Eight in the Box (19 page)

CHAPTER 58

“Y
ou may proceed with your opening statement, Mr. Darget,” Judge
Sterling Davis said from the bench. The jury had just been sworn in. Connie had studied them as the clerk administered their oath: “Do you swear that you shall well and truly try the issues between the Commonwealth and the defendant according to the evidence, so help you God?”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Connie poured some water into a cup. He intended to put his evidence in quickly and efficiently, to get the jurors to focus on him rather than Judge Davis, who had spent the last two hours directing them through the impanelment process. Now it was Connie’s turn to let the jurors know that they were in
his
courtroom.

Connie rose from his chair. Mitch, Brendan and Andi were in the back of the courtroom watching his opening, and in a way he was performing for them as much as for the jury. He wanted to convey to the jury that they were the most important people in the courtroom. There was an implicit deal that he struck with his juries through his mannerisms and the intonation in his voice: He was going to offer them his undivided attention in return for theirs.

Connie stepped behind his chair and pushed it in. He had to show a concerned expression, a look that told the jurors he was so troubled by this case that he didn’t know where to begin.

Once he felt that they were all watching him, and there was absolute silence in the courtroom, Connie looked up at the jury and scanned the panel, making eye contact with each of them before speaking.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Conrad Darget and I represent the Commonwealth in this case. During this trial you’ll hear testimony that this man, Victor Carrasquillo,” he said as he stood in front of the defendant, pointing his finger at his sullen, defiant face, “sold crack cocaine while in possession of a firearm. You will hear testimony from several police officers that they observed the defendant sell drugs to a known drug user and that when they placed the defendant under arrest he had a loaded nine-millimeter firearm in his waistband.”

Then Connie explained the facts of his case and what he expected the evidence to be, making sure the jury felt that he was fair and unbiased toward the defendant, even while he advocated for a conviction. Connie could make the jury believe it was the evidence itself, not him, arguing and proving the defendant’s guilt.

Until eight months ago, Connie had lost most of his trials. Last September Judge Samuels had pulled him aside and critiqued his performance after one of those losses. It was the last time Connie had taken Jesse Wilcox to trial.

The door to Judge Nathan Samuels’s chambers was open. Connie rapped gently on the door frame. He wasn’t in the mood for any words of encouragement. He’d done such a pathetic job that even the judge felt bad for him. And not just any judge, but Judge Samuels, one of the toughest judges in the city.

“Good evening, Mr. Darget,” Judge Samuels said. “Come on in.” When they’d built the new courthouse, the legislature made sure the judges were taken care of with lavish surroundings. The walls in Judge Samuels’s chambers were paneled with solid mahogany. The judge was an imposing figure behind his antique oak desk.

“Your Honor, I know what you’re going to say. ‘Hey kid, don’t be down on yourself. You did a great job, but you had a typical Suffolk County jury. They never trust the police—’”

“You think I called you in here to show you pity?” Judge Samuels asked. His usual stoic appearance changed to annoyance. “Young man, I brought you in here to inform you that you lost that trial before it ever started.”

Connie was stunned.

“You have no concept of how to pick a jury. I’ve presided over your last three trials, all acquittals. You never use your peremptory challenges to strike jurors.”

“I like to assume that all jurors will honor their oath to decide the case according to the evidence.”

“That’s your first mistake,” Samuels said curtly. “Jurors in this city come in here looking for reasons to acquit defendants. You need to convince the jury that there’s no way they could possibly find him not guilty.”

“But, Your Honor, I thought I picked the ideal jury this time, with the perfect foreperson.”

“That is precisely the problem, Mr. Darget. You picked an inadequate jury, especially the foreperson. She was barely out of college and working her first real job. That girl had no life experience to apply toward making a decision in a criminal case where a man faced imprisonment.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Connie felt like a fool.

“You also left three college students on your jury. Mr. Darget, I’m going to let you in on a secret. Students don’t know shit from apple butter. They can’t decide what classes they’re going to take next semester. How do you expect them to decide on a man’s fate? The easier decision for jurors is always to let the accused go free and then convince themselves that the Commonwealth failed to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”

“Judge Samuels, I always try to select younger jurors. I think I can connect better with people closer to my age.”

“Mr. Darget, your thinking is flawed. Young people don’t have anything invested in this community. They come here to go to school and stay on for a few years to work and party before going back home. The people who have a stake in keeping crime down and sending guilty people to jail are the middle-aged and elderly homeowners.”

“You think I would have won this case if I’d picked a better jury?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But you need to pick better juries if you’re going to have a chance. You can’t just pick pretty young women you enjoy looking at. They distract you. And the men on your jury aren’t paying attention to the evidence.”

Judge Samuels was right. Connie stood up, deep in thought, and started to wander out of the judge’s chambers.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Darget,” Judge Samuels said.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor. Thanks for the advice. I was just trying to figure out how to connect with older jurors once I’ve got them seated.”

“By being yourself. Don’t try copying what other people do in the courtroom. Develop your own presence. Don’t be discouraged, Mr. Darget. Keep practicing and you’ll see improvement. Remember the only way to practice is by trying cases in front of real juries.”

Connie later learned that Judge Samuels made it a point to summon each of the young lawyers in the DA’s office to his chambers for his critiques. The judge seemed to feel that it was his responsibility to act as a mentor. For Connie, the meeting was a watershed event in his career, leading him to a revelation about how to better prepare for trial and connect with jurors. He began to practice his openings and closings at home. He allowed his personality to come through so jurors would like him, trust him and convict the defendants he was prosecuting. Like small-time pusher Victor Carrasquillo.

“All the testimony you hear in this case will come from this witness stand.” Connie walked over and placed his hand on the rail in front of the stand. “These witnesses will tell you about what they observed on the day in question. They will tell you about the transaction they saw this defendant engage in with another individual. They will tell you about the drugs they recovered from this other individual. Finally they will tell you about the gun they recovered from the person of Victor Carrasquillo.”

Connie moved to the center of the courtroom, directly in front of the jury box, scanning the jurors. “But these witnesses aren’t ordinary witnesses. They aren’t just people off the street who have never seen a drug transaction before. The witnesses you will hear from in this case are all experienced officers who specialize in drug investigations. You will have the opportunity to see and hear them testify so that you can judge the credibility of their testimony.”

After losing so many trials early on, there had been times when Connie didn’t want to stand before another jury. Now things were different. He’d had more trials than any other prosecutor in the courthouse. Whenever there was a difficult case others were afraid to try, Connie would throw eight in the box and go. If he kept trying the tough cases, he knew that he would eventually achieve his dream of becoming one of the top prosecutors in the district attorney’s office.

CHAPTER 59

U
sing his fork, Angel Alves pushed the black beans on his plate,
creating a small hill surrounded by a moat of yellow saffron rice, a chicken drumstick acting as a bridge across the moat.

He tried to avoid looking at Marcy. She seemed more sad than angry. She couldn’t be angry with him. She had lost an old friend too. Alves was sure she wanted him to do everything he could to catch the killer. But now she was losing her husband to the investigation. She’d made an attempt at conversation, telling him how Iris and Angel had done at gymnastics, but it was forced. All he could think about was how old Mrs. Stokes had looked the last time he saw her.

He had spent endless days calling funeral homes in the region, checking to see if they were missing embalming fluids and running the criminal records of all their employees.

One local place of interest was the boarded-up Jones Funeral Home in Mattapan. The business had been run into the ground by the son of the original owner. There was something about that fairly new lock to the basement and the way the son couldn’t find the key that nagged at Alves. Once they broke the lock and got in, they found a decent stock of dusty chemicals. Things looked pretty much undisturbed. But since the records were either damaged or lacking altogether, there was no way to tell if anything was missing.

Marcy started to clear the dishes. Alves felt guilty for not commenting on the meal or asking Marcy about her day. But he knew that it would lead to complaints about her getting stuck with the kids’ activities. Then she would feel selfish, knowing that he was doing this for Mrs. Stokes and for Robyn.

“I’m taking the kids in town tomorrow after school.” Marcy broke the silence. “We’re going to the aquarium.”

“That sounds like fun,” Alves said to the kids, trying to be festive.

“Daddy, can you come?” Iris looked up at him with her little smile. She was going to be beautiful like her mother.

“I’m sorry, sweetie, but Daddy has to work tomorrow.”

“But you work every day,” Angel pleaded. “Why can’t you come with us tomorrow?”

“I just can’t, buddy. Once Daddy finishes working on this big case, he’ll take you guys somewhere fun.”

“Promise?” Iris asked.

“Cross my heart.” Alves caught Marcy’s eye as she sponged the table. “I’ll call the captain down at District 1 and see if he’ll let you park out front. Save some money.”

“We’re taking the train. I hate driving in traffic and the T is faster.”

Alves didn’t like the idea of her bundling up the twins and all they needed for a day at the aquarium onto the subway. He was all too familiar with the characters you found on the trains. And on their way home they’d have to deal with the rowdy teenagers getting out of school. But what else can you do?

It was so obvious that he was shocked they hadn’t thought of it before. People who live in the city take the T to work. They don’t waste time fighting traffic, finding a place to park. They relax and read the paper.

“Marcy, that’s it.”

“That’s what?”

“Angel, Iris, why don’t you guys go upstairs and play? Mommy and I will be up in a few minutes to get you ready for bed.” He waited until the two of them started up the stairs. He stood up and took out his cell phone. “That’s where he’s finding his victims. It has to be. All of the victims have been professional women who took the T into work every day. He didn’t meet them out at New Balance. If he did we’d probably have victims outside the city. He’s choosing his victims while they’re riding a train or a bus, oblivious that some psycho is watching them. Then he’s following them home so he can stalk them at his leisure before killing them.”

“My God.” Marcy gasped. “If this is true, you need to warn people.”

Alves hit the speed dial on his phone. “That’s why I’m calling Sarge.”

CHAPTER 60

R
ichter watched with disgust as Richard Speck pranced around his
prison cell with his shirt off, flabby chest and stomach flopping around. He was showing off for the camera.

The documentary started with footage of the crime Speck had committed, murdering eight student nurses in their South Chicago town house. Initially, Speck had entered their apartment to commit a burglary, forcing his way in with a gun and a knife. He found six women in the house and, over the next hour, three others returned home. He had planned to tie them up and rob them, but once he had them under his control he decided to rape, strangle and stab them too. He killed all of the women except for the one who had answered the door when he forced his way in. She had somehow managed to hide under a bed and Speck lost track of her. She later identified him by the tattoo on his forearm that read “Born to Raise Hell.”

Richter was especially bothered by the crime because Speck killed the women for no reason. For one moment in his sorry life, Speck found himself in a position of power, and he abused that power. He hadn’t killed the women for the good of society. He did it for pure self-gratification, and for that he deserved to rot in hell.

Speck had clearly developed a hatred for society. Now, sentenced to spend the rest of his life in jail, he acted for the cameras as if he were enjoying himself, as if he
wanted
to be the bitch of his very large prison cell mate. But his eyes told a different story. His laughter couldn’t hide the regret he must have felt for giving up his life for one night of squandered power. Now he had no power over anyone’s life, not even his own. All he could do was smile for the cameras in a final, pathetic attempt to hurt the families of the women he’d killed.

Speck had been aptly named, for he was nothing more than a small spot or particle, an insignificant dot. He was a person who had never done anything important.

Richter, on the other hand, had done so much to help others, to help them escape their worthless lives. More than that, he was helping to make the world a better place. From the moment he and Emily Knight conceived of the plan, Richter had acted for the benefit of all men, for the greater good, for society as a whole. He would continue with his work until it was complete, knowing that whatever he did, he would never end up like Richard Speck.