“It’s a crime if you’re conspiring to aid and abet in the escape of a prisoner.”
As much as I want to grab paper and a pen from my tote and jot down notes, to get an accurate record of this interview, I don’t want to interrupt the flow. I sit still and listen to Melvin inculpate himself.
“Your only evidence against me is a picture of my car in a public parking lot, and two people standing next to each other in a public building. I didn’t go to law school, but I can tell the difference between a conspiracy and a conversation.”
Josh stands and reaches across the table as though he’s going to smack Melvin in the face. Melvin looks at him but doesn’t flinch.
“Don’t bullshit me, Melvin. Who else was involved in helping Orlando escape?”
Melvin tries to stand, but his feet are shackled. “You should have been able to control him better.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. Melvin has revealed that the feds were working with Orlando.
“What are you talking about?” I say, hoping to explore the subject.
“Get a clue, lady. What do you think?” Melvin says.
Josh cuts us off and zeroes in on his reason for the meeting. “Did Max Lombardo help you arrange Orlando’s escape?” he says.
“I want to talk to a lawyer,” Melvin says.
Melvin has uttered the magic word: lawyer. He’s invoked his right to counsel, which means that I have to leave. I’d rather stay and listen, but I can’t be a party to a Miranda violation. I stand and push in my chair. Josh doesn’t move a muscle.
Alone in the hallway, I can hear bits of their conversation as they go back and forth. Melvin: “Check … facts … don’t try to pin this … me.” Josh: “I’m … playing … you’ll … federal time.”
After a few minutes, Josh leaves the room and joins me in the hallway. Marshals come and take Melvin back to the lockup.
“I’ve charged him with obstruction,” Josh says.
Obstruction of justice is an all-encompassing offense, used when officers are frustrated because they can’t get someone on a substantive charge. Like Martha Stewart or Barry Bonds.
“What is the extent of your relationship with the Jones family?” I say.
He looks around to make sure no one is in the area and speaks quietly. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. It seems like you have a history with both Orlando and Melvin.”
“Keep your voice down,” he says. “Melvin has been on our radar for a while.”
Josh sees my surprise and starts to walk away, down the hallway. I follow close behind.
“Why have you been looking at Melvin?”
He leads me into an office and closes the door. We stand face-to-face.
“This is about the Big Dig,” he says.
“But the investigation was closed out last year,” I say.
“Max shut down the local part of the case. The federal investigation is still open.”
“If Tim was working as your informant, and you were trying to squeeze Melvin for information, then who was the ultimate target?”
“Your boss.”
He stops, tries to read my reaction. At this point, I don’t want to acknowledge what I’m feeling—shock and skepticism.
“You think that Max was on the take?”
“Melvin was slated to testify in the grand jury.”
“What was he going to say?”
Josh shrugs. “He refused to give a proffer. He said that he’d only talk directly to the grand jurors. We think he was going to testify that he paid off Max.”
I try to picture Max and Melvin in cahoots, meeting up in the back booth of a bar, drinking and exchanging money.
“Melvin bribed Max?”
“Yes—and so did a lot of others.”
This is about more than the Big Dig. “Who else?”
“Dozens of people who wanted to get their cases dismissed. Tommy Glenn and Paul Priestly, to name two.”
I remember both cases. The first was a nasty domestic. The charges were dropped, the defendant was released from jail, and he went home and almost killed his girlfriend—broke her jaw and took out one of her eyes. The other was a drunk-driving case that was broomed. The next day the guy got behind the wheel of a Subaru and plowed over a troop of Cub Scouts in a crosswalk.
“How many were there?”
“A lot. Some people paid to avoid prosecution, others wanted to get their kids jobs. He was running a full-service operation.”
I’m not sure what to believe. The FBI’s public corruption unit isn’t exactly batting a thousand, the poorly investigated and prosecuted case against Senator Ted Stevens being one of the most glaring examples.
“You feds get it wrong all the time.”
“Not me, not this time.”
Josh and I take the elevator down to the garage. He drives through Chinatown, past Kneeland Seafood, where Tim and I used to go after hours for peking duck and “cold tea,” which was code for beer. A couple stumbles out of the restaurant, laughing, holding on to each other. I choke back the memory of late-night dinners with Tim. The flirting and the romance leading up to lust and passion. We drifted apart sexually but never emotionally and never for long, always picking up where we left off. I thought we’d end up with each other, up until the night he died.
“What do you want from me?” I say.
“You asked if you could step in where Tim left off. I want to take you up on your offer.”
“You’re asking me to help you take down my boss?”
He nods. “That’s what Tim was doing.”
“What if I don’t believe he’s dirty?”
“Then you can help prove his innocence.”
“I’ve known Max a long time—he’s all about power. He’s not in it for money.”
“Maybe he didn’t start out that way. They never do. But once they get in office, they change. I’ve seen it time and time again. They think they’re invincible and entitled, a lethal combination.”
“Do you think Max had something to do with Tim’s murder?”
“I hope not.”
“What exactly are you asking me to do?”
Josh pulls up in front of my apartment building, and turns off the headlights and cuts the engine.
“I want you to wear a wire. If Max hasn’t done anything wrong, then you can walk away and no one has to know. If he’s guilty, then he has to be held accountable.”
Tim may have been an informant against Max, but I’m not ready to turn on him.
“Can it wait until I’m done with my trial?”
“We think Max has been talking to Melvin about your case, and there’s a good chance that they tried to help Orlando escape. We want you to be prepared, in case he approaches you, asks you about it, or tells you to do something.”
Josh takes out a large circle pin adorned with red stones posing as rubies and hands it to me.
I inspect the cheap-looking jewelry. “This is the listening device?”
“It’s both audio and video. I need you to stick it on your lapel whenever you meet with him.”
I hold the pin up so it catches a glint of light from the street. No one will ever believe I’d wear something this tacky. They’ll make me in a second.
“Look, I don’t think I can do this. I’ve known Max for a decade. He’s got issues, but he’s always been a loyal friend and a good boss.”
“Do him a solid—prove his innocence.”
He grabs a file from the backseat and shows me the contents. It’s a one-party consent form. After I read it, he hands me a pen. I’ve asked people to sign all sorts of consent forms over the years. I’ve persuaded them to allow us to search their cars, their apartments, their body cavities. Now it’s my turn to consent—to being a rat against my boss. I hope that Max will prove me right. I don’t believe he did what Josh is alleging, but if I’m wrong, he’s going to have to face the music.
My hand shakes as I sign the form. “Now what?�
� I say.
“I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, do your job, go on with your trial. Keep up your normal routine.”
“I don’t have a normal routine.”
“Don’t let anyone know what’s going on.”
I unlock the car door. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to advertise that I’m spying on my boss.”
Once inside the lobby of my building, I examine the faux-ruby recorder and then slip it in my pocket. I’ll do what Josh is asking, I don’t really have a choice. I’ll just have to hope for the best. I gave my word that I won’t tell anyone that Max is a target—and I won’t. But I never promised to stay quiet about Melvin. Walking towards the elevator, I take out my phone and call Carl Ostroff.
Chapter Forty-one
It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m down to my last witness. My trials always start with the most emotionally compelling witnesses and end with the most disturbing visuals. In this case, the medical examiner will give me a chance to display Jasmine Reed’s autopsy photos. I want the jurors to spend their weekend with images of Jasmine sprawled out on that cold slab.
“The Commonwealth calls Dr. Lisa Frongello,” I say.
While Sal goes into the hallway to summons the ME, I turn to Winnie and nod. She knows that this is the signal that it’s time to escort Jackie, Tiffany, and Adele out of the courtroom. I want to shield them from what is about to happen.
As soon as they’re gone, I rip the brown paper wrapping from a twenty-four-by-thirty-six photograph that is mounted onto a foam board. I position the picture on a rickety wooden easel. It’s horrific. A full-body shot of Jasmine, eyes open, a piece of her head missing, a portion of her brain exposed. The Y-shaped incision in her naked torso is partially open. Half of the jurors look at the floor, repulsed, and the rest stare at the photo, riveted.
“Objection,” Blum says.
“Overruled,” Judge Volpe says. “We’ve gone over this in our motions in limine. You know my position.”
After Dr. Frongello is sworn in and introduced, I take out my laser pointer, but before I get a chance to ask my first question, I hear a loud gagging sound coming from the front row of the jury box. Juror number three drops her head, so all I can see is the top of her bouffant hairdo. Then she takes out her pink patent leather purse, unzips it, and vomits. At least she was paying attention.
She looks up and glares at me. “I told you all that this was more than I could take.”
Judge Volpe calls a recess, and the courtroom empties, giving maintenance time to come in to spray air freshener. Luckily, juror number three had good aim, and there’s not a lot to clean up. When she comes out of the bathroom, she joins us at sidebar. Judge Volpe thanks her for her service and promptly dismisses her. We’re running low on bodies. There’s only two alternates remaining, but the trial is winding down, so I think we’ll be okay.
Court reconvenes, and Dr. Frongello resumes her testimony. I proceed as though nothing out of the ordinary just transpired, the only notable differences being now there are two vacant seats in the jury box and the autopsy photograph is gone.
“Dr. Frongello, did you conduct Jasmine Reed’s autopsy?”
“I did.”
“What did you determine to be the cause of death?”
“She died of a gunshot wound to the head.”
I don’t want to risk another medical incident, so I won’t show the rest of the pictures.
“Were there any defensive wounds?”
“No.”
“Did you test her system for drugs or alcohol?”
“I did a toxicology screening, yes.”
“And what were your findings?”
“There was no evidence of drugs or alcohol.”
“Thank you. That’s all I have.”
I return to the prosecutor’s table.
“Cross-examination, Mr. Blum?” Judge Volpe says.
“One question.” Blum doesn’t even bother to stand. “Did you witness the murder of Jasmine Reed?”
“No, I did not.”
At least Blum is consistent.
“Anything else, Ms. Endicott?” Judge Volpe says.
“No.” I take a breath and turn to face the jurors, looking each one in the eyes. “The Commonwealth rests.”
“This is a good time to break,” Judge Volpe says, getting off the bench.
When I head toward the gallery, I notice a distinguished older man in the pews. He’s sandwiched between a North Street Posse member and Harold, sitting ramrod straight, clutching his leather briefcase to his chest, as though he’s worried someone might steal it. He’s wearing a navy suit and the burgundy Charvet tie I gave him last year, on Father’s Day.
“You bear a striking resemblance to one another,” Harold says.
“Daddy, this is Harold.”
Harold extends his hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
My father accepts the handshake and nods but doesn’t speak. I lead him into the hallway.
“You made your juror regurgitate her lunch,” he says. “I’m not a legal scholar, but I would imagine that is not a positive development.”
“It wasn’t that big a deal.”
“Maybe not in your world, but most people would find it disturbing.”
I want to cut this off before goes any further and distracts me from the trial.
“Why are you here, Daddy?”
“I saw that you got banged up pretty badly.” He faces me and puts his hands on my shoulders as though he’s going to shake some sense into me. “We’re all worried about you, muffin.”
I shrug him off. “I’m fine.”
“You might want to have your head examined,” he says, without apparent irony.
“Thanks for coming to see me, but you can save the speech. I’m not quitting my job. We can talk about this another time, but right now, I have to prepare my jury instructions and closing argument.”
“I can’t watch my daughter being assaulted by a murderer on MSNBC.”
My father was watching MSNBC? Talk about burying the headline. Once, in a moment of weakness, and after a few gin and tonics, he admitted to me that he’d voted for Obama over McCain. He confessed that he thought it would be good for the country, making me swear never to tell my mother or my brother. It became our secret and we never spoke of it again.
“You have to leave this job,” he says. “I’m not going to support it any longer.”
“You’ve never supported it.”
“I mean literally, financially.”
“You’re cutting me off?”
“You’re going to have to make a choice, your job or your lifestyle. You won’t be able to afford both.”
I take a step back and look at him. “You’re serious?”
“I believe it’s called tough love.”
We both hear the clattering of chains and a man’s voice, muttering and swearing. Motherfucker. Fuck you. Asshole. Orlando, shackled and cuffed, is surrounded by guards. He’s sporting a black eye and a cut on his forehead. His leg-irons clink as he shuffles toward me.
“There she is, that bitch lawyer who’s persecuting me!” Orlando yells, his voice echoing up and down the hallway so my father can hear every word twice.
Orlando passes by, close enough to wrap his chains around my neck and strangle me. My father is stunned. So am I.
“I’ll leave you to your friends.” He turns and walks away. “Let me know when you change your mind.”
I’m relieved when my father gets on the elevator and the doors close. I’ll figure out the money thing later.
Kevin rounds the corner. “You might want to check your phone every now and then,” he says.
“I’ve been kind of busy. Where did they find him?”
“He broke into someone’s beach house in Hull.”
“You got a tip?”
“Believe it or not, the feds found him.”
Sal calls me back into the courtroom, and Blum comes up a couple of minutes later. When Judge Volpe
exits his chambers and takes the bench, Sal remains by his side.
“You want us to uncuff him?” Sal says.
“No,” Judge Volpe says. “Mr. Jones, I am removing your default. You will continue to be held without bail. Are you going to be able to comport yourself in a respectful manner during the remainder of this trial?”
“Mr. Jones informs me that he will behave,” Blum says.
“I want to hear it from you directly, Mr. Jones.”
“I’m sorry, Judge.” Orlando sounds almost like he means it. “I apologize for saying this, but I think I’m a scapegoat. I didn’t do any of those things they’re accusing me of. I didn’t know what else to do but run.”
“That’s what the jury is here to decide. You’re going to have to control yourself. We’ll proceed with the trial on Monday. Do you plan to present any evidence, Mr. Blum?”
“Yes, we have an alibi witness.”
This is a total blind side.
“Objection! I haven’t been given notice of alibi. I’m not prepared to cross-examine someone.”
“I informed Mr. Mooney weeks ago,” Blum says.
“There’s nothing in the file, no letter, no discovery notice.”
“I told him in person. He said there was no need to put it in writing.”
Tim wasn’t a stickler for documentation, and unlike most of the defense attorneys I deal with, Blum isn’t a bald-faced liar. He exaggerates every now and then, but who doesn’t? It’s possible that Blum told Tim about the alibi, and if he did, that knowledge is imputed to me. I’m screwed.
“I’m going to have to take you at your word, Counselor,” Judge Volpe says. “I can’t deny Mr. Jones an opportunity to present his defense. The Appeals Court would reverse me in a second, and we’d be back here in a year, relitigating this case, which is the last thing any of us wants.”
“Agreed,” I say.
“You have until Monday to prepare, Ms. Endicott. Have a pleasant weekend.”
Chapter Forty-two
Carl Ostroff stops me on the plaza as I exit the courthouse for the night. I ask Sandra to give us a minute, and she stands off to the side within eyesight but out of earshot.
Mission Hill Page 18
