The Fens

by Pamela Wechsler

  “Absolutely not,” Preston says. “First, you give my client immunity, then we talk.”

  “That’s not how it works.” I stand, push in my chair. “You’re talking your client into a felony conviction, possible jail time, and definite loss of her medical license.”

  Kevin and I have an unspoken agreement to alternate between good cop and bad cop, depending on the witness. Now that I’ve staked my claim as the bad guy, Kevin remains seated, shakes his head, and looks at Jane.

  “Let’s turn it down a notch,” Kevin says. “And let’s not forget, Rudy Maddox is still out there somewhere, possibly still alive. Don’t you want to help us find him?”

  “You’re not doing yourself any favors,” I say.

  Preston starts to argue. “My client—”

  “Shut up, Preston,” Jane says.

  He looks at her, mouth agape, as though no one has ever shushed him before.

  “You’re fired,” she says.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Preston says.

  She turns to me. “I’m going to represent myself.”

  “That’s your prerogative,” Preston says.

  He doesn’t put up a fight. He gathers his papers, his briefcase, and his fedora. When he knocks on the door, the guard comes to let him out, and he leaves without turning back.

  “What do you want to know?” Jane says.

  I open a file folder, take out a proffer letter, and slide it across the table. “First you have to agree with our terms.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A proffer is a binding contract between the prosecutor and the witness. By signing the letter, Jane agrees to answer my questions, truthfully and completely. In return, I can’t use anything she says against her. She doesn’t have to agree to cooperate, but if she refuses, I could still force her to testify—through a grant of immunity, which is more complicated and less pliable.

  Jane flips through the pages without reading them. “Give me a pen. I can’t spend another second in this place.”

  “Read the letter—carefully—and if you agree to the terms, sign it,” I say.

  She scans the document, running her index finger down the center of the page and following it with her eyes. When she’s done, she looks up, and I hand her a pen.

  Her hand is shaking as she signs on the dotted line. “Let’s do this. I want to get it over with.”

  Kevin takes out his phone and flips on the audio recorder. “For the record, you’ve fired your attorney and decided to represent yourself.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you want to retain someone else, now’s the time to tell us.”

  “I’ll take what’s coming to me. Just get me out of here.”

  “Why don’t we start with your first interaction with Rudy Maddox,” I say.

  She glances down; her eyes land on her left hand, the tan line where her wedding ring used to be. “Rudy injured his shoulder last year. He came to the hospital for treatment.”

  “He didn’t need surgery?”

  “No, but he reported a significant amount of discomfort.”

  “So you gave him steroids,” Kevin says.

  “Not right away.” She pauses. “And it was for legitimate treatment purposes only. It was all done in accordance with medical ethics and league rules.”

  I hold up the letter. “You promised to be truthful. Minimizing isn’t going to help.”

  “That’s how it started.” Her eyes well with tears. “But a couple of weeks later, at a follow-up visit, he asked for growth-enhancement hormones.”

  “Testosterone?” I say.

  She starts to speaks, stops, and nods. We all let this land, knowing that it will soon be national news. Not only has a star Red Sox player disappeared without a trace, there’s a steroid scandal brewing. I take a packet of tissues from my tote, hand her a couple. She blows her nose, wipes her eyes.

  “I knew he was taking advantage of me, but I didn’t care. We had started seeing each other, romantically. I was falling in love.”

  “If it makes you feel better, Doc, I see this kind of thing all the time—from both men and women,” Kevin says. “Prince or Princess Charming walks through the door and, before you know it…” He slams his hand on the table. “Boom, you’re in—hook, line, and sinker. And as soon as they get what they want, poof, they disappear.”

  “I ruined my marriage, my reputation. For what?”

  Kevin lets her cry for a minute. “You can recover. Everyone loves a comeback story.”

  “The state medical board doesn’t root for a comeback, and neither will my patients.”

  We can’t veer too far into the land of self-pity. We have to keep her on track.

  “We’re going to schedule you to testify in the grand jury,” I say.

  She drops her head in her hands. “I can’t.”

  “The good news is, as soon as you’re done, we’ll ask the judge to reduce the bail, and you’ll be released.”

  Apparently, those were the magic words. She looks up and brightens. “Can we see the judge this afternoon?”

  “It’s too late, court has adjourned for the day,” I say. “I’ll get you in there tomorrow, first thing.”

  Jane is sent back to her cell, and the next morning she is transported to the courthouse in the prisoners’ van. I meet her on the sixth floor, and a little before nine, the grand jurors start to straggle in, Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cups in hand. I prefer the bitter taste of Starbucks, but I like jurors who go for Dunkie’s—they tend to be more blue-collar, more grounded, and more likely to convict.

  Grand jurors sit for three months at a time. This group was impaneled a month ago, which is the sweet spot; they’ve stopped playing junior detective, asking a million questions and spending a lot of time deliberating. On the other hand, they’re not yet fully jaded—they’re still attentive and prompt.

  When everyone is ready, I go into the jury room and prepare the panel: “I’m initiating a grand jury investigation into the facts and circumstances surrounding the disappearance of Rudy Maddox.”

  The minute they hear Rudy’s name, they put lids on their coffee cups and shift in their seats, sitting up a little straighter. Some exchange looks; a couple take out notebooks.

  A juror in the front row, wearing a UCLA sweatshirt, raises her hand. “I have a conflict. I’m a Dodgers fan.”

  “I knew you looked like a foreigner,” the juror in the back row says.

  “Can you be fair and impartial?” I say.

  “I can be open-minded about the case, but not about the Red Sox.”

  A woman in the middle lets out a BOOOO.

  “Good enough,” I say. “If you think you can’t be fair, let me know.”

  I go into the waiting room to let the court officer know we’re ready. He escorts Jane into the grand jury room. She walks slowly, careful not to trip on her leg irons, and takes a seat in the witness box.

  I stand and face her. “Please raise your right hand.”

  Before I can administer the oath, a grand juror in the front row interrupts, “Hey, I know you. You’re that doctor who fixed my kid’s shoulder last year.”

  Boston is a small town and the Mass General is a big hospital. Jane registers recognition and blanches. “How is he doing?”

  “Wicked good.”

  It’s probably not a conflict of interest, but it’s not worth the risk, especially since the interaction is being recorded.

  “Sir, I’m going to excuse you for now. Could you please step outside until we’re done with this witness?”

  I administer the oath and ask Jane the same questions I asked yesterday. She doesn’t hesitate to admit to her role in the affair or in providing steroids to Rudy.

  “Do any members of the panel have questions?” I say.

  A juror in the back row takes a bite of his Egg McMuffin and raises his hand. “No offense, but did you seriously expect Rudy to leave his wife? I mean, she’s hot.”

  “I trusted him,” Jane says. �
��He broke my heart.”

  “Let’s stick to the facts of the case,” I say.

  I slap an evidence sticker onto the proffer letter and write, #1.

  “Have you provided a truthful and complete proffer of all the information that you know?” I say.

  Jane nods, not very convincingly.

  “You have to answer out loud,” I say. “The recorder doesn’t pick up nods and gestures.”

  Jane leans forward into the mic. “I’ve answered all your questions truthfully. I swear.”

  She starts to stand, as though we’re done. Not so fast.

  “Have you also answered my questions completely?”

  She looks at me, but doesn’t speak. I take that as a no.

  “Did you give steroids to other members of the team?”

  Her thumb moves in circles on the back of her bare ring finger. Everyone, myself included, leans in. There’s no doubt about what her answer will be, and as soon as the information leaks—and it will leak—the impact will be momentous. Another Boston team will become known as cheaters, and their standing in the league will be suspect for decades to come.

  “Jane?”

  “Rudy asked me to give steroids to one other person.”

  “Who?” the foreman says.

  “Is this person a member of the Red Sox?” I say.

  “Yes.”

  I take a breath and wish I didn’t have to ask the next question. “What’s his name?”

  “It’s the replacement catcher, Wayne Ellis.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Superman gets his strength from the sun, Spider-Man’s might comes from venom. Police superpowers are rooted in probable cause. That’s how detectives are able to stop speeding cars with the blast of a siren, open locked doors without using a key, and take down the bad guys with a simple command: Stop and put your hands in the air. Well, that plus the .45-caliber semiautomatic Glocks they keep holstered to their belts.

  Kevin is itching to arrest Wayne Ellis on drug-possession charges, but we don’t have probable cause. Dr. Jane Davidson’s confession is solid evidence against Wayne, but not enough for an arrest warrant. That’s where good lawyering comes in. Prosecutors don’t carry guns, but we have subpoenas.

  “We’ll force him into the grand jury,” I say, “and get him under oath.”

  Lying to police is ill-advised, but it’s not necessarily a crime. Lying to a grand jury is a felony. I get on my computer, print out a subpoena, and hand it to Kevin.

  “I’ll serve him tonight,” he says.

  After he’s gone, I spend time prepping for Wayne’s grand jury appearance. A couple of hours later, my phone vibrates. It’s a text from Ty: Where are you? Dinner in ten minutes with your family. I had completely forgotten, but Ty doesn’t have to know. I respond, Of course I remember. I was just leaving. See you there.

  My family hasn’t had a get-together since my father walked out on my mother, a few months ago. With no détente in sight, my sister-in-law, Missy, played the pregnancy card and suggested a family dinner. Before Charlie and I could talk her out of it, she called my parents and made a reservation at their home away from home, the Four Seasons. My mother, fresh out of a six-month stint in rehab, promised to be there, and after some prodding, my father agreed to come too. I heard he’s dating someone; I hope he has the sense not to bring her. My mother is vulnerable, and now that she’s sober, she’s probably hopeful he’ll take her back.

  I drive to Boylston Street and make a halfhearted attempt to find a parking meter. After one loop around the Public Garden, I give up and stop at the hotel’s valet stand. Last time I parked here, it cost me a day’s pay.

  “Put it on the Endicott account,” I say, having no idea if there is such an account.

  “Which Endicott—Charles or John?” the valet says.

  “Charlie, please.” My brother won’t mind. He probably won’t even notice.

  Inside, the maître d’ takes my coat and leads me into the main dining room. Ty and my brother are at a table in the center of the room. All of the neighboring tables are unoccupied, about a quarter of the dining room. The restaurant would have been filled to capacity, but my family bought out the surrounding tables—that’s what they do when they want privacy. Endicotts like to be seen, but not overheard.

  I kiss Ty, who looks handsome in a white oxford and blazer, and he hands me a glass of red wine. My brother Charlie, in his trademark navy-blue suit and Hermès tie, gives me a hug. His wife, Missy, marches into the room; she’s carrying a vase that is brimming with an assortment of pastel roses. She snatches the restaurant’s potted orchid from the table, passes it to a waiter, and replaces it with her arrangement.

  Missy centers the vase on the table and admires her work: “Much better.”

  Missy is neurotic and compulsive, which are among the many reasons I love her. We exchange hugs; I barely feel her baby bump through her silky Akris sheath. We take seats around the table, which is filled with platters of raw seafood. Missy must have ordered them when she made the reservation.

  I grab a fist-size shrimp and dip it in cocktail sauce.

  “I hope Dad doesn’t bring that woman he’s been toting around town,” Charlie says.

  “He’s too smart for that,” I say. “It’d be a declaration of war, and he’d pay for it in the divorce settlement.”

  “It would devastate your mother,” Missy says. “I still have a feeling they’re going to get back together. Anyway, let’s talk about something less depressing.”

  “Tell us about the baby,” Ty says. “Are you going to find out if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  Missy beams. “We’re having a girl.”

  Charlie takes Missy’s hand and turns to me. “We’d like you to be her godmother.”

  I chew on my shrimp slowly, trying not to choke as I think up a valid excuse to say no. I’m thrilled for them, but I’d be a terrible godparent—it’s too much responsibility. I don’t even feel up to the task of dogsitting their Yorkie when they go to Positano next month.

  “We’re not asking you to raise her,” Charlie says.

  “Of course. I’d love to.”

  “I’d always hoped that when I had a kid, George would be the godfather,” Charlie says.

  We all had a lot of hopes for George. Mostly, that he would get sober, but that didn’t happen. And now he’s gone.

  As I tilt my head and let an oyster slide down the back of my throat, my father charges in. I’m relieved he doesn’t have anyone on his arm. He kisses me and Missy, gives Ty a hearty handshake, and pats Charlie on the back. Charlie sees my father every day, at the office; I’m not entirely sure what they do there—buy and sell small countries, invest in drug cartels, or trade baseball cards.

  My father takes a seat across from me and says, “I’ve been meaning to call.”

  “Me too,” I say. “I’ve been busy.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Muffin. I was talking to Tyson.”

  Ty, as surprised as I am, puts down his glass of Sam Adams. “Did you want to talk about something specific?”

  “The governor asked me to serve on an advisory committee. I’m overextended. I suggested they recruit you in my place.”

  “What’s the subject?” I say, slightly miffed that Dad didn’t ask me first.

  “Something to do with community relations.”

  As my father flags down the waiter and orders his Glenfiddich, I lean in and whisper to Ty, “Community relations—that’s code for police misconduct.”

  “Which is code for something else,” Ty says.

  Done with his drink order, my father turns back to Ty. “That’s right, I nominated you because you’re black. I also did it because you’re smart, you care about your community, I think you have something to contribute, and I like you.”

  “This is your chance to get even with Mike Chase,” I say.

  “Who?” my father says. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He hands Ty a business card.

  Ty looks
at the card and considers.

  “Give him a call,” my father says.

  “Sure,” Ty says.

  We order a second round of drinks. I’m so excited about the prospect of exacting revenge on Mike Chase, I don’t notice my mother’s absence, until my father checks his watch.

  “Where is your mother? She’s forty-five minutes late.”

  “Odds are she’s not going to show.” Charlie never misses an opportunity to play backup to my father. “Let’s order.”

  “We can give her a few more minutes,” Missy says. “She’s been through a lot. Facing us is probably tough.”

  A couple of minutes later, my mother glides into the room, looking as though she’s spent the entire day getting ready to make her entrance. Her blond bob is freshly shellacked, her brows perfectly arched, her makeup professionally applied.

  “Sorry to be tardy, but traffic was a bear.”

  I look out the window. It’s true, traffic around the Public Garden is at a standstill, but her house is a four-minute walk. When she eyes my dress, a Max Mara from four seasons ago, I wish I’d chosen something that hasn’t started to fade and fray from so many trips to the dry cleaner’s.

  My mother smiles, using only the bottom third of her face. “It’s time to retire that outfit.”

  She gave up drinking, but not sniping. When she turns and looks behind her, we all follow her eyes. A man, definitely not a waiter, approaches. He’s in a charcoal suit, like my father, and wing tips, like my father. The man puts his hand on the small of her back.

  “Abigail, you remember Will Dorset,” my mother says. “You went to Winsor with his daughter Meredith.”

  Charlie and I exchange looks. Neither of us are fans of Minnie Dorset. She was my high school rival, and Charlie dated her briefly, until she started seeing a distant cousin of the British royal family’s.

  “Minnie sends her regards. She always admired your pluck,” Will says.

  Leave it to my mother to get dumped, go to rehab, and, less than a month later, snag the only man on Beacon Hill who has more money than my father. When we’re done with the awkward introductions, my father asks Charlie to get another chair.