by Carina Adams
There were none.
As I watched an investigator take the stand, tell his name, explain his job, and recall his interaction with me on the evening of June 23, I wondered what it meant if Rob hadn’t shown up. I knew he must’ve been pissed about what I’d done. If the roles were reversed, I’d be angry with him.
It was a gamble. Not just lying about what happened and convincing trained professionals to believe me, but also hoping that the evidence corroborated my story and praying that it all worked out the way it was supposed to in the end. If it backfired, I was going to prison for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t want anyone to take a risk like that for me.
McCue got up to cross-examine the witness, asking about specifics from the night I’d turned myself in, but I only half listened. He had a plan. The prosecution would present their case, prove that I’d murdered Cody. Then he would put me on the stand and I would explain to the jury why I had pulled the trigger.
It was going to be a tedious few weeks, and I hoped that the prosecution didn’t have a long list of witnesses. McCue had me, but I wasn’t sure how many others. I took a deep breath and looked down at my hands, begging time to speed up, just a bit, when the question he’d asked caught my full attention.
“You were the lead investigator on this case?
“Yes.”
“So, all the information that was gathered filtered back through you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Crissia Murphy was not the first arrest you made in this case, was she?”
“No.”
“In fact, you arrested a Robert Doyle and charged him with the murder the day after Cody Hansen’s body was found, isn’t that correct?”
The officer nodded. “It is.”
“How were you able make an arrest so quickly?”
“We received an anonymous tip.”
“You received an anonymous tip that led you directly to a suspect that you have since released?”
“Yes.”
“And what evidence did you have that led to that arrest?”
“A truck like the one registered to Mr. Doyle was seen parked outside the victim’s home. He had blood on his boot that matched the victim’s. And he had a volatile history with the victim.”
“Yet, you released him?”
“We did.”
“Why?”
“We received a confession.”
“This so-called confession…” McCue paused and walked in front of my table. “Was Ms. Murphy under the arrest at the time she gave it to you?”
“No, she was not.”
“So, let me get this straight. You had enough evidence to arrest Mr. Doyle, yet as soon as Ms. Murphy” —he pointed at me—“gave you a supposed confession, you released him and dropped all charges. Is that correct?”
“Yes, but—”
McCue cut him off. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
I fought to keep my mouth from dropping open. We’d wondered how they’d gotten to Rob so quickly. An anonymous tip. That was sketchy as hell.
As much as the answer surprised me, I was more confused by the questions McCue had asked. Our goal was to make it clear Hansen was a crappy human being and that I was justified in killing him. There was no reason to bring up Rob.
When I asked McCue, he shook me off and told me to wait. He promised that it would all make sense soon. The rest of the day, he seemed back on track and I relaxed.
It was early the third day when McCue’s question on cross-examination of Evans, the kind detective who had been so understanding and nice to me, had my hackles back up, worried.
“Detective Evans, did you know Cody Hansen?”
“I did not know him personally, no, sir.”
“Had you ever met him before?”
“Not formally, no.”
“Now, I want to take you back a little bit. On the morning of December 12, 2001, did you witness a domestic dispute?”
Detective Evans nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“I was shopping with my girlfriend.”
“So, you were not on duty?”
“No, sir, I was not.”
“Can you explain to the court what occurred that morning?”
Detective Evans wet his lip. “I was Christmas shopping with my girlfriend when we stumbled onto a domestic dispute between a man and a woman. There was also a child present. My girlfriend was upset and asked the woman if she needed help.”
“And then what happened?”
“The man got angry and grabbed the child in a rough manner.”
“In a rough manner? That must have been upsetting to you.” McCue looked at the jury. “How did you react, Detective?”
“I hit him.”
“You hit him? Punched him, or hit him with an open hand?”
“I punched him.”
“I see. And did you report the incident?”
“I did. Both to BPD and to DCF.”
“Yet, you never made sure the child was taken away?”
“Objection!” the district attorney called.
“Sustained,” the judge spoke, but McCue didn’t seem fazed.
“You have admitted to punching the deceased, Cody Hansen.”
Detective Evans swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you ever follow up with him, to check on the child?”
Evans nodded. “I did.”
“And Mr. Hansen didn’t mind? He never complained about that?”
Evans let out an annoyed laugh and shook his head. “He did.”
“So, by your own testimony, you hit him.” McCue held up a finger. “You harassed him.” He held up another finger. “You called DCF.” And a third. “Yet you were never questioned about his murder? No one ever asked you about your alibi?”
“Objection!” the DA called again.
McCue raised his hand in the air. “Withdrawn, Your Honor.”
“What was that?” I hissed under my breath as soon as he sat down next to me.
The ends of his lips tipped up. “I’m doing my job,” he assured me. “Relax.”
I tried to trust him, to not get worried. He was paid the big bucks for a reason. As the prosecution rested their case, though, my stomach started to ache with nerves and my skin began to crawl. Planning to lie on the stand and actually doing it were two totally different things.
As McCue stood to call the first witness for defense, my fists curled and my nails bit into my palms. I gave myself a pep talk, telling myself that I could do it. Then, just as I was about to push myself out of the chair, McCue dropped another bomb.
“Defense calls Robert Doyle to the stand.”
No. I tried to catch McCue’s eye. No. He couldn’t put Rob on the stand because he would implicate himself and I would have spent the last two months behind bars for nothing.
However, no one looked my way. Not McCue. Not Rob as he strutted toward the witness chair dressed in a suit. When he turned around, my heart ached.
He stated his full name, swore on a bible, and then sat. I watched helplessly as he answered identifying questions, like his age, where he lived, and whether or not he’d ever been convicted of a crime.
“Mr. Doyle, did you know Cody Hansen?”
“I knew of him, yes.”
“Please explain what you mean.”
“Hansen dated the mother of my child. He was a suspect in my daughter’s murder.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. What was the cause of your daughter’s death?”
Rob cleared his throat, and I wanted to jump up and stop the testimony. He didn’t talk about this. I don’t think he’d ever said the words out loud.
“According to the coroner’s report, maltreatment.”
“Can you explain that to me, please?”
“Objection!” the DA called. “Incompetent.”
“Overruled.” The judge looked at Rob.
“Hannah was malnourished and had been neglected. She’d been beaten ba
dly and no one had sought medical attention.”
I could see water in his eyes, but he held it together. I did not. As he spoke, tears streamed down my face.
“How old was Hannah when she died.”
“Two and a half.”
“Was Mr. Hansen ever charged with the murder?”
“He was not.”
“Do you know the defendant?”
Rob didn’t look at me but kept his eyes on my lawyer. “I do.”
“How do you know Ms. Murphy?”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
“Did Ms. Murphy know Hannah?”
“She did.”
“Were you in Mr. Hansen’s apartment on the night of May 11?”
“I was.”
“Did you go to his apartment alone?”
Rob shook his head. “No.”
“Why did you go to his apartment?”
“I’d heard that he had a child living with him. A child he mistreated. No one saved Hannah. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least check it out.”
“Are you a police officer, Mr. Doyle?”
“No, sir.”
“So, why not just call the police?” McCue demanded.
“Because I didn’t trust the BPD.”
“What did you find at the apartment?”
“A mess. A boy, badly beaten. A woman, dead. And Hansen.”
“Was Hansen alive?”
“He was.”
“What happened while you were at the apartment?”
Rob sat a little straighter. “On the advice of my attorney, I reserve my constitutional right against self-incrimination under the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution and decline to answer that question.”
The DA stood up. “I object and ask Your Honor to direct him to respond to the question.”
The judge glanced back and forth between McCue and the DA. Then he turned to Rob. “Can explaining what happened at the apartment possibly incriminate him?”
A man I had never seen before stepped forward. “Jordan Cary, Your Honor. I believe it can, based on information I have as Mr. Doyle’s attorney.”
The judge turned his attention back to the DA. “Would you offer immunity on that question, Ms. Allen?”
The DA shook her head. “No, Judge.”
McCue spoke up then. “We would move the court that this man be given immunity so he could testify before the jury.
The judge shook his head. “Denied. Ask your next question, therapist.”
Rob’s lawyer turned and strode away.
McCue took a deep breath. “Did Ms. Murphy murder Cody Hansen?”
“No.”
There was a murmur behind me.
“Did Ms. Murphy shoot Cody Hansen.”
“No.”
“Do you know who shot Cody Hansen.”
“On the advice of my attorney, I reserve my constitutional rights against self-incrimination under the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution and decline to answer that question.”
McCue sighed as if he was annoyed. “Do you know what time you left the apartment?”
Rob frowned. “I do not recall the exact time. However, we drove straight to the emergency room.”
McCue had started to walk away but spun back around. “The emergency room? Were you hurt?”
“No. We had the little boy with us.”
“Little boy. That would be Owen Chase? The child who lived with Hansen?”
Rob nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Did anyone see you? At the hospital,” McCue clarified.
“Not me. But a police officer interviewed Cris.” He cleared his throat. “I mean Ms. Murphy.”
McCue thanked him, told the court he had no more questions and sat with me. We listened closely as the DA hounded Rob, but he didn’t let her bother him, answering when he could. When he left the stand, I wanted desperately to hug him, to make it all better.
When McCue called the lead investigator back to the stand, I was utterly confused.
“You previously testified that you arrested your first suspect after an anonymous tip led you straight to him. Is that right?”
The investigator looked at him with an odd expression. “Yes.”
“I’d like to ask you to look at defense Exhibit C. Tell me if you recognize it.”
The investigator took a piece of paper from the bailiff and looked over it. “It’s a transcript of the call to emergency services.”
“Read the time that the caller reported hearing gunshots in Hansen’s apartment.”
“10:22 p.m.”
McCue nodded. “Now, I’d like to ask you to look at defense Exhibit F. Tell me if you recognize it.”
Again, the investigator looked over the paper he was handed. “It’s a copy of the interview that was conducted at Carney Hospital after the defendant dropped off an injured child.”
“Read the time the interview began.”
The investigator looked at the DA. “10:15 p.m.”
“Does the report say what time the interview ended?”
The investigator nodded. “10:40.”
“So, when there was a 911 call made to report gunshots, my client was being interviewed by a police officer across town. Is that correct?”
The investigator paled. “It is.”
McCue smiled. “No further questions.”
The next morning, the judge asked if there were any motions. I expected McCue to file a motion to dismiss. He did not. Instead, he rested his case without calling me to the stand. During closing remarks, he kept pointing out that I’d not even been near Hansen’s apartment during the time frame the 911 call had been made. The same call that the police department had placed enough value on to make an initial arrest.
Friday afternoon, after only hours of deliberation, the jury returned a not guilty plea. I was so shocked, I couldn’t do more than grab my lawyer and hug him tight. “Thank you, thank you!” I repeated over and over.
He shook his head. “I didn’t do much. You should thank Robert.”
I turned around to face my friends and family and they let out a little cheer. I started to cry before Liam wrapped me in his arms. It was over. I was free.
33
Rocker
All evening, I watched her from across the room. I stood against a back wall, nursing my beer, half listening as people stopped to talk to me. Most realized that I wasn’t up for company and moved on. Others, like Jeremy, stood with me, silent, just offering moral support so I wasn’t alone. My eyes never left her.
I’d wanted to whisk her away, take her down to The Cape for a few days, somewhere no one would be able to disturb us. Before I could get to her, people had started to call, all wondering where I was having the party. When Liam asked, I knew I couldn’t avoid it.
Now, Droplogic was filled with people who loved Cris and wanted to spend a few hours celebrating her freedom. There were too many people to have a party at our studio, and the duplex wasn’t nice enough, so I eagerly accepted when Nick offered his gym. Cris seemed at ease here, and around its owner, which made little pangs of jealousy flare.
“Hey, you!”
I inhaled sharply as a beautiful blonde stepped in front of me, blocking my view of my girl. I blinked, surprised. Jessie grinned up at me.
I forced a smile onto my lips and leaned in for a hug. “Hey, yourself!”
She stepped back, propped her hands on her hips, and let her eyes rove over me. “You look good.”
I gave her a once-over. Her leather pants clung to her, the white shirt she wore left very little to the imagination, and her spiky heels gave her a few inches of height. If she were my sister she would have been sent home to change. “Your brother seen you dressed like that yet?”
Bright red lips twisted in a smirk. “Please. He was just happy I was wearing clothes.”
Jeremy choked on his beer next to me. Jess flashed him a quick smile but turned her attention back to me. “You haven’t been around much lat
ely.”
“Around?” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“The house.” She frowned. “Tank said he told you.”
I shook my head.
Jess smiled. “College. Me. Boston.”
“Oh, shit!” I felt like an idiot. “I did know that. Sorry, kid.”
Sadness flashed on her face. “You’ve had a lot going on.” She lapped her lips. “How’s the club?”
“A work in progress,” I admitted. “A lot of fuckin’ work.”
She nodded as if she understood. “I wanted to talk to you about something, but I don’t want you to say no until you’ve thought about it.”
When I didn’t interrupt her, she continued. “The city is building a new elementary school in Roxbury. They’re selling the old one.”
“Okay?” I wasn’t following.
“I want the club to buy it.”
“You want the club to buy it—or your dad does?”
“Does it matter?” She shrugged. “The city is planning on selling it for next to nothing. They just want to get rid of it. It’s huge, secure. Perfect.”
“It matters,” I assured her. “What do you get out of it?”
“Everyone is saying the Bastards are different. A new kind of club. I want in.”
“Jess.” I shook my head, feeling like shit. “It’s not that different. We’re never gonna let women patch in. These guys” —I lifted my hand to motion towards the club members in the room— “live by a set of rules that I can help meld, but some things will never change in their mind. We’re a brotherhood.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m the daughter of a club president and a club whore; don’t try to school me on club edict.” Her eyes sparkled. “I don’t want to patch in. I want to start something new.”
Jeremy choked again, obviously eavesdropping. He might have thought she was talking about being a club girl, but I knew better.
“Like what?”
“First responders have auxiliaries. Wives and girlfriends will be more supportive of the Bastards if they feel they can help. Be included in some way.”
