by David Hosp
“You wouldn’t,” he scoffed.
“I would. I’m sure the FBI’s Boston office would love another investigation into its operating procedures right now. The last one went so well.” She stood there with her arms crossed. Stone decided at that moment to try to avoid ever crossing her.
“I’ll file a request for cooperation,” Hewitt said after a moment. He walked past the officers who had gathered around the scene to watch the show.
“You do that!” Sanchez called after him. “I’ll make sure it gets exactly the consideration it deserves.” Hewitt didn’t turn around. “I don’t trust them,” she said in a quieter voice.
“The FBI?” Stone asked. “You don’t trust the entire organization?”
She looked at him. “You weren’t here back in the nineties. We had Bulger and his crew nailed a dozen different times, but the feds tipped him off every time. We’d have the bastard nailed, and then he’d skate. We thought he was clairvoyant. But no, it turned out that the FBI was crooked. So, no, I don’t trust the entire FBI.”
“That was one agent, though, wasn’t it? John Connolly, and he went to prison for it. You can’t blame the entire organization for that.”
“John Connolly was the only one caught. He was the only one prosecuted. He was the only one who went to jail. You think he was the only one involved? How likely is that? He was involved, but no one else in the entire office could figure it out in more than a decade? C’mon.”
“You really think Hewitt’s mobbed up?” Stone whistled doubtfully. “I ran a check on him; he’s got a solid rep, even with our people. He doesn’t seem like the type.”
Sanchez looked back up the driveway. Hewitt was nearly to the end of it now. The flashlights had been turned off as the sun came up, and the property had lost the otherworldly feeling to it. Now the dead men outside had the full edge of reality to them. “I don’t know. I’m just saying there’s something bad going on here, and I don’t trust them.” She looked up at Stone. “Now, are you ready to deal with the mess inside?”
Stone nodded.
“Good. Let’s get this done.” She walked back into the building.
As Stone followed her, he took one last look down the driveway. Hewitt had disappeared now. That was for the best, he thought. Given Sanchez’s opinions, they would never be able to be productive as long as he was there. Still, in his heart, Stone couldn’t accept the notion that Hewitt and the FBI might be involved.
Chapter Seventeen
The morning of Devon’s arraignment, Finn arrived at the office later than usual. He’d dropped Sally off at school, and by the time he got back to Charlestown, it was nearly nine o’clock. Kozlowski was already cloistered away in his back office when Finn pushed open the door to the brownstone. Lissa was working at her desk. She looked up to say a quick hello and then put her nose back into her computer screen.
Finn had a couple of hours before he had to appear with Devon, and he planned to use the time effectively. He had a number of briefs and motions in other cases he had been neglecting, and he knew that if he didn’t get to them soon, he’d start missing deadlines. Tardiness was the only true cardinal sin in the judicial system. You could be a terrible lawyer in other respects—you could mis-cite precedent and fudge facts; lack logic and structure in your arguments; have trouble putting together a competent, grammatical English sentence—and you’d still receive a fair and reasonable hearing. But heaven help the lawyer who missed a deadline. For that transgression, the weight of the legal system would land with full force upon the lawyer’s client.
Fortunately, Finn liked writing. Since leaving the world of the mega-firm, he no longer had endless amounts of time to spend polishing his written work, but he still had a good feel for telling his clients’ stories. His approach was simple: state relevant facts and apply the appropriate legal principles from the case law in as few words as possible. Judges appreciated his brevity.
He was shortening a brief in a civil case for one of the few corporate clients he had when the phone rang. He picked it up. “Finn here,” he said.
“Mr. Finn, this is Detective Stone.”
“Detective,” Finn replied. “What can I do for you?” He tapped away at the keyboard as he spoke, rushing to complete the brief so that he could get it filed on time.
“We’d like you to come down to the station today to have a talk.”
“We?” Finn was deleting a redundant paragraph and only half paying attention.
“Me and my partner. Any chance you could make it this morning?”
“Today’s a little busy for me,” Finn said honestly. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about Eddie Ballick. We understand you talked to him yesterday.”
“I did.”
“We’d like to know what about.”
Finn was wrapping up the conclusion in his brief, typing out the last few words. “I can’t really talk about that, Detective. I was doing work for a client.”
“We’d still like you to come down.”
Finn finished the last sentence. He scrolled to the top of the document and started reading it through to make sure it made sense. “I’m very busy today,” he said. “Why are you interested in my conversation with Ballick?”
“Because he was murdered last night.”
Finn stopped reading the brief. He blinked hard and looked at the phone in his hand. A million questions ran through his head. He didn’t ask any of them; all he managed to get out of his mouth was a feeble, “What?”
“He was murdered, Mr. Finn,” Stone replied. “What time can we expect you at the station house?”
Finn hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. He looked over at Lissa, who had overheard his half of the conversation. “What was that all about?” she asked.
“That was about Eddie Ballick. He was murdered last night. Apparently he b—”
Lissa raised her hand to stop Finn. “Hold on,” she said. “No point in going through this twice.” She stood up and walked to the door at the back of the office, which led out to both a back door and to Kozlowski’s office. “Koz!” she yelled. “You need to get in here.” She walked back and sat down at her desk again.
A moment later, Kozlowski emerged. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“That was Detective Stone on the phone.”
“Stone? What did he want?”
“Ballick was murdered last night.”
Kozlowski stopped. He turned and looked at Finn. “That can’t be good.”
“No, I wouldn’t think. They found him early this morning. Four of his boys, too. Stone didn’t give me all the details, but from the sound of it, it wasn’t pretty.”
Kozlowski sat on the chair in front of Finn’s desk. “What are you going to do?”
“I put them off; told them I was too busy today, and that I’d get back to them as soon as I could. Devon’s being arraigned this morning.”
“You think he’s caught up in all this?”
“If not, it seems like one hell of a coincidence. Either way, I want to have a long talk with Devon before I deal with the police. And that talk will be a lot easier to have once he’s out on bail.”
The courthouse was a twenty-story slab of gray concrete in Center Square, downtown. It was cut in an unadorned, utilitarian style that seemed calculated to betray the mechanical nature of the judicial system.
Finn parked in a nearby underground garage and entered the building, flashing his bar card at the door to bypass the line of civilians waiting to pass through the metal detectors. He went straight to the courtroom and inquired about Devon’s whereabouts from the clerk. She told him his client was in transit, and that he wouldn’t have time to meet before the hearing. That was frustrating; he had much to discuss with Devon.
Finn took a seat at the back and watched the courtroom. It was packed with lawyers milling around, hustling in and out, shuffling stacks of court files. Clients dragged their feet and looked about with angry, distrustful eyes. Polic
e officers strutted in and out through the swinging doors at the back. Justice was a messy process.
Arraignments are short affairs. They’re designed to advise defendants of all the charges against them, ensure that they have legal assistance, obtain initial pleas, and set bail if appropriate. In a few misdemeanor cases, plea agreements will have been worked out even before the arraignment, but in most serious matters an initial plea of not guilty is entered, and plea arrangements are reached through negotiations afterward.
On that day, the Honorable Myron Platt was presiding over the arraignments. Platt was in his mid-fifties, with a slight paunch and a receding hairline. He had been appointed a few years before in the final days of an outgoing gubernatorial administration as a reward to a loyal political hack. The bench was not the dream job he’d hoped for, and he let his boredom show. In most other respects, however, he was reasonable—even if that reason was primarily a by-product of disinterest.
Two assistant district attorneys sat at the prosecutors’ table, alternating on cases as they were brought up for preliminary dispositions. One was a young man Finn didn’t recognize who was probably less than two years out of law school. The other was a woman in her forties whose name was Kristin Kelley, against whom Finn had tried a number of cases in the past.
It was a virtually automated process; the prosecutors had only a few minutes with any given file, and they treated each according to established guidelines. Finn had to sit through six arraignments before Devon’s case was called. The court clerk read out the case caption, “Case number 08-CR-2677, Commonwealth versus Devon Malley! Come forward and be heard!”
Finn stood up. “Scott Finn for the defense,” he announced as he moved forward to defense counsel’s table.
Kristin Kelley stood up. “Attorney Kelley for the Commonwealth,” she said. She looked over at Finn as he put his briefcase down on the table. It was not a friendly look. Finn had beaten her every time they’d gone head to head, and nothing annoyed prosecutors more than being beaten. It probably would have been better for Devon if she hadn’t pulled the case, but there was no helping that now.
Devon was led in from the front of the courtroom, still in his jailhouse fatigues. He was shackled at both his wrists and ankles, but otherwise he seemed relaxed. “Your Honor, if I may confer with my client for a minute?” Finn said.
“Thirty seconds, counsel.” Judge Platt yawned. “All we need right now is an initial plea—guilty or not. Anything more complicated than that you can deal with once we’re done. I don’t want to hold the others here up.”
Devon duckwalked in his shackles behind the desk. He put his fingers to his lips and made a zipping motion. “I’m keeping quiet,” he said, winking. “This is your show.”
“Good,” Finn said. “But we need to talk seriously once you’re out.”
“I know,” Devon said. “I swear, though, you’re gonna get your money. I’m not gonna leave you hangin’ out to dry on this.”
“It’s not about the money, Devon,” Finn said. “Ballick was killed last night. That makes you two for two—Ballick and Murphy. The cops want to talk to me, and I don’t know what to tell them. All I know is that I don’t like being connected to murders through one client. It means you’re either really bad luck, or you’re not telling me everything I need to know. Either way, it pisses me off.”
Finn watched as the blood drained from Devon’s face. “Ballick?” he said. His voice had gone hoarse. “Murdered?”
“Yeah,” Finn said. “Murdered.”
Judge Platt shifted in his chair on the bench. “Time’s up, counsel,” he said. “Do you waive reading?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Finn said, turning to look at the judge.
Any sense of confidence that Devon had exuded when he walked into the courtroom was gone. His eyes were wheeling. “Wait, Finn, I need to think,” he whispered.
“How does your client wish to plead?” the judge asked.
“Not guilty,” Finn said.
“Finn!” Devon was hissing now, and even Judge Platt was forced to take notice.
“Counsel, please instruct your client that I will not tolerate outbursts.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Finn turned to Devon and put his hand up, making clear that it was time for him to be quiet.
“I assume you’re looking for bail, Mr. Finn?” Judge Platt continued.
“Your Honor, we would ask that the defendant be released on his own recognizance.”
“Mr. Finn has an excellent sense of humor, Your Honor,” Kelley interrupted.
“That’s true, Judge,” Finn replied, “but I don’t happen to be exercising it at the moment. My client has been a resident of this community for his entire life. He has a daughter who resides with him. This is the kind of case where no bail is required.”
“We’ve got to talk!” Devon said, louder this time, drawing another look from the judge.
Kelley used Finn’s distraction with his client to butt in and try to control the argument on bail. “Your Honor, the defendant was caught with over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stolen merchandise that he was loading onto a truck. To release him on O.R. would virtually guarantee that he would never be seen again. He is well known to the law enforcement community as an accomplished thief—”
“Mr. Malley has not been convicted of theft in more than twenty years,” Finn interjected.
“It’s true, it’s been a while since he was convicted of a crime,” Kelley conceded. “He has been arrested seven times in the past decade, though.”
“He was not convicted in any of those cases, Your Honor. You can’t really punish him for the overzealousness of the police department and the DA’s office, can you?”
“Your Honor, this is outrageous!” Kelley nearly shouted. “To suggest that this man is somehow a victim of the system is over the top, even for Mr. Finn.”
“Settle down, both of you,” Platt said. He waved his hand in a dismissive way, but Finn could tell he was interested in the argument. There was no way Finn was going to get Malley out on his own recognizance, but he might get bail set lower than normal. “He has a daughter?” Platt asked.
“He does, Your Honor,” Finn said. “She’s fourteen and she’s living with him.”
“Where is she staying at the moment?”
“For the past two nights she has stayed with me, Your Honor.” He laced his fingers in front of him and looked down, adopting the posture of an altar boy. “She has no relatives, and with Mr. Malley in jail there have been few options.” He was selling now, and he was hoping Platt was in a buying mood. “Mr. Malley’s primary concern at the moment is to make sure that he is there for his little girl.”
“Oh, please,” Kelley objected, rolling her eyes. “If Mr. Malley is such a model parent, why did he spend last Sunday night out in the Back Bay ripping off a boutique? This man is a real flight risk, Your Honor.”
“You really think he’s going to abandon his daughter?” Finn asked.
“Mr. Finn makes some good points,” Platt said to Kelley. “I’m not sure I should penalize him for arrests where no convictions were ultimately obtained. He also does have strong roots in the community, including a daughter who resides with him.” He paused, then turned to the clerk. “Can I see Mr. Malley’s file?”
Finn turned to Devon and nodded reassuringly. He’d done his job well and he knew it. He was expecting a grateful acknowledgment in Devon’s eyes in return. To his surprise, however, his client’s face betrayed a mixture of fear and frustration. Devon turned toward him, dipping his shoulder down and leaning his head down. Assuming Devon wanted to whisper to him, Finn leaned in as well.
Devon punched him in the face. Hard.
It was an excellent shot, made more effective by the fact that Finn had stuck out his chin in order to listen to his client. He was off balance, and the blow was completely unexpected. As Finn started to fall, he tripped over the chair behind him, overturning it. That sent him sprawling to the floor, nearl
y smashing his head on the banister that separated the front of the courtroom from the gallery.
There was a moment of silence in the courtroom, followed by pandemonium. The bailiffs were running at Devon, their nightsticks drawn, and Devon was ducking down, trying to shield his head. It wasn’t easy with the chains and cuffs around his body. It took only a moment before two other bailiffs were on top of him, pummeling Devon.
“Okay! Okay! Okay!” Devon screamed as he fought to fend off the blows. It was useless, though, and Finn saw several solid shots land on his arms and back. Then they had him on his feet, and they scurried him out of the courtroom, his feet dangling off the ground as four bailiffs carried him.
The din died almost as quickly as it had started once he was gone. Finn got to his feet, rubbing his chin. He looked at the judge, unsure what to say. Kelley recovered more quickly than he did.
“Your Honor, the Commonwealth opposes bail in any amount,” she said simply. Finn could see the smirk on her face.
“Judge,” Finn began. He wasn’t sure where to go from there. “I would like to point out—”
“Save it, Mr. Finn,” Platt said. “Bail is denied.”
“But Your Honor,” Finn protested.
“Enough, Mr. Finn!” Platt thundered. It was the first time Finn could remember Platt ever raising his voice. “If Mr. Malley would like to make bail, he will have to come in here and apologize and show me that he can behave like a civilized person. Even then, I will have to consider whether or not to grant bail in any amount. Until then, he stays locked up!”
Finn rubbed his jaw. He could feel the swelling. The judge just looked at him, daring him to say anything. Finn was the one who had been assaulted, yet the judge was just as angry at him as he was at Devon. Finn wasn’t surprised. The feeling among judges, prosecutors, police, and much of the public was that defense lawyers deserve whatever clients they take on. In fairness, Finn wasn’t sure they were wrong.
