Mission Hill

by Pamela Wechsler

  “Mr. Hogan, are you in court today under protest?” I say.

  I want to give him a chance to let the audience, especially the gangsters, know that this is on me. That it’s my fault. He seems to appreciate the gesture and responds by lifting his head and glaring at me.

  “I’m here because you threatened to lock me up. I don’t want nothing to do with this trial.”

  “The record shall reflect that you are an unwilling witness,” I say. “I’d like to draw your attention to last August, the evening that you were shot.”

  Under different circumstances, I would work up to this point slowly, milking Ezekiel’s testimony for all it’s worth, evoking every painful detail about the suffering he’s endured and how deeply this crime has impacted his life. I’d ask about his education, work history, family and, most importantly, the severity of his injuries. But I can get this information in through a number of other avenues: witnesses, medical records, and photographs. I want to limit the questions and minimize his exposure. It’s the least I can do.

  “What had you been doing around the time that you were shot?”

  “Partying with friends.”

  “One of those friends was the deceased, Jasmine Reed?”

  “Objection. Leading.” Blum wants to drag this out, make it as painful as possible.

  “I find that the prosecution has laid the foundation,” Judge Volpe says. “Mr. Hogan is a hostile witness and I will permit the use of leading questions.”

  Judge Volpe could have made me jump through a few more hoops, but he’s cutting me slack. I’m not the only one who wants to get this over with.

  “Was Jasmine, the deceased, your friend?”

  Ezekiel nods. “Yes.”

  “Tell us what happened.”

  He sits for a minute, looks at me, and then looks away. Open-ended questions aren’t going to work—I have to feed him ones that he can answer with a yes or no.

  “A man pulled up in a beige Toyota?”

  “Yes.”

  “This man had a sawed-off shotgun?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had never seen him before?”

  “Never.”

  “You had no axe to grind with him?”

  “None.”

  After setting the scene, I slow down and take a breath. “The man who shot you and Jasmine and Denny, is he present in this courtroom?”

  He drops his head and looks at his feet.

  “Yes,” he says.

  At this juncture, I need to get him to make the ID, and I can’t do it by spoon-feeding him leading questions.

  “Please tell us where he’s seated and describe an article of clothing that he’s wearing.”

  I move to the witness box and stand next to Ezekiel, facing out into the audience. I look over at Orlando, daring him to look back at me. Orlando takes the bait and glares at me, shooting venom in my direction. This gives Ezekiel a moment to breathe and do what he has to.

  “He’s at the table, wearing the purple tie, sitting next to his lawyer,” he says.

  I turn to the judge and say as quickly as I can get the words out of my mouth, “Your Honor, may the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant, Orlando Jones.”

  “Yes,” Judge Volpe says. “I find that the witness has made a positive identification.”

  Suddenly and without warning, Orlando shouts, “Motherfucker!”

  Judge Volpe scans the courtroom, making sure that the court officers are at the ready, and then pounds his gavel. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  “Mr. Jones, settle down. Outbursts like that will not be tolerated—”

  Orlando doesn’t wait for Judge Volpe to finish his admonition. He jumps out of his chair, extends his arms high in the air, and yells, “This is bullshit. Punk-ass snitch!”

  Court officers run to Orlando, but before they reach him, he takes hold of the heavy oak table in front of him, hoists it off the ground, and hurls it in my direction. I’m stunned motionless.

  A few pencils fly by, narrowly missing my eye. A cup of water hits my shoulder. I try to duck but the table strikes me head-on, knocking me to the ground. I whack the back of my skull against the floor so hard that I see a flash of light. I think I lose consciousness.

  After a few seconds, I pick up my head, lean on my elbows, and open my eyes. Court officers pile onto Orlando and tackle him. Sal races Judge Volpe off the bench and into his chambers and locks the door behind him. A deputy radios for backup. Dotty gets down on her hands and knees and crawls under her stenographer’s table. Blum jumps out of the way and hysterically yells at Orlando to calm down. The clerk bolts out a side door and into the stairwell, followed closely by Ezekiel. Reporters snap pictures. Bystanders turn on their cell phone cameras. Harold waves his cane in the air. Jackie Reed starts to pray.

  Darrius rushes from the back row and joins the fray. Police officers and two random men from the audience come forward to help. Some struggle to intercept and capture Darrius and others fight to hold Orlando down. Court watchers jockey to get out of the courtroom as more police officers charge in from the hallway.

  Finally, Orlando is subdued and dragged out of the courtroom in shackles. Darrius is yanked to his feet and frisked for weapons. A police officer discovers a small folding knife with a red handle tucked in his shoe.

  I become aware of Kevin, who is kneeling at my side. I’m not sure how long he’s been there. He offers his hand and helps me to my feet. My head is throbbing. My back is sore. A bump is starting to form behind my right ear, and there’s a welt on my forearm.

  I turn to the jurors, who are frozen in place—still seated in their assigned chairs, clutching their notebooks. They’re staring at me, stunned, looking for guidance. They’ve now experienced, firsthand, Orlando Jones’s propensity for violence and the lengths to which he’ll go in order to get what he wants.

  I take a breath, trying not to throw up or pass out. Looking around the courtroom, I take it all in. I want to savor the moment. This is unequivocally the best thing that has ever happened to me.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The court takes a recess, giving everyone a chance to decompress and check for broken bones. Sal directs the jurors to stay together in their deliberations room, behind locked doors. He orders lunch, a couple of platters of turkey sandwiches and chocolate-chip cookies from a nearby deli, and tries to keep them calm by cracking jokes, telling them that the lunch is their combat pay. What he doesn’t tell them is that the free lunch was intended to address Judge Volpe’s concern that they might walk out of the courthouse and never return.

  Kevin insists that I see the court doctor and has him paged. I don’t put up a fight, knowing that Dr. Finn will give me a clean bill of health. He routinely examines defendants and witnesses who claim that they’re too sick to testify. Nine times out of ten, Dr. Finn concludes that they’re malingering and sends them back to the judge. He’s a hard-ass, a doctor after my own heart. I’d make him my primary-care physician if he took private patients.

  Kevin and I take the elevator to the seventh floor and wait for him to arrive. When Dr. Lantigua, the court psychiatrist, shows up instead, I try to make for the elevator, but Kevin grabs my tote and holds it hostage.

  “I’m feeling fine,” I say.

  Dr. Lantigua is about sixty, easily identifiable by her standard female shrink uniform: elastic-waist slacks and a shapeless tunic, both in neutral colors, and a bold, chunky necklace. She’s insightful, curious, and thorough, which puts her at the bottom of the list of people I want to talk to right now.

  “Where’s Dr. Finn?” I ask.

  “He’s on a personal day,” she says. “Can I help you?”

  I turn to Kevin, who is hovering. “A lady needs her privacy,” I say.

  He parks himself on a bench and keeps my tote with him. “No problem—I’ll wait here.”

  We go into the office. I hear Kevin outside the door, clearing his throat. He’s not going to let me out of here without the doct
or’s approval.

  “I came in contact with a flying table,” I say. “My detective wants to be sure that I don’t have a brain hemorrhage.”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve done a physical, but I can check your blood pressure.”

  She pulls a cuff out of her medical bag. Reluctantly, I extend my left arm. Dr. Lantigua senses my misgivings about the checkup.

  “We don’t have to do this,” she says.

  “No, go ahead.”

  “‘No, go ahead.’ That sends kind of a mixed signal. I’m detecting some misplaced anger.”

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude.”

  “Is there something you want to talk about?”

  Yes, there are a million things I want to talk about: Tim, Crystal, Ty, my family, my career choice, my anxiety, my migraines, my list.

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  She wraps the cuff tightly around my arm, and we both watch it inflate.

  “Your pulse is high. You may want to cut down on the caffeine. I can write you a script for Ativan,” she says, ripping apart the Velcro.

  “Maybe another time.”

  “You’re probably going to feel worse tomorrow. You might have a concussion. I strongly recommend that you go over to Mass General and get a CT scan.”

  “I’ll call my physician as soon as I get out of here and schedule an appointment.”

  I thank Dr. Lantigua and dash out of her office before she changes her mind and decides that I’m not healthy enough to return to court. Outside her office, Kevin is waiting for me on the bench in the hallway, exactly where I left him.

  “Everything copacetic?” he says.

  “All good,” I say. “She told me I have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

  We go back down to the courtroom, and Judge Volpe calls me and Blum in for a lobby conference. Dotty is by his side, her face buried in the black cone.

  “Judge, I move for a mistrial,” Blum says.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.

  “Careful, Ms. Endicott,” Judge Volpe says. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but let’s try to remain professional.”

  My attention shifts to a partially eaten chocolate-chip cookie on top of his desk. Feeling like I could use a sugar boost, I’m tempted to ask for a bite. He notices me eyeing his dessert and pulls the cookie closer. Don’t even think about it.

  “My client can’t possibly receive a fair trial. The jury has been irreparably prejudiced. I’d like to be heard on my motion,” Blum says.

  “Where is he now?” Judge Volpe says.

  “He was taken by ambulance to Mass General,” Blum says, adding, “on a stretcher,” as though that will garner sympathy.

  “For the record, I find that you have zealously represented your client and argued forcefully and articulately on his behalf, which is admirable given the circumstances. Your motion for a mistrial has been heard and duly considered. It is denied,” Judge Volpe says. “Mr. Blum, go to the hospital and talk to your client. Tell him that if he can’t behave, I’ll rule that he’s waived his right to be present in the courtroom and he can watch the remainder of the trial on a closed-circuit screen in his jail cell. Got it?”

  Blum nods. “I’ll pass it on. For the record, I don’t endorse his actions.”

  “I’m going to explain what’s happening to the jury, and I’ll see you all back here tomorrow morning,” Judge Volpe says.

  Kevin catches me coming out of the courtroom. Without saying a word, he puts his hand on my back and whisks me down a side staircase.

  “What’s up?” I say.

  He starts to speak and then stops and looks at me. This can’t be good.

  “He escaped.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Orlando, he got out.”

  “When? How?”

  “The deputies had to uncuff him for an MRI. He broke a glass tube, made it into a weapon, and took a nurse hostage.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, there was a brief standoff. The guards subdued him, but he got a burst of energy, knocked out a deputy, and injured two others.”

  “And he got out of the room?”

  “And out of the building. He’s one tough bastard.”

  “Orlando is on the street. There’s no telling what he’ll do.”

  My head throbs and I feel dizzy. I grip the banister to prevent myself from falling, but my palm is sweaty and I start to lose my footing. Kevin holds on to my elbow.

  “Can you take me over to Mass General?” I say.

  “With pleasure. Give me your doc’s number, and I’ll call ahead and let him know we’re on the way.”

  “No, not my doctor. I want to talk to Orlando’s doctors and the technicians and EMTs who treated him. We have to retrace his steps, see if he said anything, and find out how bad his injuries were.”

  “Let’s leave that to the sheriffs and the fugitive squad. Right now, I’m worried about you. We’re arranging security for your apartment and an officer to watch out for you 24-7 until we find him.”

  I start to protest but Kevin cuts me off.

  “Don’t even think about fighting me on this.”

  He walks me back to Bulfinch, and while he arranges for my bodyguard, I sit at my desk and scan the Internet. Word about Orlando is all over the news: his outburst in the courtroom, his escape, his potential involvement in Tim’s murder. And there’s speculation that I could be his next target.

  There are a ton of missed calls on my cell.

  From Max: “Abby, I want you to know that you have my full support. Whatever you need, you let me know. I’ll check in on you later.”

  From my father: “Enough is enough. I’ve spoken with the mayor and the governor. I want you off this case. Let someone else risk their life. I want you to call me as soon as you get this message. I mean it, muffin.”

  From my brother: “Everyone is freaking out. Are you okay? Can you at least call us and let us know what’s going on?”

  From Crystal’s mother: “Abby, honey, I saw you on the TV. I’m so proud of you. But, please, take care of yourself. This man has caused enough heartache.”

  From Owen: “Hang in there, buddy. We have your back. You need anything, a hotel room, a safe house, let me know. Oh, I left a picture for you, on your shelf.”

  I look over at the bookcase and see a framed photograph of me, Tim, and Owen. The photo was taken at the Kinsale a couple of years ago, after I won a conviction against a serial rapist. We’re smiling, beer mugs hoisted in the air. The three of us made some good memories.

  There are about a dozen more messages from an assortment of people—my high school Latin coach, my college suite mate, my law school torts professor. Everyone has lodged a call. Except Ty.

  Less than an hour later, Kevin comes in and introduces me to my security detail, Detective Sandra Holmes, who drives me home in her unmarked Taurus. She’s the girliest cop on the force, chock-full of extensions—hair, nails, eyelashes. If cops were allowed to wear stilettos, she’d be chasing down felons in four-inch spikes. Still, I wouldn’t want to mess with her. She’s got a reputation for being a kick-ass cop.

  “Awesome earrings,” she says as we get off the elevator. “Are they real or cubic?”

  “Cubic,” I say. “An old boyfriend gave them to me. He got them at Old Navy.” Adding a couple of specific details to a story always makes it sound more believable.

  “Old Navy doesn’t sell earrings,” she says.

  I unlock the door to my apartment. Sandra goes inside to do a security check. From where I’m standing, I can see that the living room is lit by the glare of the TV set.

  “Down, asshole!” she says.

  I rush into the apartment and see Sandra holding Ty at gunpoint. He has a Rolling Rock in his right hand, his left raised in the air.

  “No, Sandra,” I say. “Stop. That’s my boyfriend.”

  She returns her gun back to her waistband. “Sorry about that,” she says.

 
Ty sits on the couch. “I’m glad you got security, but I didn’t think it would be at my expense.”

  Sandra looks around the apartment, makes sure it’s secure, and then takes in the leather chairs and the wide-screen plasma.

  “Those earrings are definitely real. What I don’t get is why you’d lie about it.” She doesn’t wait for a response. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need anything.”

  “Don’t you want something to sit on?”

  She grabs one of my glossy white Eero Saarinen tulip chairs from the dining table and drags it to the door.

  “Someone will relieve me in an hour. They’ll be outside all night if you need anything. I’ll be back in the morning to take you to court.”

  Sandra steps out into the hallway and closes the door.

  “One of these days, my luck is going to run out, and someone will actually pull the trigger.” Ty kills off his beer, goes into the kitchen, and returns with another bottle for himself and a glass of wine for me.

  “I’m really sorry. Are you okay?” I say.

  “I’m fine. How are you doing?”

  “Not great. Thanks for coming over.”

  I sit on the sofa, and Ty sits across from me.

  “Does this mean you’re not mad anymore?” I say.

  “No, I’m still pretty pissed off.”

  I take a sip of wine and relax my neck and shoulders. “I don’t get it. Why are you so angry?”

  “I’m done with all the head games.”

  “We were both wrong. I wasn’t honest with you about Tim, but you weren’t straight with me, either. For all I know, you and that Vera chick have been sleeping together since last summer.”

  “Abby, I’m not sleeping with Vera. I never was. She wrote an article about me and that’s it. And there were no other women.”

  My phone rings. I ignore it. “So you lied to me?”

  “Yup, I lied.”

  Ty puts down his beer, leans in, and looks at me for a minute. Nervous about what he’s going to say, I put my wineglass down.