“I’m tired of being taken for granted,” he says.
“Then why are you here?”
“I care about you. But you need to decide what you want. Either you’re all in or we need to stop seeing each other.”
My phone rings again, and I silence it.
“This is a bad time to issue an ultimatum,” I say.
“There’s never a good time with you.”
We look over at the TV—Orlando Jones’s mug shot flashes on the screen. Carl Ostroff is standing in front of Mass General. Ty ups the volume.
“There is a statewide manhunt on for accused killer Orlando Jones. In a maneuver that would impress Houdini, Jones escaped custody at Mass General. Police are warning residents that he has a history of violence and is presumed to be armed and dangerous. He’s facing a mandatory life sentence for the murder of Jasmine Reed, and sources are saying he could face additional charges in connection with the death of ADA Tim Mooney. At this point, he has little to lose.”
Ty gets out of his chair and sits next to me on the sofa. As he wraps me in his arms, I tremble.
“I’m scared.” My voice cracks.
He kisses me softly on the cheek, tilts his head back, and looks at the cut on the side of my neck.
“What happened here?” he says. “It looks like a cut.”
My phone vibrates, and I see it’s Chris Sarsfield. The other two missed calls are from him too.
“This is the head of the gang unit,” I say to Ty. “It could be about Orlando.”
I answer the phone and listen to Chris.
“Sounds like a bad scene in court today,” he says. “I thought you’d want to know Darrius Palmer is going to be arraigned tomorrow.”
“Good. Who’s handling it?”
“I’m going to keep it.”
I’m glad Chris is holding on to the case. “What are you charging him with?”
“He was booked on disorderly and affray.”
My stomach drops. “Those are only misdemeanors. He’ll be back on the street before lunch.”
“It’s the best I could do.”
“Did you run it by Max?”
“Yes, he knows.”
Ty sees me getting worked up and rubs my back.
“But they found a knife.”
“He didn’t do anything illegal with it.”
I think about telling Chris about the parking lot incident, but there’s no point. I can’t pin it on Darrius. Besides, I’m not sure I even trust Chris anymore. I don’t know who I can trust.
Chapter Thirty-nine
I’m prepared to continue with the trial, but Judge Volpe hasn’t made a ruling on whether he plans to keep going. Some judges would proceed without the defendant; others would adjourn for a couple of days to see how things shake out with the search. Calling my next witness without Orlando seated at the table would be easier on everyone, especially me. But it would be like hosting a party without the guest of honor.
Sandra is superglued to my hip as we make our way to the courthouse. We pass the coffee shop; Rodney Quirk is seated in his usual spot, staring at me as I pass by. Even though I’ve grown accustomed to seeing him there, I still feel a jolt of anxiety every time we lock eyes. I consider telling Sandra about him but decide to keep moving forward.
We’re the first to arrive in the courtroom. Sandra helps me unpack boxes of files and unwrap exhibits, and we spread everything out on my table. The door swings open; Sandra and I spin around to see my victim witness advocate, Winnie Hanlon. Advocates are assigned to every trial team in our office. They start in district courts and climb through the ranks, like the lawyers.
Winnie and I have been working together since our days in Roxbury District Court. She wears a lot of different hats, including social worker, therapist, travel coordinator, investigator, paralegal, babysitter, and real estate agent.
“I found an apartment for Ezekiel,” she says. “It’ll get him out of the city and away from North Street’s reach.”
“Where is it?”
“In Canton.”
“That’s far. Did he agree to go?”
“He said he’s tired of the Parker House.”
“That’s a first.”
Usually we have to drag our victims out of there, kicking and screaming. But before they check out of their rooms, Winnie inspects luggage to be sure they haven’t stolen anything—towels or pillows, or the television.
“I’m not going to question it. I’ll drive him there myself—anything to get him out of harm’s way.”
The door opens again. It’s Blum. This time he has a bloodred ink spot on the breast pocket of his light gray jacket. He looks the way I feel, like someone stabbed him in the heart with a tiny paring knife. Every time the door swings open, my heart skips a beat. I’m still hoping to see Tim walk in, carrying his canvas briefcase, ready to reclaim his trial.
The gallery fills with spectators, family members, the media, and gangsters—minus Darrius. Everyone assumes their place in the pews. Sal escorts Blum and me into Judge Volpe’s chambers, where he is seated behind his desk, Dotty at his side.
“We have a number of issues to resolve.” He gestures for us to sit. “Your client has done himself a great disservice. The entire county is afraid of him, including the panel. Juror number nine has decided not to join us today.”
“Move for a mistrial,” Blum says.
“You’re going to have to find a new theme song,” Judge Volpe says.
“Has anyone been able to make contact with the juror?” I say.
“Sal called her house, and she refused to get on the phone. Her daughter said she’s sick and faxed over a so-called doctor’s note.”
Judge Volpe shows us a copy of a handwritten note, declaring that juror number nine is suffering from “a cute” anxiety attack. Get in line, sister.
“I think she means an acute attack,” Blum says.
“We can all agree that the note is a forgery,” Judge Volpe says.
I don’t want a juror who doesn’t want me. “I suggest that we excuse her. We have alternates.”
“That’s what I intend to do,” Judge Volpe says. “Next, I want to give you both an opportunity to state your position on how to proceed in light of Mr. Jones’s flight from the hospital yesterday and his intentional absence from court today.”
“The Fifth, Sixth, and Fourteenth Amendments to the United States Constitution require that my client be present in court and that he be given an opportunity to confront his accusers,” Blum says.
“He certainly exercised that right yesterday,” I say. “He’s given the confrontation clause a whole new dimension.”
Blum ignores the comment. “The Supreme Court has consistently held that the defendant’s right to be present at trial is one of the most basic and fundamental of rights of all.”
“The right is not absolute.” I try to sound more lawyerly, less emotional. “There are exceptions, particularly when the defendant knowingly, voluntarily, and violently absents himself from the proceedings, as he has done in this instance.”
“I agree with the prosecution,” Judge Volpe says.
“I request that you instruct the jury that Mr. Jones’s flight can be considered consciousness of guilt, evidence of his guilty mind,” I say, pushing the envelope.
“I’m not going to do that, at least not at this juncture.”
“How about we recess for a couple of days, and give him a chance to turn himself in?” Blum says.
“Not going to happen. This train is moving forward.”
When the trial resumes, the number of court officers in the room increases to ten. Uniformed and plainclothes police officers line the perimeter of the courtroom. The jurors seem reluctant as they file in and take their seats. Juror number one scans the room, taking careful inventory of the location of both emergency exits. Number three has dark circles under her eyes and looks like she’s been up all night. Number six has developed a twitch. They all look at the empty seat at the defense table, wh
ere Orlando had been sitting. Two jurors glance at each other, lifting their eyebrows.
“All rise,” Sal says.
“Be seated.” Judge Volpe takes the bench. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that the defendant is not present in court today. I am instructing you that, as a matter of law, you are not to speculate as to where he is or why he’s not here. We are going to proceed with the trial. Mr. Jones may at some point rejoin us. Ms. Endicott, you may call your next witness.”
Since Ezekiel has already ID’d Orlando as the shooter, there’s no longer any reason to drag things out. The rest of the day flies by. I zip through Denny’s doctor, Ezekiel’s nurse, and Jasmine’s mother. They’re brief but impactful, delivering a steady stream of suffering and heartache.
Just before we recess for the night, juror number three, a fortysomething woman with a bouffant hairdo, raises her hand. Dozens of metallic bracelets on her right arm clatter as they slide down her forearm and cluster at her elbow. Sal escorts her to the sidebar, and we follow.
“I can’t do this anymore, Judge,” she says. “My nerves are shot.”
“Unless you have a documented medical condition, I can’t excuse you from service.” Judge Volpe knows our numbers are dwindling.
She scrunches her face and returns to her seat.
The day moves quickly, a race to the finish line. When we break for the evening, I see Sandra in the back of the courtroom. She escorts me back to my office.
“Any sign of Orlando?” I say.
“Not yet,” she says. “The feds think he may have crossed state lines and fled to New Hampshire.”
“Of course the FBI is going to say that, whether or not they believe it. It gives them jurisdiction. They’re chomping at the bit for a legitimate reason to join the hunt.”
When I get to Bulfinch, I’m surprised to see Josh McNamara seated in the reception area, his hand cupped over his mouth, talking on the phone. He hangs up when I get off the elevator and follows me into my office.
“Did you find Orlando?” I say.
He shakes his head and turns to Sandra. “Can you excuse us? We need the room.”
“No” is all she says.
Boston police and state police dislike the feds even more than local prosecutors do.
“I’ll be okay,” I say. “Give us a minute.”
Begrudgingly, Sandra steps into the hallway, and Josh closes the door.
“I need you to come to the federal courthouse with me,” he says.
“What for?”
“Let’s talk about it when we get there.”
“I’m not in the mood for games today. I’m kind of in the middle of a high-stakes trial.” I take off my coat and hang it on the back of my door.
“This is something you’re going to want to know about.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure there’s more in it for you than there is for me.” I sit at my desk and log on to my computer, hoping he’ll take the hint and go away.
“I think you’ll find it mutually beneficial.”
Curious, I look up. “Fine. Let me tell Sandra. We’ll meet you there.”
“She can’t come—that’s nonnegotiable. Let her know that I’ll give you a ride home and see you safely inside your building. She can take over from there.”
Against my better judgment, I agree to the terms. Sandra puts up a little protest, but she gives in pretty quickly. She’s probably getting tired of babysitting and could use some alone time. There’s a nail salon on Newbury Street that she looks at longingly every time we drive by.
“I’m going to call Kevin,” I say when we get into Josh’s car, “let him know where I’m going.”
“No,” he says. “He doesn’t have clearance.”
I underwent the federal background check years ago, when I was assigned a joint state-federal investigation. I peed in a cup to prove I didn’t have drugs in my system. My neighbors were interviewed to be sure I wasn’t running a human trafficking ring out of my apartment. My passport was checked to verify that I wasn’t canoodling with foreign dictators. I filled out endless forms and I was interviewed by an agent who seemed to disbelieve everything I said.
Once the FBI determined that I wasn’t a threat to national security, I was sworn in as a special assistant United States attorney. I became part of a joint state-federal prosecution of a terror suspect who had been involved in a horrific bombing. Predictably, in the midst of a national tragedy, Max and the U.S. attorney were duking it out over jurisdiction.
“Kevin doesn’t have federal clearance,” I say, “but that’s not why you want to keep him out of the conversation. You’re using national security as a pretense to get me alone. What’s going on?”
He looks at me and grins. “You’ll see.”
The office buildings in the Financial District are dark and the area is deserted. When we approach the Moakley Courthouse, we drive around to the side of the building. Josh uses his pass to open the garage door and drives down the ramp into the parking lot beneath the building.
Everything about the federal justice system appears newer and shinier than ours. Josh’s car is a black SUV, like Kevin’s, but it’s a later model with hands-free navigation and bulletproof glass. The new federal courthouse is in the fashionable Seaport District, near the Institute of Contemporary Art. Inside, the building is clean and airy, with sweeping views of the harbor and art lining the walls. Federal judges have cushier assignments and shorter days. Federal prosecutors have grander offices and bigger paychecks. And federal defendants who have been convicted of murder can be sentenced to death by lethal injection.
The courthouse is closed for business. Josh shows his badge to a marshal, who is seated at the front door, holding the Herald, working on a sudoku puzzle. We take an elevator to a floor I’ve never visited, and are buzzed in by someone I can’t see. We enter a secure area with closed-circuit cameras everywhere.
As we pass through another security station, Josh nods at a marshal, who leads us into the lockup area where the prisoners are held. There is a long, narrow line of empty holding cells.
Josh stops in front of a door that has a small window. He looks at me, tilts his head, and shifts his eyes, indicating that I should look inside the room. I step in front of the window and see a black man in an orange prison jumpsuit handcuffed to a metal bar on the wall. He is hunched over, head down, arms covering his face.
“Who is it?” I say.
Josh raps his knuckles on the window, causing the man to stir. He lifts his head and looks up at us. I wasn’t sure who to expect, but it definitely wasn’t Melvin Jones.
Chapter Forty
Josh and I take seats in the oxblood leather chairs across the table from Melvin. There’s no need for introductions. Josh pulls a laminated Miranda card from a compartment in his badge and reads from it, out loud.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”
Melvin Jones is a savvy guy with a boatload of resources. He should know it’s in his best interest to hit the pause button and call a lawyer. We may be in a rush to speak with him, but that’s not his problem. He should be worried that he might incriminate himself. Anyone who has read the news or watched an episode of Law & Order knows that what happens post-Miranda rarely turns out well for the guy on the hot seat. It couldn’t be more obvious that we’re not here to help. There may as well be a bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, shining in his face, blinding him.
“Do you wish to waive these rights and speak with us?” Josh says.
“Sure.” Melvin starts to scratch his head, but the cuffs stop him short. “What do you want to know?”
“First you have to sign the waiver.”
Josh uncuffs him and hands him a pen. Melvin scans the paper briefly an
d signs on the dotted line.
“I’d be more comfortable if we recorded the conversation,” I say.
Josh ignores me and there’s nothing I can do about it. Local prosecutors have the ultimate authority over local homicide investigations but Melvin is in federal custody. I could get up and leave but decide to stay. Nothing illegal is going on, at least not yet.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Josh says.
“You tell me.” Melvin is finally showing some brains. “Why am I here?”
“Where were you yesterday?”
“I was at the trial—she knows that,” he says, acknowledging my presence for the first time.
I nod but remain neutral. I don’t want Melvin to think I’m here to support his cause.
“I can confirm that you were at the courthouse,” I say.
“What about after? Did you visit your son in the hospital?” Josh says.
“No.”
Josh opens a folder, takes out a photograph, and slides it across the table. It’s time-stamped, dated yesterday at 1:00 P.M., and it shows a silver Lexus in what looks like a parking garage. Next he displays another picture, a close-up of a Massachusetts license plate.
“Careful not to walk yourself into an obstruction charge. Lying to a federal official is a crime,” Josh says.
“You got me—that’s my car. I’m guilty of driving a Lexus.”
“We pulled that off the security video in the Mass General parking garage yesterday afternoon. Do you want to revise your response?”
Josh just revealed that FBI agents have been surreptitiously following Melvin. I wonder who else they’ve been tailing.
“You asked me if I visited my son. I tried to visit him, but they wouldn’t let me.”
Melvin is cagier than I would have expected.
“Who did you talk to at the hospital?” Josh says.
He looks at the ceiling, pretending to rack his brain. “I don’t recall talking to anyone.”
Josh takes out another photograph that shows Melvin standing in the lobby of the hospital, talking to a woman who is wearing scrubs.
“Who is she?”
“Rosalee, my wife’s cousin. She’s a nurse at the hospital.” Caught in a lie, Melvin doesn’t miss a beat. “I said hello to Rosie. That’s a crime now?”
Mission Hill Page 17
