“You’ve done your homework,” Ty says.
“You’d better believe it.”
Ty nervously tries to assess whether my father is friend or foe. “What else did you find out?”
“I know you’ve played with some of the greats—Cecil Taylor, McCoy Tyner.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about jazz.”
“I played trumpet in college.”
“You did?” Ty and I say at the same time.
“I think I still have it in the attic somewhere.”
“Don’t even think about taking that thing out of storage,” my mother says, turning away from Lottie.
“I didn’t know you were listening, dear.” My father smiles. “I do have to admit, I’m no Dizzy Gillespie.”
“That’s the understatement of the century. If you go anywhere near that instrument, I’ll file for divorce.”
My father ignores her. “I’d like to hear you play sometime, Tyson.”
Ty’s parents are the opposite of meddlers or snobs, which isn’t necessarily better. They’re divorced, aging hippies who met at Woodstock, fell in love, stoned, stomping around in the mud, listening to Joan Baez. Their marriage lasted about two years.
Last summer, Ty introduced me to his father, Jasper, who is white, at a gig in Saratoga. He showed up with his then partner, Ronald, and said that he was a documentary filmmaker, living in New York. He talked a great game, but when I probed, he had all sorts of ideas but had never actually completed a project. And he didn’t really live in New York; he was subletting a studio apartment in Jersey City.
I met Ty’s mother, Melody, who is black, at the Regattabar in Cambridge. She was passing through Boston on her way to a yoga retreat in Lenox. She lives in Vermont and claims to own a bed-and-breakfast. She’s invited us to stay, but every time Ty tries to take her up on the offer, she can’t accommodate us. I’m pretty sure she just works there as a reservation clerk and isn’t allowed guests.
I whisper in Ty’s ear, “Meet me in the library on the second floor.”
I excuse myself from the table, pretending that I have to go to the ladies’ room, and slip upstairs. I sink into a worn, dark leather sofa. The tables around me are littered with empty glasses, toothpicks, and cocktail napkins. The sounds of glass clinking drift up from the dining room, signaling that toasts are about to begin.
Ty sneaks into the room, loosens his tie, and slides next to me on the couch. I stand and put a finger to my lips, signaling him to stay quiet, and lock the door. We kiss until we hear a knock, and someone rattles the doorknob.
Ty smiles and whistles softly.
“Was that a whistle?” I suppress a laugh.
He does it again.
“You’re going to get us thrown out of here.”
Whoever is at the door decides to give up, allowing Ty and me to return to the business at hand.
Chapter Twenty-two
After a night of too much wine and not enough sleep, I drag myself out of bed and drive to police headquarters, where I meet with Kevin and Nestor. We divvy up the tasks. Kevin goes out in the field to shore up witnesses and serve subpoenas. Nestor and I stay behind; he tackles the boxes of official reports, and I slog through batches of the first responders’ handwritten notes.
Our workspace is warm and windowless, and there’s an overwhelming stench of bacon from Nestor’s breakfast. Mounds of court filings, crime lab reports, and witness statements are scattered around the table. Claustrophobia could hit at any minute. The only upside to being here is that I get to skip the postwedding brunch at the Taj.
The notes are difficult to decipher; they’re tattered and smudged, filled with doodles and scribbles. I pick through bits of information about the weather and road conditions, random thoughts about suspects, and unattributed quotes. I’d like to throw most of it in the trash but Blum has reviewed it all, and I need to know everything he knows.
I drink coffee and take a few laps around the table so I don’t doze off. After a couple hours of reading, I come across a sheet of notes with an unfamiliar name.
“Who is Jemald Clements?”
“I interviewed him last year.” Nestor rolls his eyes. “He was a clown.”
“It sounds like he got a look at the shooter. I hope we’re not playing another round of hide the ball.”
Nestor stops what he’s doing, finds Jemald’s form twenty-six, and hands it to me. I read the statement to myself. I heard four or five shots. I looked up and saw a man in a beige Toyota. I believe he was the shooter. He was a light-skinned black or Hispanic man in his forties with a scar on his cheek and short, cropped hair. He stopped and leaned out the front passenger-side window and started firing. I think that he was the only one in the car. Signed, Jemald Clements.
I look up at Nestor. “Am I missing something here? This guy was an eyewitness to the murder. Why hasn’t anyone mentioned him?”
“We should have prosecuted him for obstruction. He gave a bogus description of the shooter. Orlando is younger, has dark skin, and had a shaved head at the time.”
“Still, he knew about the car, the location of the shooter, and the number of shots—before it was made public.”
Nestor isn’t backing down. “It was an intentional misdirect. He hurts more than he helps.”
I’m tired and growing impatient. “That’s my call, not yours.” Nestor may be in law school, but he’s not a lawyer, and he’s not in charge of the case.
“He’s going to come off as a liar.”
“Most of our witnesses tell a story that is part true, part lie. The trick is figuring out which is which,” I say.
“Jemald Clements was full of shit, plain and simple.”
“I’m not asking you to invite him home for dinner.”
I take a breath and check myself. I want to pull rank and demand that Nestor follow up with Jemald, but we’re a team and ordering a cop around isn’t the best way to get results.
I go outside to get some air, and take a ten-minute drive to the Buttery, a café in the South End. When I return, I bring a peace offering of fresh coffee, grilled cheese sandwiches, and red velvet cupcakes. Nestor appreciates the gesture and the treats.
“Let’s explore Jemald,” I say.
Nestor bites into his sandwich and nods. “Okay.”
“Are he and Orlando buddies?”
“We found FIOs of the two of them, hanging out.”
The police gang unit keeps an inventory of field interrogation operation reports—documents that list sightings of known gang members. Nestor shows me several FIOs of Jemald and Orlando together, and it becomes obvious that they’re friends. Jemald planted bad information hoping to send us in the wrong direction.
“Told you,” Nestor says.
“Do you have Jemald’s BOP?”
Nestor checks his computer and searches Jemald’s criminal history.
“He was pinched for selling crack, and about eighteen months ago, he picked up a gun charge.”
“Did he do time on it?”
“A year in the house.”
This is starting to sound familiar. “Was Orlando his codefendant?”
Nestor sees where I’m going. “Yup. They were arrested together. Orlando got his case dismissed and walked. Jemald did time.”
I take a bite of the cupcake and smile. “Sounds like Jemald got the short end of the stick. Maybe he resents it—let’s see if he wants to vent.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Jemald Clements’s apartment building looks like a crack house. The front porch is unlit, a few junkies are milling around in the driveway, and someone is scavenging through a metal trash can. As soon as we park the car, I regret my decision to come along. I’ve had all the sadness I can take for one week.
A woman wearing one shoe approaches our car. “You got a twenty?” She sniffs and wipes her nose with her sleeve.
“Get lost, Tawny,” Nestor says.
Tawny starts to limp away, trying to keep pressure off her bare
foot. The ground is frozen, and the tip of her big toe is black with frostbite.
“You should go to the BMC,” I say, “and have your foot looked at.”
She doesn’t respond, keeps hobbling away.
“I’ve offered her a ride to the ER a half-dozen times,” Nestor says as we get out of the car. “The nurses are onto her. They refuse to give her pain meds, so she’s not interested.”
Nestor kicks a hypodermic needle out of our path, and we climb up the front steps.
“Sure you want to come in?” he says.
“It’s better than waiting in the car alone.”
Jemald Clements’s girlfriend answers the door in her pajamas, cleaning the wax out of her ear with a Q-tip. A baby screeches in the background.
“Boston police,” Nestor says. “We need to talk to Jemald.”
She doesn’t invite us inside. Nonetheless, Nestor walks past her, into the apartment, and I follow. He flips on a light, exposing the grim interior. Cockroaches scurry across the mildewed linoleum, up the wall, and onto a counter, where a hot pot and a bunch of dirty dishes are piled. I stand still, trying not to touch or lean on anything.
Jemald emerges from the bedroom with a scowl. The baby continues to wail from behind the door.
“What you want?”
“Is someone looking after that baby?” I say.
The girlfriend disappears into the bedroom, and the baby quiets down.
“Jemald, this is the DA,” Nestor says.
He crosses his arms. “I got nothing to say.”
A bug crawls up and into what must be Jemald’s steel-toed work boot. I watch another one circle the sole.
“You witnessed a murder, and I need to know what you saw,” I say.
“Read the reports,” Jemald says.
“I did. They don’t make a whole lot of sense.”
“That’s because you’re going after the wrong guy. Orlando didn’t do it. Why are you trying to frame him?” He lights a cigarette and blows smoke in my direction.
I don’t flinch. “Didn’t you and Orlando have a gun case together a while back? How come he got a deal and you served time?”
“We both should have got off. We was both innocent. He got justice, I got railroaded.”
“It looks to me like he knew how to work the system, and you didn’t.”
“Fuck off.” He drops the cigarette on the floor and stomps it out.
Clearly, Jemald and I aren’t going to be besties, and that’s fine with me.
I hand him a subpoena. “Be in court tomorrow.”
“Can’t—I got to work. I have a baby girl to take care of.”
“I’ll call your boss or write a letter, but you can’t ignore a subpoena.”
“Get out of my house.”
On the way back to the car, I place a call to social services and ask them to check on Jemald’s daughter. Prosecutors are considered mandated reporters, required to notify authorities if we believe that a child’s safety may be in jeopardy.
Social services is all over the news these days for negligence, bungling cases, putting children at risk. Kids placed in their care have gone missing, been abused and even killed. Whether this child ends up in state custody or with Jemald and his girlfriend, the cards are stacked against her.
As we drive away, I see Tawny limping down Morton Street. She has a piece of cardboard wrapped around her unshod foot.
“Pull over for a second,” I say.
Nestor stops the car. I lower my window and call out to Tawny. She stops and turns, smiling as though she doesn’t have a care in the world. She found her fix.
“Take these.” I hand her my favorite Stuart Weitzmans.
She takes the shoes and struggles to put one on her swollen, discolored foot. Without saying a word, she walks off.
“You’re welcome,” Nestor says as we drive off. “I hope they weren’t expensive. She’s going to trade them for a dime bag.”
“I know,” I say. “I don’t care.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Last week, Tim and Blum spent a couple of days carefully selecting the jury that will decide Orlando Jones’s fate. As in all trials, once the jurors were impaneled, a court officer collected their questionnaires and shredded them. Tim wasn’t a notetaker, so I have no idea why he chose this panel. I don’t know anything about them—not their ages, addresses, or occupations. I don’t even know their names. They are complete wild cards and whatever they decide—guilty or not—we’ll all have to live with it.
Judge Volpe delivers his preliminary instructions, and I pretend to listen. It’s always the same. You will have to reach a unanimous verdict. The defendant is presumed innocent. The prosecutor carries the burden of proof. Background noise, like Charlie Brown’s teacher yammering on. WHAA WHAA WHAA.
Juror number five is leaning forward in her chair, her hands cupped over her ears. Either she’s hard of hearing or she doesn’t understand English. She’ll probably wait until the second day of deliberations before telling us that she didn’t follow any of what happened during the trial and asking to be excused. Number two looks at his watch and lets out a gaping yawn, as though this is the most boring thing he’s ever had to endure. Number seven looks stoned.
Reporters, lawyers, court watchers, and the families of both sides are crammed into the gallery. A dozen people from my office are here; most nod and smile in support, while a few wear the bitter look of schadenfreude.
My favorite court watcher, Harold, is in the second row, hands resting on his walking stick, listening intently. He knows that, at some point, I’ll ask him for his thoughts, and he takes his charge seriously.
Judge Volpe wraps up and commands Sal to distribute notebooks and pens to the jurors. They immediately start jotting things down. Some are probably copying Judge Volpe’s instructions; others are likely sketching out grocery lists. They have to leave their notebooks in the courthouse when they go home for the night, and I’m always tempted to peek inside.
“Ms. Endicott, is the Commonwealth prepared to make an opening statement?” Judge Volpe says.
No, I need time, like a few months. “The Commonwealth is ready,” I say.
“You may proceed.”
I rise and position myself a couple of feet from the jury box. I have to own this courtroom, let everyone know I’m in charge, they can trust me, feel safe in my hands. My body language, my voice, my carefully choreographed presentation must all project resolve, sincerity, and fearlessness. My knees start to knock against each other.
There is a podium, but I don’t use it. I have notes, but I set them aside. Nothing should come between me and my jurors.
I clear my throat and look each juror in the eye. “Good morning, members of the jury,” I say.
About three-quarters of them respond in unison. “Good morning.”
Always a positive sign.
Orlando Jones is seated at the defense table, glaring at me. My voice quivers slightly as I point at him and deliver the words that Tim had prepared.
“This man, Orlando Jones, sprayed bullets into a crowd of people sitting on a porch, drinking beer, enjoying a summer night. He shot three people: the first is dead; the second might as well be dead; the third is living in constant fear.”
I return to the jury box, where I plant myself firmly and try not to fidget or pace. A camera clicks. The door slams open, and for a split second, I think it might be Tim, here to rescue me. If only we could all pick up where we’d left off, before it all went so wrong. But it’s not Tim—it’s Max and Owen. A few lawyers squeeze closer together, allowing room for them in the pews.
“This case is about the deliberate and brutal murder and attempted murders committed by Orlando Jones. It’s about gang warfare and the carnage that results, destroying lives and shattering communities.
“The defendant believes that the streets of Mattapan belong to him and his North Street confederates. So when a rival gang began encroaching on his territory, started selling drugs o
n what he considered to be his sidewalks and street corners, Orlando Jones decided to do something about it—to send a message. And he chose to convey this message not with a text or a phone call but with a sawed-off shotgun.
“He didn’t have specific targets in mind. Anyone out on Belmont Street, enemy territory, would do. No matter that they were innocents, hardworking residents of our city. No matter that they weren’t involved in gang life. No matter that they didn’t know or care about his turf war.
“Much of this case will be difficult for you to endure. I apologize in advance for what you are going to experience. But these are the facts of the case. This is the brutal reality of murder.”
When I’m done, juror number five looks at Orlando and shakes his head in outrage. Number three crosses her arms and glowers at him. A couple of jurors are so disgusted that they can’t even look in his direction. Mission accomplished. As I move to take my seat, I glance into the gallery and see Kevin, nodding in approval and support.
The most frustrating part of most trials is that there are so many things that the jury will never learn. I can’t give a complete picture of who Orlando is and what he’s done in the past. I can’t tell them that he is responsible for Crystal’s death. That he shot four people and threatened them until they were too scared to testify. That he beat a gun case and was possibly acting as a government informant. That he probably ordered the hit on Warren Winters. That he may be involved in Tim’s murder. And that he might go after me.
“Mr. Blum, you may present your opening statement,” Judge Volpe says.
“I don’t intend to give an opening at this time, Your Honor,” Blum says, surprising me and most of the seasoned court watchers in the room.
“Members of the jury, please gather your coats. We are about to embark on our view,” Judge Volpe says. “This will be your opportunity to see firsthand where the alleged crimes took place.”
Sal and two other court officers, holding tall white poles, escort the sixteen jurors outside, down the steep, icy hill behind the courthouse. Everyone boards the bus that is parked on Cambridge Street. Sal directs the jurors to the last eight rows. The clerk and stenographer sit up front with Judge Volpe. Blum and I take seats in the middle.
Mission Hill Page 10
