks a little frayed. Maybe he has a special instrument, specifically for this purpose.

“You didn't see the shooter, did you?” Blum is gentle but firm.

“No,” Tiffany says.

“So you can't prove that Orlando Jones had any involvement in this crime whatsoever, can you?”

“Objection. Ms. Reed doesn't carry the burden of proof.”

“Sustained.”

Blum smiles with sympathy. “That's all I have for this witness. Thank you. We're all sorry for your pain.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

Judge Volpe calls the midday recess. Out in the hallway, Harold grabs my elbow and whispers in my ear, “Am I sensing a crack in your veneer?”

“Don't worry,” I say, worried that I'm losing my edge.

Kevin joins me, and we avoid the crowd by ducking down the back stairway. In an empty conference room on the fifth floor, I take a small plastic container from my tote.

“Your boyfriend packed your lunch again?”

“Seared ahi on a bed of field greens.”

“This guy is spoiling you.”

“You might be onto something with this protein thing.” I put down my fork. “Where are we on Ezekiel?”

“Three squads are out looking for him.” Kevin unwraps a protein bar and shovels it down in two bites.

“You sure he's still alive?”

“Yesterday, he made a withdrawal from an ATM in Dorchester.”

“That gives us a shred of hope.”

I finish my lunch and search my tote for a bottle of Poland Springs. I always keep two bottles of water with me. I open one, give the other to Kevin.

“If you can keep it going until the end of the day, I'm sure I'll catch up with him this weekend.”

“I'll kill time by putting Denny's boss on the stand. I wasn't planning to call him, but I asked him to be here, just in case.”

“What's he going to give you?”

“He can establish a timeline. More importantly, he can help me rally more sympathy.”

When court starts back up, Sal summonses the manager of the Chinese restaurant, Doug Huang, who takes the oath. He looks nervous in an ill-fitting suit jacket; the sleeves are too long and the shoulders tight. On the stand, he's a perfect witness, presenting as sincere and unrehearsed, even though we spent hours together.

“Denny was an excellent worker, the best.” Doug looks directly at the jury. “He was responsible and reliable, and the customers loved him.”

“Did he ever return to the restaurant, after the delivery on Belmont Street?” I say.

“No.”

“Did you ever see Denny Mebane again?”

“I saw him at the hospital, when he was in intensive care.” Doug scans the gallery and fixes on Adele. “I still go to see him in the rehab sometimes.”

“Does he recognize you?”

“I hope so.”

“But you're not sure.”

“No.”

“Thank you. Nothing further.”

I take my papers from the podium and return to my table. Blum stands in place at his table.

“Just one question,” he says. “Did you see who fired the shots?”

“No, sir, I didn't see that,” Doug says.

“That's all I have for this witness.”

I end the day here. When the jurors are home with their families this weekend, walking their dogs or listening to their kids practice the piano, I want them to think about Orlando Jones and the damage that he has done. I know that I will.

Judge Volpe excuses the jury, Orlando is taken away in shackles, and the courtroom empties. I pack up my papers, file them in my trial box, and look for my phone. When I reach into my tote, I feel a piece of paper that wasn't in there earlier. I pull it out; it's folded in half, and
ADA Endicott
is written on the front in block letters. That rules out a love note.

The message is short and to the point:
Die Bitch.

My heart races, my chest tightens. The door to the courtroom slams open and bounces off the back wall. I hold my breath and whip my head around to see who it is.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” Sal says. “I didn't know anyone was still here.”

“No problem,” I say.

I fold the note and stuff it back in my bag. It's already dark outside, and I don't want to walk to my office alone. My hands tremble as I text Kevin:
Are you around? Meet me on the Plaza?
He responds right away:
I'm in Eastie checking on a lead. Ok if we meet up later?
I hear someone in the judge's chambers, probably Sal. I'll ask him to escort me to my office. I write Kevin back:
Sure. Catch you later.

I pick up my trial box and hold it close to my chest, wishing it were made out of Kevlar. I push the door open with my elbow and look around for Sal. The hallway is empty and feels darker than usual—maybe a lightbulb burned out.

“
Sal, are you still here? Sal?” My voice echoes in the hallway.

Pushing the button for the elevator, I hear footsteps. Before I can turn my head to see who is behind me, the elevator doors open. I shiver when I see who is in the car. He's looking at me, smiling broadly: the man with the gold teeth.

 

Chapter Twenty-eight

I stand in the hallway, my arms wrapped tightly around the trial box, staring at the gold-toothed North Street Posse member. He is alone in the car.

“You going down?” he says.

I remain frozen in place without responding and wait for the doors to close. I watch as the floor indicator light gives proof of the car's descent.
Six, five, four, three, two, lobby.
Footsteps behind me grow closer. I twist around and see a shadow. A man rounds the corner.

“Can I carry something for you?” Sal says.

I shake my head and force a smile.

“Long week,” he says.

I nod.

“You okay?”

I weigh my options, whether to report what happened. Legally, the guy from North Street didn't do anything. If he really wanted to hurt me, he'd have done it by now. I don't want to make a big deal about it and draw attention to my history with Orlando.

“I'm fine,” I say, “but do you mind walking me back to the office?”

“No problem,” he says. “Let me carry that box for you.”

I surrender the box to Sal, and he escorts me across the plaza. The area is dark and deserted. I look around. There's no sign of the gold-toothed man. Even Rodney Quirk has abandoned his post in the coffee shop and gone home for the night. Sal walks me to the lobby of Bulfinch and hands me the trial box, and I go upstairs to my office.