Mission Hill (24 page)

“No.”

“Did you test her system for drugs or alcohol?”

“I did a toxicology screening, yes.”

“And what were your findings?”

“There was no evidence of drugs or alcohol.”

“Thank you. That's all I have.”

I return to the prosecutor's table.

“Cross-examination, Mr. Blum?” Judge Volpe says.

“One question.” Blum doesn't even bother to stand. “Did you witness the murder of Jasmine Reed?”

“No, I did not.”

At least Blum is consistent.

“Anything else, Ms. Endicott?” Judge Volpe says.

“No.” I take a breath and turn to face the jurors, looking each one in the eyes. “The Commonwealth rests.”

“This is a good time to break,” Judge Volpe says, getting off the bench.

When I head toward the gallery, I notice a distinguished older man in the pews. He's sandwiched between a North Street Posse member and Harold, sitting ramrod straight, clutching his leather briefcase to his chest, as though he's worried someone might steal it. He's wearing a navy suit and the burgundy Charvet tie I gave him last year, on Father's Day.

“You bear a striking resemblance to one another,” Harold says.

“Daddy, this is Harold.”

Harold extends his hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

My father accepts the handshake and nods but doesn't speak. I lead him into the hallway.

“You made your juror regurgitate her lunch,” he says. “I'm not a legal scholar, but I would imagine that is not a positive development.”

“It wasn't that big a deal.”

“Maybe not in your world, but most people would find it disturbing.”

I want to cut this off before goes any further and distracts me from the trial.

“Why are you here, Daddy?”

“I saw that you got banged up pretty badly.” He faces me and puts his hands on my shoulders as though he's going to shake some sense into me. “We're all worried about you, muffin.”

I shrug him off. “I'm fine.”

“You might want to have your head examined,” he says, without apparent irony.

“Thanks for coming to see me, but you can save the speech. I'm not quitting my job. We can talk about this another time, but right now, I have to prepare my jury instructions and closing argument.”

“I can't watch my daughter being assaulted by a murderer on MSNBC.”

My father was watching MSNBC? Talk about burying the headline. Once, in a moment of weakness, and after a few gin and tonics, he admitted to me that he'd voted for Obama over McCain. He confessed that he thought it would be good for the country, making me swear never to tell my mother or my brother. It became our secret and we never spoke of it again.

“You have to leave this job,” he says. “I'm not going to support it any longer.”

“You've never supported it.”

“I mean literally, financially.”

“You're cutting me off?”

“You're going to have to make a choice, your job or your lifestyle. You won't be able to afford both.”

I take a step back and look at him. “You're serious?”

“I believe it's called tough love.”

We both hear the clattering of chains and a man's voice, muttering and swearing.
Motherfucker. Fuck you. Asshole.
Orlando, shackled and cuffed, is surrounded by guards. He's sporting a black eye and a cut on his forehead. His leg-irons clink as he shuffles toward me.

“There she is, that bitch lawyer who's persecuting me!” Orlando yells, his voice echoing up and down the hallway so my father can hear every word twice.

Orlando passes by, close enough to wrap his chains around my neck and strangle me. My father is stunned. So am I.

“I'll leave you to your friends.” He turns and walks away. “Let me know when you change your mind.”

I'm relieved when my father gets on the elevator and the doors close. I'll figure out the money thing later.

Kevin rounds the corner. “You might want to check your phone every now and then,” he says.

“I've been kind of busy. Where did they find him?”

“He broke into someone's beach house in Hull.”

“You got a tip?”

“Believe it or not, the feds found him.”

Sal calls me back into the courtroom, and Blum comes up a couple of minutes later. When Judge Volpe exits his chambers and takes the bench, Sal remains by his side.

“You want us to uncuff him?” Sal says.

“No,” Judge Volpe says. “Mr. Jones, I am removing your default. You will continue to be held without bail. Are you going to be able to comport yourself in a respectful manner during the remainder of this trial?”

“Mr. Jones informs me that he will behave,” Blum says.

“I want to hear it from you directly, Mr. Jones.”

“I'm sorry, Judge.” Orlando sounds almost like he means it. “I apologize for saying this, but I think I'm a scapegoat. I didn't do any of those things they're accusing me of. I didn't know what else to do but run.”

“That's what the jury is here to decide. You're going to have to control yourself. We'll proceed with the trial on Monday. Do you plan to present any evidence, Mr. Blum?”

“Yes, we have an alibi witness.”

This is a total blind side.

“Objection! I haven't been given notice of alibi. I'm not prepared to cross-examine someone.”

“I informed Mr. Mooney weeks ago,” Blum says.

“There's nothing in the file, no letter, no discovery notice.”

“I told him in person. He said there was no need to put it in writing.”

Tim wasn't a stickler for documentation, and unlike most of the defense attorneys I deal with, Blum isn't a bald-faced liar. He exaggerates every now and then, but who doesn't? It's possible that Blum told Tim about the alibi, and if he did, that knowledge is imputed to me. I'm screwed.

“I'm going to have to take you at your word, Counselor,” Judge Volpe says. “I can't deny Mr. Jones an opportunity to present his defense. The Appeals Court would reverse me in a second, and we'd be back here in a year, relitigating this case, which is the last thing any of us wants.”

“Agreed,” I say.

“You have until Monday to prepare, Ms. Endicott. Have a pleasant weekend.”

 

Chapter Forty-two

Carl Ostroff stops me on the plaza as I exit the courthouse for the night. I ask Sandra to give us a minute, and she stands off to the side within eyesight but out of earshot.

“Thanks for the heads-up on Melvin,” Carl says. “I was the only reporter in the federal courthouse when he was arraigned.”

“I make good on my promises. That makes us square.”

I start to walk toward the stairs, Carl in tow, Sandra only a few steps behind.

“Why is Melvin charged with obstruction?”

I shrug and keep going. “You'll have to ask Josh McNamara.”

Carl persists. “If Melvin was part of Orlando's escape plan, he should have been charged with aiding and abetting or harboring a fugitive.”

“Take it up with the feds.”

“I think the FBI is after something else, a bigger fish. Or a wider tunnel, as the case may be.”

Carl has shown his cards; he knows that Max is under investigation. He needs two sources in order to report on it, and I'm not going to be one of them. I roll my eyes, feigning disbelief, trying to downplay the significance of the disclosure.

Unsure of what to say, I echo what Josh said to me when I asked him about it. “The Big Dig investigation was closed out a long time ago.”

“Max never explained his decision to end the inquest. He hid behind the curtain of grand jury secrecy.”

“That's not true. He issued a statement.”

“His flack sent out a halfhearted one-paragraph press release. ‘We followed the facts and applied the law and found there wasn't ample proof to issue indictments, blah, blah, blah,'” Carl says. “Max didn't hold a press conference or make himself available for interviews. Ducking out on reporters is definitely not Max's MO.”

I don't want to let Carl accuse my boss of impropriety without speaking up on his behalf, but I'm not going to put my reputation on the line by lying for him.

“Legal analysts were divided on what the office should have done, but everyone agreed that it was a close call. I didn't hear you complaining at the time,” I say.

“I thought he was being overly cautious, political. But in retrospect, it seems like there was more to it.”

“I wasn't involved in the investigation. I don't know the specifics.”

We stand on the sidewalk. Sandra is nearby. I look at Carl but remain silent.

“Don't play Mickey the Dunce with me,” he says.

I'm growing uncomfortable, but my curiosity hasn't dissipated. Not wanting Carl to read my apprehension, I smile and wave at a colleague who is walking by.

Carl lowers his voice. “Melvin owned Zelco. I hear that he was a target—they considered charging him with manslaughter. And, coincidentally, around the same time, he donated big to Max's campaign.”

We cross Cambridge Street, dodging a car that is making an illegal U-turn, and I stop at the sidewalk near my office.

“Every businessman in the city maxed out and ponied up the $500. The savvy ones hedged their bets and gave to all three candidates.”

“Melvin went above and beyond, hosted a bunch of fund-raisers, raked in a couple of hundred grand, and gave it Max.”

“You'll have to take it up with his campaign manager. All I know is that Max doesn't accept money from employees. And he chose Tim and me to investigate and prosecute the Jones family. He could have tanked their cases outright or assigned them to newbies, but he didn't. He gave them to his most experienced incorruptible lawyers.”

I look at Sandra, signaling that I'm done with Carl, and we head inside Bulfinch. I'm surprised to find Owen and his daughter in my office, sitting in front of my desk, waiting for me. Sandra takes up her post in the hallway.

“You remember Patsy,” Owen says.

“Sure! Hi, sweetie.” I take off my coat and give her a hug. “Happy belated birthday.”

“We had a skating party. You were invited,” she says, “but Daddy said you had to work.”

“Patsy heard you're having a hard time and wanted to give you something,” Owens says.

Patsy reaches into her pocket and pulls out a clunky red, white, and blue charm bracelet.

“It's a good-luck charm. It helped me win the school spelling bee last month,” she says.

“Impressive,” I say. “Thank you.”

I hold out my arm, and Patsy clasps the bracelet around my wrist.

“We want you to know that we're in your corner,” Owen says. “We've only loaned it outside the family once before.”

“To Uncle Tim, when he got married,” Patsy says.

I had forgotten that Patsy was a flower girl at Tim and Julia's wedding. She was adorable, tripping on her dress as she walked down the aisle tossing clumps of rose petals.

“Honey, why don't you go back down and say hi to Uncle Max,” Owen says.

She steps out into the hallway. Owen stays behind.

“I saw you outside, talking to Carl Ostroff. He looked like he was pumping you for information.”

“You know Carl,” I say. “He loves to stir the pot.”

“He's been running around, spreading rumors about Max.”

“I heard.”

“Max has been good to you, to all of us. I hope you have his back.”

Owen puts up a good front, but he must have doubts too. I fiddle with the bracelet, a symbol of Owen's friendship and an exemplar of the type of jewelry I'll be able to afford from now on, since my father cut off my cash supply.

“Actually, while we're on the subject of loyalty,” I say, “I'd like to talk about my salary.”

“Let's schedule a meeting after your trial is over.”

He stands, hoping to make a quick exit. I'm not going to let him off the hook this easily.

“I haven't had a raise in years. I make less than all the guys on my team, even though I'm their supervisor. Men in this office are making more than their female superiors.”

Owen opens the door.

“A record of gender inequality won't bode well for Max, come election time,” I say.

He closes the door and sits back down. “How much are you asking for?”

I hesitate, unsure what to say.

“You don't even know how much you make, do you?” Owen says.

“I make sixty thousand-ish.”

“You make seventy-two-five.”

“You probably make twice that.”

“Aren't you like a billionaire?”

“My financial status isn't relevant. Need-based salaries went out in the 1950s. Earnings are supposed to be value based, merit based, both of which qualify me for a bump.”

“You have no idea what I have to contend with. The legislature doesn't give us half of what we need to run this office.”

“When Patsy grows up, do you want her to make less than her male colleagues?”

“I'll take a look at the financials,” he says, regretting that he came in to talk with me.

 

Chapter Forty-three

In my office, I prepare for cross-examination on the off chance that Orlando takes the stand. After a couple hours, I take a break and go downstairs to see if I can catch Max before he heads home for the weekend. That way, I won't have to spend the next two days stressing about how to approach him. I stick on my fake ruby pin, pick up the phone, and call Josh.

“I'm ready to talk to Max. What exactly do you want me to say?”

“Wing it—see if you can get him to talk about Melvin.”

“Max isn't stupid. He'll figure out that something is up.”

“Be casual, don't push too hard. Try to introduce the topic. Talk about Orlando, your trial, see where it goes.”