“Okay, stay with me, help is on the way,” the dispatcher says calmly. “Can you tell if anyone is still alive?”
“I don’t know. Please, hurry.”
“Can you give me a description of the shooter?”
“No. I don’t know. Hurry, please.”
I turn off the recorder. “You arrived on the scene in the immediate aftermath of the shooting?”
Tiffany looks down at her lap, shreds a tissue. “Yes, I heard some popping noises when I was coming down the street. I think there were four of them.”
Both Tiffany and I are speaking quietly, almost whispering, giving jurors the impression that they’re privy to a private conversation.
“What happened when you arrived at the house?”
“I saw her.” She suppresses one hiccup and then releases two more.
“You saw Jasmine?”
“Yes.”
“Your twin sister?”
“Yes.”
The crime scene photos are on my table, sorted and labeled. Tiffany is supposed to identify them, so I can offer them into evidence and project them onto a screen. Tiffany’s identification of the crime scene photos will be compelling. It’ll make for one of the most emotional moments of the trial. She takes another tissue from the box in front of her, and blows her nose. She bites her lip, and tears pool in her eyes.
“No more questions,” I say.
“Mr. Blum, any questions?”
Blum rises, but remains at his table to telegraph that he’ll be brief. His jacket has a rip in the right-hand pocket, an interesting changeup from the stains and smudges. The wool fabric even looks a little frayed. Maybe he has a special instrument, specifically for this purpose.
“You didn’t see the shooter, did you?” Blum is gentle but firm.
“No,” Tiffany says.
“So you can’t prove that Orlando Jones had any involvement in this crime whatsoever, can you?”
“Objection. Ms. Reed doesn’t carry the burden of proof.”
“Sustained.”
Blum smiles with sympathy. “That’s all I have for this witness. Thank you. We’re all sorry for your pain.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
Judge Volpe calls the midday recess. Out in the hallway, Harold grabs my elbow and whispers in my ear, “Am I sensing a crack in your veneer?”
“Don’t worry,” I say, worried that I’m losing my edge.
Kevin joins me, and we avoid the crowd by ducking down the back stairway. In an empty conference room on the fifth floor, I take a small plastic container from my tote.
“Your boyfriend packed your lunch again?”
“Seared ahi on a bed of field greens.”
“This guy is spoiling you.”
“You might be onto something with this protein thing.” I put down my fork. “Where are we on Ezekiel?”
“Three squads are out looking for him.” Kevin unwraps a protein bar and shovels it down in two bites.
“You sure he’s still alive?”
“Yesterday, he made a withdrawal from an ATM in Dorchester.”
“That gives us a shred of hope.”
I finish my lunch and search my tote for a bottle of Poland Springs. I always keep two bottles of water with me. I open one, give the other to Kevin.
“If you can keep it going until the end of the day, I’m sure I’ll catch up with him this weekend.”
“I’ll kill time by putting Denny’s boss on the stand. I wasn’t planning to call him, but I asked him to be here, just in case.”
“What’s he going to give you?”
“He can establish a timeline. More importantly, he can help me rally more sympathy.”
When court starts back up, Sal summonses the manager of the Chinese restaurant, Doug Huang, who takes the oath. He looks nervous in an ill-fitting suit jacket; the sleeves are too long and the shoulders tight. On the stand, he’s a perfect witness, presenting as sincere and unrehearsed, even though we spent hours together.
“Denny was an excellent worker, the best.” Doug looks directly at the jury. “He was responsible and reliable, and the customers loved him.”
“Did he ever return to the restaurant, after the delivery on Belmont Street?” I say.
“No.”
“Did you ever see Denny Mebane again?”
“I saw him at the hospital, when he was in intensive care.” Doug scans the gallery and fixes on Adele. “I still go to see him in the rehab sometimes.”
“Does he recognize you?”
“I hope so.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“No.”
“Thank you. Nothing further.”
I take my papers from the podium and return to my table. Blum stands in place at his table.
“Just one question,” he says. “Did you see who fired the shots?”
“No, sir, I didn’t see that,” Doug says.
“That’s all I have for this witness.”
I end the day here. When the jurors are home with their families this weekend, walking their dogs or listening to their kids practice the piano, I want them to think about Orlando Jones and the damage that he has done. I know that I will.
Judge Volpe excuses the jury, Orlando is taken away in shackles, and the courtroom empties. I pack up my papers, file them in my trial box, and look for my phone. When I reach into my tote, I feel a piece of paper that wasn’t in there earlier. I pull it out; it’s folded in half, and ADA Endicott is written on the front in block letters. That rules out a love note.
The message is short and to the point: Die Bitch.
My heart races, my chest tightens. The door to the courtroom slams open and bounces off the back wall. I hold my breath and whip my head around to see who it is.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Sal says. “I didn’t know anyone was still here.”
“No problem,” I say.
I fold the note and stuff it back in my bag. It’s already dark outside, and I don’t want to walk to my office alone. My hands tremble as I text Kevin: Are you around? Meet me on the Plaza? He responds right away: I’m in Eastie checking on a lead. Ok if we meet up later? I hear someone in the judge’s chambers, probably Sal. I’ll ask him to escort me to my office. I write Kevin back: Sure. Catch you later.
I pick up my trial box and hold it close to my chest, wishing it were made out of Kevlar. I push the door open with my elbow and look around for Sal. The hallway is empty and feels darker than usual—maybe a lightbulb burned out.
“Sal, are you still here? Sal?” My voice echoes in the hallway.
Pushing the button for the elevator, I hear footsteps. Before I can turn my head to see who is behind me, the elevator doors open. I shiver when I see who is in the car. He’s looking at me, smiling broadly: the man with the gold teeth.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I stand in the hallway, my arms wrapped tightly around the trial box, staring at the gold-toothed North Street Posse member. He is alone in the car.
“You going down?” he says.
I remain frozen in place without responding and wait for the doors to close. I watch as the floor indicator light gives proof of the car’s descent. Six, five, four, three, two, lobby. Footsteps behind me grow closer. I twist around and see a shadow. A man rounds the corner.
“Can I carry something for you?” Sal says.
I shake my head and force a smile.
“Long week,” he says.
I nod.
“You okay?”
I weigh my options, whether to report what happened. Legally, the guy from North Street didn’t do anything. If he really wanted to hurt me, he’d have done it by now. I don’t want to make a big deal about it and draw attention to my history with Orlando.
“I’m fine,” I say, “but do you mind walking me back to the office?”
“No problem,” he says. “Let me carry that box for you.”
I surrender the box to Sal, and he escorts me across the
plaza. The area is dark and deserted. I look around. There’s no sign of the gold-toothed man. Even Rodney Quirk has abandoned his post in the coffee shop and gone home for the night. Sal walks me to the lobby of Bulfinch and hands me the trial box, and I go upstairs to my office.
I spend an hour working on my closing argument. I read it to myself out loud, editing and rewriting as I go. I avoid reflecting on what happened earlier in the hallway, preferring to tuck it away, deep in my subconscious, until after the trial.
When my eyelids start to grow heavy, I call it a night. I decide to use extra precautions on my walk home by taking a new path. I choose a route that’s circuitous but will keep me on well-traveled streets.
Passing the construction zone in front of City Hall, I stick close to other pedestrians. Parts of the sidewalk are closed, requiring us to traverse narrow paths marked by black arrows and orange-and-white blockades. The Government Center T stop is closed for renovations, and some of the surrounding buildings are boarded up.
I look up at the enormous copper kettle that hangs from the building on the corner of Cambridge and Court Streets. The shiny metal teapot spouts delicate puffs of steam into the cold, still night air. An engraving on the front of the kettle declares that it has the capacity to hold 227 gallons, 2 quarts, 1 pint, and 3 gills of tea. The artifact is reminiscent of the city’s history of rebellious tea tossing. It’s uniquely Boston, quaint and charming. A few years ago, the building that it hangs from was renovated and converted into a Starbucks.
The Downtown Crossing area, usually bustling with shoppers and tourists, is desolate and creepy. There are a couple sketchy-looking men lurking in the doorway of E. B. Horn Jewelers. A rat the size of my brother’s Yorkie darts by. I regret my decision to take this route, but I’m well past the point of no return. I think my brother was right: my judgment isn’t the best these days.
Near Temple Place, I grow increasingly aware of a shadowy figure. He’s too far away for me to make out his features, eye color, hair color, or facial hair, but it looks like he’s wearing a light-colored overcoat. From this vantage point, he looks taller than Rodney Quirk and shorter than my new friend from the North Street Posse. As I pick up the pace, so does he.
There are a few people within earshot, but most of them appear homeless and as helpless as I feel. I reach into my tote and grab hold of the Mace that Ty gave me last month. I was hesitant to accept it, but now I’m glad I did. I cradle the canister in my palm, keeping my hand inside my purse, and flip off the safety switch. I feel around for the spray nozzle, my finger at the ready.
Around the corner, in front of the Ritz-Carlton hotel, there are two bellmen, wearing crimson uniforms with gold epaulets. They’re hailing cabs and unloading pieces of luggage from the backs of limos. A doorman opens the heavy glass door, and I walk inside the hotel lobby and take a seat in one of the plush leather chairs, relieved to be surrounded by activity.
The concierge gives a group of German tourists restaurant recommendations. A bellman passes by, wheeling a brass luggage cart. A woman takes a seat at the bar and orders a glass of Cabernet. I’m tempted to do the same, but alcohol will only make things worse. I think about walking up to the reservation desk, checking in under an alias, and hiding from the world.
After a few minutes, I pry myself from the chair and head outside, and the bellman puts me in the back of a cab. The ride home takes about four minutes, and I spend the time convincing myself that no one was following me. By the time we reach Berkeley Street, I come to the conclusion that I’m narcissistic, maybe even paranoid.
When we arrive at my building, I give the driver an extra five and ask him to wait until I’m safely inside. Manny is at his desk in the lobby. He stands and greets me with enthusiasm.
“You slayed him today,” he says.
“Slayed?”
“The news station live-streamed from the courtroom. You’re taking no prisoners.”
I do my best to muster up a smile. “Is Ty upstairs?”
“I haven’t seen him. But I just got on duty an hour ago.”
Gabe, the maintenance guy, sees me in the lobby, comes over, and hands me the key to my apartment.
“You’re all set with the sink,” he says.
“Was there a problem with my sink?”
“The guy from the fixture place came by. He said that you ordered a new faucet. He was here to install it.”
“I didn’t order a new sink—my sink is fine.” My stomach drops. “You let a stranger in my apartment?”
“I’m sorry—I thought that’s why your boyfriend left the key.”
“Ty left the key for my housekeeper, Lilia.” My mind races as I try to figure out who it could have been. “What time was he here?”
“He came in at around noon.”
That rules out anyone from North Street, or at least my friend with the gold teeth, since he was busy sitting around the back of the courtroom all day, glaring at me.
“I’m sorry,” Manny says. “I’ll talk to the day guy when he comes in for his shift.”
I want to ream them both out but yelling won’t help, and it’ll make me more agitated.
“I’ll call the police,” Manny says.
“No, I’ll do it,” I say.
Chapter Twenty-nine
I wait in the lobby for Kevin, who arrives in a matter of minutes. Soon there are a dozen police officers inside my apartment. Detectives search to make sure no one is hiding in a closet or under my bed. The bomb squad sweeps for explosives and checks for hazardous materials. Technicians dust for prints and search for stray hairs. Once they give the all clear, Kevin and I go inside.
“Nice digs,” he says. “I knew you were hoity-toity, but this place is above and beyond. Like by a mile.”
“Please—it was hard enough to get you and the rest of Boston PD to take me seriously.”
“I’ll keep it under my hat.”
Kevin may not recognize the Kenneth Noland hanging over the sofa, but he’s got a discerning eye. He can tell that it’s an original and that it’s expensive. He zeroes in on a handcrafted cherry-red Murano table lamp and smiles.
“This light looks like it cost more than my car,” he says.
“I don’t want to hear about it.” My voice cracks. “Seriously, not tonight.”
“You could probably work anywhere. Hell, looks like you don’t have to work at all. But here you are, fighting the fight.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “You’re crazier than I thought.”
I fight tears. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”
“Crazy in a good way, like jumping out of planes or swimming with sharks.”
I walk around the apartment, hoping to find that something is missing, that this was a run-of-the-mill breaking and entering. I’m disappointed to find that my jewelry and silver are in the wall safe. I open my desk drawers and see that my checks are all there, untouched. Nothing is missing.
“What do you think they wanted?” I say.
“They probably grabbed something small, and you won’t notice it’s not there until later. Or maybe they didn’t take anything and just wanted to scare you.”
We hear someone come in the door and call out, “Hello?”
Kevin puts one hand on the small of his back, where he keeps his gun. He uses his other to nudge me behind him.
“It’s Ty,” I say before Kevin fires off a round, “my boyfriend.”
Ty sees us in the living room. Kevin slowly returns his Glock to his waistband. The two men check each other out with interest and suspicion.
“Ty, this is Kevin. Kevin, this is Ty.”
They shake hands, each with his own misgivings about the other’s presence.
“What’s going on?” Ty takes off his coat and hangs it in the closet.
“Someone may have come in here this afternoon,” I say.
“Broke in is more like it,” Kevin says.
I smile and try to downplay it. “It was probably nothin
g—a repairman with the wrong address.”
“We checked. Restoration Hardware doesn’t make house calls,” Kevin says.
“Nothing was taken. Nothing is broken. Let’s not blow it out of proportion.”
“I think you should move out for a few days,” Kevin says.
“No way.”
I look to Ty for support, but he seems to be siding with Kevin.
“We can stay at my place,” he says.
“I’m in the middle of trial. I’m not moving—it’s too disruptive.”
“Then I’ll arrange for protection,” Kevin says.
“Closing your eyes isn’t going to make it go away,” Ty says.
Both men aren’t backing down. I put up my hands, not in surrender but in annoyance.
“Enough,” I say. “Don’t patronize me.”
Kevin surveys the living room and checks the sliding glass door to be sure it’s secure.
Ty points to Melvin Jones’s Big Dig files on the floor. “That box was on the dining table when I left this morning.”
“Are you sure?” I say.
“Positive. I ate a bowl of cereal on the couch. I didn’t want to move your stuff. I figured you had some kind of system going.”
There’s a knock on the door. Kevin goes to answer it and lets Manny and Gabe back in.
“We watched the security video, but it isn’t much help,” Manny says.
“Do you remember what the guy looked like?” Kevin says.
Gabe does his best, but he would be a lousy witness. “He had a baseball cap on.”
“Did you see if it had a logo? Something that might give us a gang affiliation?”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” Gabe says. “He asked for the key, I handed it to him, and he left it on the desk when he was done.”
“All the same, I’m going to have you come by the station and look at mug shots.”
After Gabe gives his contact information to Kevin, he and Manny leave.
“Is Abby going to be okay staying here?” Ty says.
“I don’t want a security detail, and I’m not carrying a gun.” I take a breath and think about Tim. As much as I want to convict Orlando, I don’t want to end up with a hole in my head. “But I do have to tell you something.”
“What’s up?” Kevin says.
Mission Hill Page 12
