by Rose Connors
Harry laughs out loud, sending a cloud of white vapor into the cold air ahead of us. “Simple? Are you serious, Marty? The guy’s been a politician his entire adult life. You think it’s going to be simple for him to keep his mouth shut?”
I walk ahead of Harry as the guard at the front booth presses a button that opens the prison’s enormous double doors, two slabs of black steel in the center of a redbrick mountain. “It better be,” I answer over my shoulder. “The guy’s front and center in a high-profile missing person case. And the young woman’s been gone four days now. He damn well better keep his mouth shut.”
The front desk is manned by two guards who would look ominous even without their shiny weapons. They greet us with silent nods and wait, knowing we’ll jump through the institutional hoops without instruction. We hand over our Massachusetts Bar cards to be checked against the list of warden-approved appointments. We empty our pockets of keys, paper clips, and coins. We turn in our coats, hats, and gloves. I surrender my Lady Smith as well and Harry pulls Derrick Holliston’s thick file from the old schoolbag. The file goes in with us; the bag stays here.
Once each of us is stripped to a single layer of clothes, we’re directed—one at a time—through the metal detector beside the desk. Neither of us sets if off, which comes as a great shock to everyone in the room. This particular machine usually shrieks at all of us—for no apparent reason. A third guard meets us on the other side of it, his expression wary. He looks like he’s about fifteen and his eyes say he’s already made up his mind about Harry and me. Our failure to set off the alarm renders us suspect.
We wait with the vigilant guard—our assigned escort, I presume—while the two at the front desk rummage through Holliston’s file. They seem to think we might have hidden something sinister amid our pretrial motions. A miniature hacksaw, perhaps, along with a diagram of the escape route voted most likely to succeed by the county’s cleverest guests. Minutes pass before they apparently conclude that the overstuffed accordion folder holds nothing of interest. They turn it over to the cautious one, who directs us toward the dingy corridor behind him with a toss of his crew-cut head.
Harry and I lead the way, our escort three paces behind with the file tucked under one arm. “Stop right there,” he orders soon after we pass the first door on our left. We do, knowing he allowed us to walk past our destination on purpose. It’s a device some of them use—mostly the new guys—to avoid ever turning their backs to their charges, no matter who their charges happen to be. His key is already in the lock when we turn to face him. He keeps his focus on us as he opens the door and steps aside. He hands the file to Harry when we approach and Harry enters the meeting room first. As I follow, the young guard assumes a sentinel’s pose in the hallway and gives me a gentlemanly nod.
Our client is already here. Derrick Holliston is seated at a small, banged-up card table and I’m initially surprised to see he’s free of restraints. I shouldn’t be, though. This eight-by-ten room is windowless—the air in it long past stale—and its solitary door locks automatically. The accused isn’t going anywhere.
Harry drops the heavy file onto the table and roots through his jacket pockets until he comes up with his glasses. “This is Marty Nickerson,” he says to Holliston as he puts them on. “She’ll sit second-chair at trial.”
Harry and I frequently second-chair for each other. Limited resources dictate that only one of us actively works each file, but when a trial rolls around, an extra set of eyes and ears can be critical. The second chair also takes a witness or two in most cases, giving lead counsel a much-needed breather. We’ve decided I’ll handle Tommy Fitzpatrick in this one. He’s Chatham’s Chief of Police. And I was an ADA long enough to establish a pretty good rapport with him.
Holliston stares at me for a moment, then turns his attention back to Harry. “Good,” the less-than-satisfied client says. “You need help.”
Harry looks over his glasses at Holliston and smirks, but otherwise lets the remark pass. He sits and starts unpacking the file without a word. I retrieve my own glasses from my jacket pocket and then claim the only remaining seat.
“First of all,” Harry says, opening a manila folder in the middle of the table, “let’s go over the Commonwealth’s offer again.”
“Let’s not,” Holliston says, mimicking Harry’s cadence. “Let’s tell the Commonwealth to stick its lousy offer where the sun don’t shine. I told you—I ain’t doin’ time. Not for this one.”
Harry leans back on two legs of his chair. “You are if you’re convicted,” he says evenly. “You’re doing endless time.”
“Well, now, that’s where you come in, ain’t it? You got a job to do, remember? You’re the guy whose job is to get me off.”
On the surface, Harry appears entirely unaffected by his client’s comments. But I know better. He’d like to deck this smart-ass.
“I’m also the guy who’s supposed to advise you,” he says, his words measured. “And I’m advising you to seriously consider pleading out.”
“Yeah? Well, you can stick your advice right up there with the offer.” Holliston stands, folds his arms against the chest of his orange jumpsuit, and presses his back against the wall. He’s a wiry man, five-ten or so, with a sketchy mustache and greasy brown hair that hangs below his collar. His pallid complexion is partially covered by a five o’clock shadow—yesterday’s and today’s, I’m guessing. “I told you a hundred times,” he says, jutting his chin out at Harry. “No deal. What’re you, deaf?”
Holliston reaches up to the low, suspended ceiling and dislodges one fiberglass square. He peers into the opening, presumably expecting to find the treasure he stashed up there the last time he was here.
“Did you lose something?” Harry asks.
Holliston glares at him like an impudent child. “No, I dint lose nothing,” he says. He goes back to examining the gap he created, appearing to be in no hurry to continue our discussion. “I was an electrician in a prior life,” he says. “I like wires.”
Harry laughs. “I’m surprised you had a job in your prior life,” he says. “That’s more than you can say this time around.”
Holliston glares at him again.
“What’s the offer?” I ask them both.
“What’s the difference?” Holliston demands.
“Humor me,” I tell him. “Generally speaking, I try to learn a fact or two about each case before trial begins. Crazy, I know.”
“Murder two,” Harry says. “Eligible for parole in fifteen. And he’ll get it if he keeps his hands clean and his mouth zipped.”
“You can’t not consider it,” I tell Holliston.
He turns toward me, his eyes wild, apparently infuriated by my audacity. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about it,” he says.
“You’re wrong there,” I tell him, meeting his angry eyes. “I know a few things. I know you’re looking at life if you get bagged for murder one, for instance. I know life means life, as in, until you draw your last breath behind bars. And I know this deal gets you out in your late thirties—still young enough to build a decent future. Only a complete fool would reject it out of hand.”
Holliston snorts and spreads his arms wide, as if he’s onstage and the house is sold out. “What’s with you people?” he asks. “First I get this guy”—he tosses his head toward Harry—“wantin’ to sell me down the river. And now you come in here tellin’ me I don’t need to have a life till fifteen years from now. What the hell kind of sorry lawyers are you? Ever hear of stickin’ up for your client, for Chrissake?”
“Advising you is part of our job,” Harry tries again.
“And you already done that part,” Holliston fires back. “I ain’t takin’ your advice. And I’m the boss here. So give it a rest. Get to the other part of your job. Tellin’ me how to tell them people what happened that night. I want it done right. I want everything crystal clear. And I don’t want nothin’ left out.”
Harry drums his fingers on the table and h
is eyes move to mine. He’s resigned. Holliston is correct; at this particular point in the process, he is the boss. He claims he acted only as necessary to preserve his own life. If the jury believes him, he’ll walk away a free man. And like it or not, we have a duty to try to make that happen.
Harry stops drumming and again leans back on the two rear legs of his chair, staring at Holliston. He cups his hands behind his head, fingers laced, elbows akimbo, and takes a deep breath. “Go ahead,” he says to our system-savvy client at last. “Tell us your tale.”
Chapter 4
My son is a freshman at Boston College. He finished first-semester finals on Friday and he’s home now for winter break. I’m surprised to see his pickup in the driveway of our Windmill Lane cottage, though, when Harry and I pull up at six o’clock. I thought Luke would be out with his buddies by now, cruising Main Street or shooting pool at the Piping Plover Pub.
Harry and I hang our damp coats on hooks inside the kitchen door before we wander into the living room. The woodstove is crackling and the TV is on—local news just beginning—but no one’s watching. Luke hustles down the stairs and Danny Boy, our twelve-year-old Irish setter, saunters behind, his tail wagging instantly at the sight of his buddy Harry. “Mom,” Luke says as his six-foot-three frame stoops in front of the mirror above the couch, “I’m really glad you’re here.”
This sentiment can mean only one thing: my son is broke.
“Could you float me some cash?” he asks, running one hand through the thin black locks he inherited from me. “I’ll pay you back when I’m working.”
“And when will that be?” I know the answer, of course. No time soon. Long after this loan and dozens of others have faded from memory.
He tugs at his chin, struggling to figure out the answer to my perplexing question. “Summer,” he says. “I’ll pay you back in the summer.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was serious. I find a twenty in my jacket pocket and hand it to him.
He winces.
“What?” I ask. “You need more?”
“Maybe another?” he says, his voice pleading.
“Another what?”
“Another twenty?” He squints when he says this, almost closing his eyes against his own request.
“You need forty bucks?”
“I have a date,” he says, “and I want to take her someplace decent.”
Harry pulls his tattered wallet from his back pants pocket and presses a second twenty into Luke’s palm. “I’ll contribute,” Harry says. “Young love is one of my favorite causes.”
I expect Luke to balk at the mention of love, but he doesn’t. “Hey, thanks,” he says instead, punching Harry on the arm. “I’m good for it. Honest.”
Harry flops down in the middle of the couch, props his feet on the coffee table, and spreads his arms out across the top cushions. Danny Boy hops up and sits beside him, then curls into a big ball and rests his graying head on Harry’s lap. They both watch Luke stoop again to double-check his hair in the mirror. “Who is she?” Harry laughs, scratching Danny Boy’s ears. “Who’s the lucky lass?”
“You won’t believe it,” Luke says, grabbing his parka from the closet under the stairs. “She’s the Senator’s daughter. And she’s great.”
I freeze. “Which senator?”
“Kendrick,” he answers, zipping his coat. “Abby Kendrick. I just met her a few days ago.”
“How’d that happen?” Senator Kendrick and his wife have only one child. And everyone in the Commonwealth knows she’s following her father’s footsteps through the hallowed halls of Harvard. She’s a sophomore this year.
Luke shrugs. “Her roommate is dating a guy in my dorm,” he says. “And they finished with finals an entire week before we did. A week and a day,” he adds, as if the extra day is what really frosts him. “They finished last Thursday.” He shakes his head. “Last Thursday,” he repeats, certain Harry and I would be sobbing by now if we’d heard him the first time.
“Anyway, they came over to visit the night they finished and a bunch of us went out for Thai to celebrate, I guess. Course, the girls were the only ones who had anything to celebrate then. They went home after dinner; we went back to the dorm to study for more crummy exams. But Abby and I ended up sitting next to each other at the Thai place, and we got to talking. She’s staying in town with her folks—they have a summer place on Old Harbor Road—through the holidays. So I asked if she’d like to grab a bite sometime and she said sure.” He turns to Harry. “Can you believe it? She said sure.”
Harry kicks his shoes off and loosens his tie. “Life is good,” he tells Danny Boy, “whenever she says sure.”
“Hey, look at that,” Luke says. “There she is.”
For a split second, I think Abby must have come to our door. Luke’s eyes don’t move in that direction, though. He’s staring at the TV. And there she is.
Senator Kendrick is on-screen, flanked by his wife and daughter. His lips are moving, but it’s not his words we hear. Instead, a talking head in the upper right corner tells us the Senator held a press conference outside his Chatham home at four o’clock today. He repeated the detailed descriptions we’ve been hearing on the news all day—of Michelle Forrester, her electric-blue BMW roadster, and the clothes she was wearing when she was last seen four days ago. He pleaded for anyone with information about her—no matter how insignificant it might seem—to come forward. He also gave out a newly established 800 number for his D.C. office. His staff, he said, would gladly accept calls from persons not willing to contact the police directly.
So much for my keep your mouth shut admonition. Harry’s right. My newest client isn’t very good at following directions.
Luke zips up his parka, then walks closer to the TV screen and points at the Senator’s daughter. “Is she great,” he says, turning back to face Harry and me, “or what?”
My son is right. Abby Kendrick is tall and lean—athletic looking—with dark red hair, an alabaster complexion, and finely carved features like her father’s. She’s perfectly poised in front of the cameras. And she’s stunning.
Harry lets out a low whistle as he gets up from the couch and pulls two more twenties from his wallet. “Take her someplace better than decent,” he says, handing the folded bills to Luke. “And tell her to order the lobster.”
Chapter 5
Tuesday, December 14
A grown woman who voluntarily refers to herself as “Honey” is suspect in my book. The Senator’s wife has a perfectly serviceable given name—Nell—but she prefers her nectar nickname instead. When she attends her husband’s public appearances—campaign stops, fund-raisers, and press conferences—she insists that the members of the media address her by her self-imposed moniker. And now, in her state-of-the-art, sun-drenched kitchen, she demands the same of me. “Please, dear,” she says each time I speak to her, “call me Honey.” The result, of course, is that I’ve stopped calling her anything at all.
This is the first time I’ve met Mrs. Kendrick and I’m not surprised to find her ill at ease, uncomfortable in her own skin. That’s exactly how she always seems on television, no matter what the occasion. It took ten minutes to convince her that I really do take my coffee black, that I’m not refusing her repeated offers of cream and sugar out of some misguided sense of propriety. At this rate, the quick chat I’d planned to have with her and her husband this morning will take the rest of the calendar year.
The spacious, all-white kitchen is on the landward side of the house. A rectangular wrought-iron table and six matching, cushioned chairs are situated in an alcove a few feet from glass sliders. The Senator and I are settled across from each other, coffee mugs in hand, my beat-up briefcase on the slate floor beside my chair. We’ve been here fifteen minutes now, waiting for Honey to join us.
She’s an attractive woman, but I suspect she’s high-maintenance as well. She’s lean like her husband and daughter but not as tall as either of them, with a winter tan and short
, salon-assisted amber hair. Honey-colored, I realize as I watch her from across the room. In tailored dark slacks, a powder blue cashmere sweater, and pumps, she looks like she thinks I came here this morning to take photos. It’s a good thing I didn’t; Honey seems constitutionally unable to stop moving. She flutters around the room, opening and closing drawers and cupboards; stacking and restacking newspapers and magazines on the counter; offering us coffee cake, fruit, and yogurt.
“Not for me,” I tell her a third time. Her husband says no again too, then stares through the sliders to the snow-covered yard and the neighboring bungalow. Mrs. Kendrick turns her back to us, roots through the supersize, stainless steel refrigerator, and delivers a fruit salad and three vanilla yogurts to the table anyway. “Honey,” the Senator says quietly, “please join us. Marty doesn’t have all day.”
He’s right about that. I’m supposed to meet Harry at the House of Correction at ten—an hour from now—and it’s a forty-minute drive from here. Today we’ll do our best to prepare Derrick Holliston for cross-examination. And though it’s impossible to know how cross will go for any client—or any witness, for that matter—with Holliston we know one thing for sure: it’ll get ugly.
Mrs. Kendrick nods at her husband’s request and wipes her hands on a terry-cloth towel. She doesn’t sit, though. She leans against one slider, wrings the red-checkered towel, and turns her attention to me. I’d better get to the point, I guess. She doesn’t look like she plans to stand still for long.
“You need to be quiet,” I tell them both.
“What?” the Senator says.
There’s no doubt in my mind that he heard me. He just can’t wrap his brain around the message. “About Michelle Forrester,” I add. “You need to zip it, publicly and privately. No more press conferences. No more media events of any kind. No more conversation about her, unless it’s with me.”
