The needle in the haystack was this note, scribbled by a Detective John Rivers the day after the Trudell shooting:
Per JV [Julio Vega?] V [victim, i.e. Trudell] upset, ‘not right,’ consulted FB [Franny Boyle]. JV unsure re. Nature of problem?
Time to talk to Franny Boyle again.
As Kelly and I drove to Government Center, where the SIU office – Boyle’s office – was located, it occurred to me that I had nearly forgotten the morning’s other revelation. ‘I didn’t know you were friends with the Commissioner,’ I said.
He gave me a skeptical glance.
‘No, really. I’m impressed.’
‘Ben Truman, don’t be daft. I wouldn’t know the Commissioner if he stood up in my soup. That was Zach Boyages from Admin.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Oh.’
46
Franny Boyle saw me at the door of his office and tried to manufacture a little of his old muscular presence. He pressed his head down into that thick, bullfrog neck and tightened his pecs. ‘What’s going on, Opie? You look real serious.’ But Franny’s act was not convincing anymore. For all his puffing, he seemed to be shrinking before my eyes. He was seated behind an enormous oak desk, an aircraft carrier of a desk, and its size diminished him further.
‘Franny, we need to talk.’
‘Oh man, this is serious. Nothing good ever comes after “we have to talk.” Last time someone told me “we have to talk,” I wound up divorced.’ Franny gave me a wiseguy smirk. It was an invitation to smirk along with him, which I declined.
I closed the door behind me.
‘Where’s the old man? Kelly?’
‘He’s outside. I thought we’d just talk, you and me.’
‘You gonna read me my rights?’
‘You need to hear them, Franny?’
He pursed his lips, disappointed he could not jolly me out of my solemn tone. ‘Well, sit down at least.’ He pointed to a chair that was covered with files. ‘Just throw that shit on the floor.’
‘That’s alright, Franny. I’m good here.’
Seated in his desk chair, he laced his hands on top of his bald head, flaunting two crescent moons in his armpits.
‘Franny, I’m not going to bullshit you. Kelly and I just came from the Records Room at Berkeley Street. We were looking through the Trudell file. We know Artie Trudell came to you with some kind of problem.’
‘Lots of cops used to come to me with problems. I was the only lawyer a lot of them knew – personally knew, I mean. People give lawyers too much credit. They figure we can answer questions about any kind of problem. I’ve had cops come to me with questions about divorces, real-estate closings—’
‘Franny, this wasn’t about a real-estate closing.’
‘No? How do you know?’
‘Wild guess.’
‘So what do you think it was about, hotshot?’
‘Frank Fasulo.’
Franny smiled. ‘Frank Fasulo?’
‘That’s right.’
A poker player who reveals the value of his hand with a gesture has what is called a tell. Franny Boyle, I could see, had a tell: to mask his concern, he smiled too quickly and too much.
‘Where’d you come up with Frank Fasulo?’ Franny said.
‘I got a tip.’
‘You got a tip? From who?’
I thought about naming Braxton. I had promised Franny I would not bullshit him. But then, I’d made other promises too.
‘Let’s say I got it from Raul.’
‘No, really. Who?’
‘I can’t tell you that, Franny.’
‘Jesus, you certainly learn fast. Who the hell are you getting tips from? Not Gittens, I know that.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Gittens usually plays it close, and he doesn’t know you well enough. No, my guess is it must be Ms Kelly. I hear you and Princess Caroline are getting . . . close.’
He studied me, looking for a tell of my own.
‘Franny, before he died, Artie Trudell came to you with a problem. We know he did because he told Julio Vega. Vega said he was upset, he “wasn’t right.” I’m asking you: What was Trudell so worried about?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know meaning you don’t remember? Or you don’t know meaning it didn’t happen?’
‘I don’t know meaning I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Franny, do you want a lawyer?’
‘I am a lawyer.’
‘Then cut the shit and answer me! What was Artie Trudell so afraid of?’
‘I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and maybe I don’t like what you’re suggesting—’
‘Sit down, Franny’
‘This is my office.’
I knocked him once in the shoulder then again, hard, in the chest. He fell into the desk chair with a clatter. He pushed himself back up, and I knocked him down again.
Kelly opened the door. He glanced at me standing over Boyle, who was sprawled awkwardly in his chair. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I thought there might be a problem.’ He disappeared again.
‘You don’t like what I’m suggesting, Franny? Let me fill in the blanks so you know exactly what I’m suggesting. I don’t think Artie Trudell came to you for a real-estate closing because I don’t think you know shit from pound cake about real-estate closings. I think he came to you because you’re a DA, and the only reason to go to a DA is to report a crime.’
‘What crime?’
‘I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out.’
‘Yeah? How are you going to do that?’
‘For starters, I’m going to talk to Julio Vega. Whatever Trudell knew, Vega knew. They were partners, remember?’
‘Vega’s a wing nut. The whole town knows it.’
‘At least he’s not crooked.’
This brought a glare. ‘Kid, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Maybe. But I know Trudell had information about Frank Fasulo and that cop who got killed at the Kilmarnock, and about the red-door cocaine and Raul. Trudell had all this information and he brought it to you because he thought you’d do something about it. He trusted you; he thought you’d do your job. But you didn’t do your job, at least not fast enough, and Trudell got killed. And I think Danziger figured it all out.’
Boyle smiled. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I think. And I think when it all comes out, everybody’s going to know the whole thing wasn’t Vega’s fault.’
He smiled and smiled.
The door opened again. This time it was Gittens. He took in the scene – which at the moment had me jabbing my index finger toward Boyle’s nose – and his eyebrows rose as if it were all a mild but not unpleasant surprise.
‘Everything alright in here?’
‘Yeah. Franny and I were just talking.’
Gittens studied us, then said, ‘Lowery wants to see you, Ben.’
47
‘You probably think there’s some grave injustice going on here.’
‘I don’t know exactly what to think, Mr Lowery’
‘That’s a politic answer. Are you being politic with me, Chief Truman?’ Lowery was standing at the window with his back to Kelly and me. But with this question he twisted to face me, coiling at the waist as if his handmade shoes were nailed to the floor. ‘Or are you being honest?’
‘Honest, sir.’
‘I’m not sure I believe you. I have a sneaking suspicion you know more than you’re saying.’
Lowery returned his attention to the window. Before him was the downtown skyline with City Hall in the foreground and a wall of office towers behind it. The view from the District Attorney’s office was fine, with three TVs to keep an eye on things. It occurred to me that Lyndon Johnson famously watched three TVs at once. Maybe Lowery was aware of that.
‘The rube
is running a con on the city slickers,’ Lowery ruminated. ‘Well, it serves us right, I suppose, after what we put you through.’ He sighed. ‘Chief Truman, I want you to understand my position.’
‘You don’t owe me any explanations, Mr Lowery.’
‘You’re right – I don’t owe you anything. It’s not about owing. It’s about responsibility, Chief Truman. You were in the archives this morning fishing around in the Trudell file.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I presume you think there’s some connection to Danziger’s murder.’
‘There might be.’
‘There might be. I see. You don’t think Braxton did it?’
‘I’m not 100-percent certain, no.’
‘Did you expect to be 100-percent certain?’
‘Ideally’
He thought it over. ‘Ben, I’m an old trial lawyer, and at the end of every trial, do you know what the judge tells the jury? He tells them they must find the defendant guilty “beyond a reasonable doubt.” Think about that, “beyond a reasonable doubt.” Not beyond all doubt; beyond a reasonable doubt. See, there is never 100-percent certainty. Doubt is built into the system. It is a wonderful system but it is administered by humans, so there will always be doubt and error. We have to accept that. We have no choice. None of us has a monopoly on the truth, none of us has a window to the past. We look at the evidence, we make our best guess, and we pray we’ve done the right thing. It’s an awesome responsibility, Ben.’
‘It is, sir.’
‘We pick the man we’re going to accuse, and then it doesn’t matter if we’re 100-percent sure or only 51-percent sure. Once we choose our man, once we choose our version of the case, that becomes our gospel, that becomes the one true faith.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I glanced at Kelly, who was seated in the leather chair beside my own. He stared up at the ceiling as if balancing an object on his nose. A little wisenheimer smirk played around his mouth. The District Attorney might have been droning on about the Treaty of Ghent or the reproductive habits of Galápagos tortoises, for all Kelly cared.
‘You have some doubts that Harold Braxton is guilty, Chief Truman?’
‘I do.’
‘Let them go.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Let them go. Braxton is the one.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know because I’ve been doing this a long time. There’s enough evidence here to convict Braxton three times over for killing Bobby Danziger. Hell, I’ve won cases that weren’t half as strong. You don’t need the Trudell case. Just let it go. Believe me, it’s a cleaner case without going back and dredging up a ten-year-old case that has nothing to do with this. It’s cleaner for the jury and it’s better for this city.’ The District Attorney turned to face me, to gauge my reaction. ‘What we do here has a political dimension, Ben. Surely you understand that. Right now the races in this city get along beautifully. Crime is down across the board, the police are respected, African-American communities are doing better than they ever have. Meanwhile in other cities, New York, L.A., the police are distrusted – no, they’re hated. It’s a political decision, Ben, and I mean that in the best, noblest sense.
‘Now, when I present my findings – and even if the case is prosecuted in Maine, I’m going to have to tell the people of this city something – I’m going to tell the public just what the evidence shows: that this was Braxton and no one else. I’m not going to drag up the past.’
‘The past is always getting dragged up, sir.’
‘Ben, I’m asking you to forget the Trudell case. Leave it alone. Ten years ago, that case split the city in two. It hit every button: black defendant, white police victim. Now it’s just sitting there like a big vat of gasoline, Ben. For the sake of this city, don’t throw a match in the gasoline.’
John Kelly said, ‘I think we understand.’ He managed somehow to inject the faintest undertone of fuck you. He’d seen Andrew Lowerys come and go; this one would pass too. Kelly stood and said, ‘Let’s go, Ben.’
Lowery turned his back on us again to look out over the city. He shook his head. ‘It’s always just below the surface.’
Outside the courthouse an African-American kid played a makeshift set of drums. He sat on a milk crate with an array of plastic buckets in front of him plus a few metal objects (an ice tray, a cookie sheet) for cymbals. The beat was insistent, joyous. I could not help thinking it was more eloquent and more honest than anything Lowery had just told us – closer to the true heartbeat of the city.
Kelly and I found ourselves, inevitably, pacing to that beat.
‘What did you make of all that, Ben Truman?’
‘It was bullshit.’
‘Precisely You are my prize pupil. That was one-hundred-proof, high-octane bullshit. Now, why would Lowery not want us poking around the Trudell case?’
‘Because there’s something he wants kept quiet.’
‘I’d say that’s a very good theory. Perhaps it’s time we paid another visit to Julio Vega. He knows more than he’s given us.’
We did not know it, but it was already too late. Julio Vega was dead.
48
Vega was hanging in the kitchen of his tiny house. He had used an electrical extension cord which he’d looped around a ceiling light fixture. A slipknot behind the ear forced the head to slump forward. In front, the cord disappeared into the fatty folds of his neck. The chair he had stepped off lay on its side.
Kelly touched the back of his own hand to Vega’s hand. That slight contact caused the body to twist a bit before resettling under the noose. ‘Cold,’ he said.
Kelly called it in. The machinery had to be started. BPD Homicide and a State Police team would be here soon. Even suicides are considered ‘unnatural deaths’ and must be examined.
Julio Vega’s death could not have been more natural, though. It was the logical conclusion to a decade of shame and recrimination and exile. It was the only way for Vega to repay his debt. It was the only way, too, for Vega to escape a second go-round with the Trudell case. A new round of questions to account for the fresh victim: How might the raid on the red-door crackhouse have led to Bob Danziger’s death ten years later? Even Vega’s body suggested the naturalness of his suicide. Unlike the rifle-blasted, gas-swollen remains of Danziger and Ratleff, Vega’s body might plausibly have been sleeping. His bowed head, the chin on his collarbone, eyelids slightly ajar, fingers curled at his sides, even the belly button that winked out from under his sweatshirt – every detail suggested the humanity of Vega’s corpse. Whatever the police may have called it, this was anything but an ‘unnatural death.’ Death naturalized Julio Vega.
But dead bodies must be inspected like so many sausages, and so the processors came: uniform cops, then detectives, photographers, forensics people. A black van from the Medical Examiner’s office waited to take the corpse. Cops who had known Vega showed up too, including Martin Gittens. ‘I figured it would come to this someday,’ Gittens sighed. ‘It was cruel, what they did to Julio.’
Gittens was obviously in pain. In the mid 1980s, Vega and Trudell had been his protégés. He’d fed them information, lent them his street-corner credibility, helped them get established. For a long time Gittens stood apart from everyone, silent. I thought about approaching him but decided against it. My relationship with Gittens was tenuous enough already.
Kelly pulled one of the detectives aside and asked what they were finding out.
‘It’s a suicide,’ the guy said. ‘We’re just dotting the is.’
In the middle of all this hung the body. It could not be cut down until it had been photographed, a job that was delayed by the fact that Crime Scene Services was needed in several places that morning.
When the activity around the body had ebbed, Kelly and I stood under it and stared up. I tried to follow Kelly’s eyes, to see what so fascinated him. Up close, Vega reminded me of a paratrooper caught in tree branches.
‘Look at the
ligature marks, Ben Truman.’
Two stripes scored the neck where the cord had dug into the soft skin. The larger of the two ran from ear to ear across the crease of the throat, above the Adam’s apple. The cord was embedded in this mark, and above the cord was a smudge of lividity, the rosy blush of settling blood trapped by the cord’s pressure. Above this mark was a second, smaller line. Here the cord had actually cut the skin in places and blood had beaded and dried along its track. There was lividity around this mark too, though it was not as distinct.
I made an uncertain grunt, hm.
Kelly looked down at me with a disapproving expression. ‘Do you notice anything unusual about that?’ He sounded annoyed at having to point out something so obvious, as if he were talking to an obtuse child.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen anyone who hung himself.’
‘Well I’ve seen people who hung themselves. But I’ve never seen anyone who did it twice.’
We waited around in the anemic atmosphere of that house to see Vega cut down and laid on a gurney. They zipped him up with the electrical cord still wound around his neck like a scarf. Entrenched as it was, the cord could not be removed without damaging the skin.
Caroline arrived. She handed me a pink phone-message slip with a number but no name.
‘Why didn’t you write down the name? I don’t know this number.’
‘Because,’ Caroline informed me, ‘it’s Max Beck.’
49
The mallards in the Public Garden were agitated. From the little island in the middle of the lagoon where they were gathered came a cacophony of honking. The males in particular, with their shimmery green necks, were on edge. They ran at one another, braying and slapping the water.
Max Beck was watching them. He sat on a bench under a sagging willow, absently munching on a sandwich. The paper wrapper from the sandwich was tucked under his thigh to prevent it from blowing away. Beck seemed to have shucked his Defender of the Despised persona, with its strutting righteousness and combativeness, just laid it down on the bench beside him like a coat. Here by the duck pond, he became ordinary – an office worker creeping toward middle age, overweight, curly salt-and-pepper hair riffling in the wind.
Mission Flats Page 32
