Orlando went to a youth detention center. Crystal went to the morgue. He was released from custody on his eighteenth birthday. Over the past decade, he’s been doing life on the installment plan—he’s been locked up and released seven times for shootings, robberies, assaults, threats, and witness intimidation. Most of the cases never go anywhere because his victims recant, relocate, or die. I’ve been ordered to stay away from him and his cases, and I’ve complied—not because I yielded to authority but because I was worried that my involvement would jeopardize the cases. Now all bets are off.
“I want to finish the trial. I owe it to Tim and the three victims, and to Crystal and her family.”
Max shakes his head. “I have to think about what’s best for the office.”
“Winning is what’s best for the office. All these years, we did it your way. Let’s do it my way.”
“You can’t be objective. Think about what you’d be risking—sanctions or disbarment for overzealous prosecution. There’s too much public scrutiny, too many variables.”
Daylight has landed, making everything feel permanent. I face the glare of the sun and squint as I take in the scene—detectives, technicians, reporters. Max turns and we stand in silence, watching, as Tim is zipped into a body bag, hoisted onto a gurney, and slid into the back of the medical examiner’s van.
“This case is more important than my bar card,” I say.
“People will think you’re using the office to settle a score.”
“He’s a cold-blooded killer with a history of violence. He needs to be locked up for good.”
“It’s a tough case. If you lose, you’ll never forgive yourself.”
“Then I won’t lose.”
Chapter Seven
Suffolk Superior Court is an art deco–style tower, built in the 1930s. The building has undergone extensive renovations, but it’s still an eyesore—especially compared to its neoclassical granite neighbor, where the state’s more august Supreme Judicial Court and Court of Appeals are housed.
I trudge across the plaza toward the courthouse, past clusters of lawyers, clerks, probation officers, stenographers. Word has already spread throughout the legal community. Some people are crying and others gossiping, but everyone is stunned.
Rodney Quirk is seated in his usual spot, the window of the coffee shop. He blends in, wearing a blue-and-white-striped shirt, the collar just high enough to cover the Roscoe Street Boyz tattoo that runs down the length of his spine. When our eyes meet, I take pains to avoid breaking stride. There are two things in life that I can always count on: death and Rodney Quirk.
I’m startled when John Blum, the defense attorney who represents Orlando Jones, steps in front of me and blocks my path. Blum looks even more bedraggled than usual. His mop of salt-and-pepper hair is about three weeks past due for a trim. A stain on his tie looks like he accidentally spilled coffee on himself, but it’s an intentional part of his game-day uniform. He presents as sloppy and forgetful, fooling young prosecutors into thinking he’s just another ill-prepared ham-and-egger. They let down their guard, and once the trial commences, he runs circles around them in the courtroom.
“First and foremost, let me offer my deepest condolences. I know I don’t have to tell you, but Tim was a good man. He was fair, reasonable, a real gentleman,” Blum says.
“Yes” is all I can say.
“I called your office, and they told me you inherited Orlando. I hate to bring it up, but jeopardy has attached.”
“I know.” My voice cracks.
“Judge Volpe is waiting for us in his chambers.”
To avoid further conversation, I fall a few steps behind Blum as we walk to the courthouse. An assortment of defendants, jurors, victims, and witnesses are assembled on the front steps, waiting to pass through security. Blum stops to confer with another lawyer while I cut the line and skirt the x-ray machine. Skipping the security check is a perk of being a prosecutor. A court officer nods to me, an expression of solidarity. I’m grateful for the gesture, even more so when he doesn’t ask about Tim’s murder.
Blum catches up with me in the lobby. There are eight elevators, but only five are in service. I jostle my way onto a crowded car. A man, probably a defendant, clearly strung out on heroin, squints and gives me a full-body scan. He inches a little closer, brushing up against me. I sharpen my elbow and jerk it into his chest, causing him to fall backward into Blum.
“Keep your fucking hands to yourself,” I say, surprising myself and everyone else in the car.
On the ninth floor, Blum goes inside the courtroom, and I stay out in the hallway. The lead detective on the case, Nestor Gomes, is seated on a bench, dressed in a blue blazer and necktie. Nestor played football at Cornell, and last year he graduated from New England Law’s night program. Since police officers can outearn prosecutors by threefold, Nestor didn’t give up his shield. In a few years, once he’s vested in the police pension system, he’ll probably retire from the force and hang out a shingle.
“I can’t believe it,” Nestor says. “I left Tim at eight o’clock last night. We finished an interview and had some beers at Doyle’s. He was all psyched up, ready to start the trial.”
“Was he worried about anyone? Did he say anything?”
“Nothing like that. We talked about the case, Chris Sarsfield came over to say hi, and Tim bought us all a round.”
I try to exude more confidence than I feel. “I’m going to file an appearance and ask the judge for a continuance.”
“I admire your fortitude, Abby. You’re tougher than most—” Nestor catches himself before he finishes his sentence.
“Were you about to say tougher than most women?” I say.
“She’s tougher than most anyone—man, woman, or pit bull.” Kevin rounds the corner, holding up a familiar green-and-white cup. “I figured you’d be running on fumes.”
“Wow, Starbucks. You wandered outside your comfort zone.”
“I was embarrassed to order it—grande latte.” He hands me the coffee. “Only for you. Gotta keep your beautiful blues open and alert.”
Judge Volpe’s chief court officer, Sal Gambino, pokes his head out the door to the courtroom. Sal is bald, lean, and hypervigilant. His eyes are always moving, searching for danger.
“The judge wants to see you,” Sal says.
Kevin and Nestor follow me inside the dimly lit gallery and cram into the wooden pews. The heaters hiss and clang.
The back row is lined with a half-dozen gang members. They sit shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed, baseball caps in their laps, heads leaning back against the wall. One man looks at me and smiles broadly, exposing two gold front teeth. We lock eyes for a second, and I shiver in spite of the tropical temperature in the room.
The next couple of rows of the gallery contain mostly prosecutors and defense attorneys who have no business of their own to conduct. Scattered among the suits are five or six court watchers, men who spend their days alternating between trials in the always-busy courthouse. Court watchers have their favorite prosecutors, and we have our favorite court watchers. Harold is mine. His brown head is shaved bald, and he carries a silver-tipped walking stick and speaks with a British accent even though he grew up in nearby blue-collar Revere.
The front row is reserved for family. Relatives of the victim sit on the prosecutor’s side, relatives of the defendant on the defendant’s side. Like a wedding.
The Jones family is huddled together; Blum is leaning over, whispering to them. The last time I saw the Joneses was in Boston Juvenile Court seventeen years ago, when Orlando was sentenced for robbing Crystal. They glance at me briefly without registering any hint of recognition. They may not remember me, but I’ll never forget them.
Orlando’s mother, Marie, digs through her purse, pulls out a handkerchief, and dabs at her nose. She’s wearing a stylish aubergine suit and her hair looks freshly coiffed, but her face is world-weary. Orlando’s father, Melvin, puts his arm around her; his forearms are bigger
than my thighs. Melvin has expensive loafers on his feet and thick calluses on his hands. Orlando’s younger sister, June, seems well dressed and well mannered.
I pass the bar, drop my tote on the prosecutor’s table, and wait outside the door to the judge’s chambers. Blum joins me.
“I thought Orlando’s father was a preacher,” I say. “It looks like he made some dough.”
“He gave up the pulpit about five years ago,” Blum says.
“Construction?”
“He landed a couple of big-city contracts.”
I look over at Mrs. Jones’s designer suit. “I hope the taxpayers aren’t footing your bill.”
He shakes his head and smiles. “I’ve been privately retained.”
“Does the family still live in Mattapan?”
“They bought a huge estate in Weston. Orlando was there for a little while, after he got out of juvie,” Blum says.
In the gallery, Kevin and Nestor keep a close watch on the gang members in the back row. Mr. Jones keeps his arm wrapped around his wife, who is looking down at her lap, praying. Orlando is not just another poor kid from a bad neighborhood who joined a gang because he didn’t have love and support at home. He had options, and he chose gang life.
Sal is seated at his desk on the side of the courtroom. The red light on his phone flashes. He picks up the receiver and has a brief conversation.
“The judge is all set,” he says. “You ready?”
I glance into the audience. Kevin gives me a go get ’em nod. Nestor gives me a thumbs-up. The gold-toothed man catches my eye, tilts his head back, and smirks.
“Ready,” I say.
Chapter Eight
Sal opens the door to the judge’s chambers, stands aside, and gestures us in. Judge Thomas Volpe, compact in both stature and temperament, is seated behind a warped desk. His cramped office is decorated with a few lawbooks and a banker’s lamp. A black robe dangles from a metal hook on the back of the door.
Judge Volpe is no-nonsense, calls them like he sees them. He’s obsessed with ensuring that his verdicts are unassailable. All murder cases are automatically reviewed by appellate courts for errors of law and Judge Volpe’s cases are rarely overturned.
Dotty Davidson, the judge’s stenographer, sits by his side. She talks softly into a black cone, repeating everything we say. Judge Volpe can’t see from where he sits, high up on the bench, but sometimes Dotty falls asleep in the middle of her transcriptions. Sal usually wakes her up before she misses more than a question or two by discreetly tapping her on the shoulder and offering her a peppermint candy.
The judge extends his arm, directing Blum and me to sit in the worn green vinyl chairs in front of his desk.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Endicott. You have what appears to be a herculean task ahead of you.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. I ask the court for some leave to prepare,” I say, “and to attend the funeral services.”
“Yes, of course. We all want to pay our respects. I can excuse the jury for a week so you can get your ducks in order.”
“It was a triple shooting—I was hoping for at least three weeks.”
When I was in fifth grade, my family spent a rainy week in Bermuda, and to pass the time, my father taught me and my brothers how to play poker. We spent hours perfecting the art of the bluff, which has come in handy, whether negotiating a plea, cross-examining a witness, or asking for a continuance. I don’t expect Judge Volpe to grant me a long adjournment, but I figure if I ask for three weeks, he’ll give me two.
“Sorry, I can only give you a week. I conferred with my colleagues this morning,” Judge Volpe says. “The consensus is, given the extraordinary circumstances, anything longer will expose us to prejudice.”
I mask my disappointment and shift into default mode. “Please note my objection for the record.”
“Let’s bring in the jury. I’ll introduce you to them and inform them that they’ll have the rest of the week off.”
Judge Volpe unfurls his shirtsleeves, puts on his black robe, and zips up the front.
“Your Honor, out of an abundance of caution, I am disclosing that, years ago, Mr. Jones committed a crime against one of my friends.” I act as though this is a run-of-the-mill potential conflict that hardly merits mentioning—like the time a pickpocketing victim happened to be my mother’s vintner.
The judge turns back around. “What type of crime was it?”
“It was a robbery.”
“Were you a victim, as well?”
We were all victims—Crystal, her parents, her siblings, me. “No,” I say. “I wasn’t a victim.”
“Were you a percipient witness?”
“No, I didn’t see it happen.”
“What kind of time frame are we talking about?”
I try to maintain my casual, matter-of-fact tone. “It happened almost twenty years ago.”
“Wait, I know that case,” Blum says. “Orlando was convicted of armed robbery, but the initial charge was manslaughter.”
Judge Volpe looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “The case involved a death?”
“Yes.” The back of my neck tenses.
“I move to disqualify Ms. Endicott. If her friend was a victim, she has a stake in the outcome—a clear violation of the rules of professional conduct,” Blum says.
“My only interest in this, or any case, is protecting the safety of the public.” I sound indignant, but I’m concerned about what Judge Volpe might do.
He pauses before speaking. “Ms. Endicott, I’ll give you some leeway, but if I see a hint of misconduct on your part, I’ll declare a mistrial and report you to the Board of Bar Overseers. Capeesh?”
“Got it.”
“You could lose your license to practice law.”
“That won’t happen.”
Judge Volpe moves toward the door. “Anything else we need to cover before I bring in the jury?”
I consider my next request and decide to go for it. The worst that can happen is I’ll get slapped down.
“I’ve been up all night, and I’m not properly dressed for court. I’d ask Your Honor’s indulgence in allowing me to sit in the gallery. I don’t want to make a bad first impression.”
“You don’t want me to introduce you to the panel?”
“I’d rather wait until next week.”
Blum looks at me and shakes his head. “This is an attempt to manipulate the jury and elicit sympathy.”
“How’s that?” Judge Volpe says.
“Ms. Endicott wants to leave an empty chair at the prosecution table. She’s trying to send a message to the jurors.”
“What’s the message?”
“Yesterday, Mr. Mooney was seated at the prosecution table, today, his seat is empty. She wants to create a visual and drive home the point that there is a void.”
“There is a void,” I say. “Contrary to popular belief, we’re not fungible.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Your objection is noted and denied, Mr. Blum,” Judge Volpe says.
Judge Volpe puts his hand on the doorknob, but stops and looks at Blum.
“Sal tells me that Mr. Jones has a propensity for extreme violence. I’m going to increase security in the courtroom.”
“That’s not necessary,” Blum says. “He’s had a few minor scrapes with the law, but nothing that requires an extra show of force.”
“I’m told that he’s among the top ten most dangerous felons in the state, which is an accomplishment, given the competition. We’re going to have six court officers for the duration of the trial.”
He opens the door and we follow him into the courtroom. Blum takes his place at the defense table, and I sit next to Kevin in the gallery. Orlando is ushered in by four burly court officers, who walk him to the defense table and unshackle his wrists and feet. Over the years, I’ve snuck into various courtrooms to catch quick glimpses of Orlando. I’ve watched him grow from a gangly teenager into brawny man. Today he has a
shaved head and a trim beard, and it looks like he’s made use of his year in lockup, bulking up, bench-pressing massive amounts of weight.
Orlando smiles and waves to his family. He looks at the back row and nods—his gold-toothed compatriot echoes the greeting. Blum whispers in his ear. I can make out a few of the words. Remember … Robbery … Jamaica Way … Endicott. Orlando twists his body around to look at me. His face drops and his expression sours. Right back at you, Orlando.
The jurors file in. Judge Volpe lets them know what’s going on and sends them home for the week. After the hearing, Nestor, Kevin, and I reconvene in the hallway to debrief and come up with a game plan.
“Volpe kind of screwed you with the continuance, don’t you think?” Nestor says.
“There’s nothing else he could have done.”
“You should file an interlocutory appeal.”
Like any recent law school graduate, Nestor knows just enough about the law to be annoying but not enough to be helpful.
“Nestor, you round up the exhibits,” Kevin says. “I’ll take Abby out in the field.”
This was Nestor’s case, and he’s not happy to suddenly be taking orders from Kevin, but he knows that a power struggle will have to wait.
“You’ve got a full plate with your other cases,” I say to Kevin after Nestor is gone. “Nestor is solid. I can work with him.”
“I’m sure you can, but I want in on this one.”
“You and Tim worked a lot of cases together.”
“We had some fun chasing down the bad guys. He always volunteered for the toughest ones.”
Orlando, flanked by court officers, shuffles toward the prisoners’ elevator, his leg-irons clanking. He looks at me and sucks air through his teeth.
“Futue te ipsum,” I say under my breath.
“Sounds fancy,” Kevin says. “Italian?”
“Latin. Roughly translated, it means, ‘Fuck him.’”
“You got a way with words—must be all those Harvard degrees.”
As soon as Orlando and his escorts disappear around the corner, a surge of anxiety rushes through my body.
“I can’t lose this case, Kevin.”
Mission Hill Page 3
