by Brian Shea
“Take care of me?” Tabitha whispered the words and feared the reprisal.
Slice stood. Tabitha tucked herself into a defensive ball. “I’m not going to hit you. The customers don’t like bruised fruit, especially when it’s as sweet and young as yours.”
Tabitha unfolded herself only slightly.
Slice held open her hand. There was a small bag with a cocoa brown powder lining the bottom. She gave the bag to Tabitha and handed her a cut orange straw. “Snort this.”
Tabitha winced at the thought. “I don’t want to.”
“Trust me. You’re going to need it if you plan on getting through this night.”
Tabitha didn’t resist any further. Terrified at the meaning behind the words she sniffed the contents of the package. A taste of chocolate filled her mouth.
“I’ll be back later.” Slice got up and walked to the door. She looked down at the twenty-dollar bill on the dresser. “All tips come to me.” She snatched up the money and opened the door.
Three men stood in the doorway. Slice allowed all three to enter and walked out without looking back.
Tabitha watched the men approach. These guys didn’t look kind. They had thick gold chains and baggy pants. She caught the glimmer of a gold tooth in the wicked smile on the man in the rear. The thought of what was coming sickened her. They started shedding clothes as they advanced on her.
Tabitha Porter closed her eyes and willed whatever magic powder she’d just inhaled to take her mind as far from this place as humanly possible. Regardless, she knew that when she opened them again, her world would be forever changed.
20
Sleep had never come easy, but over the years, as the mental plaque of accumulated experience built up, it had become an entirely elusive concept. Kelly found ways to compensate. Drinking to a numbing level was one solution he’d tried. He quickly deemed it unsustainable. While alcohol knocked him out, his sleep was anything but restful, and he found his ability to operate at full capacity the following morning greatly diminished.
White noise, in the form of an old wobbly fan, turned out to be the best remedy for his insomnia. Although, even with the whirling hum, Kelly usually only managed four hours. Occasionally he would start his day with six hours of shut-eye under his belt. Those were rare days indeed, and he cherished them.
Tonight, apparently, would not lead to one of those days. He stared at the Red Sox clock above his dresser mirror, tucked in amidst the posters of legendary southpaw Sean Mannion. Coming to America at the age of seventeen, Mannion fought his way through life with the same tenacity he faced his opponents with in the ring. In his fifty-seven professional bouts he was never knocked down. Although Kelly couldn’t claim a similar feat, he could count the number of people who’d sent him to the canvas on one hand. Mannion was Kelly’s childhood hero, made even more real because he lived in Dorchester.
His mom had kept his room the same as he’d left it when he moved out. The clock had a jittery second hand that put a lag on time’s accuracy. Every few days, Kelly needed to adjust it to the correct time. He compared the clock to his digital watch. 2:07 a.m. He would need to reset his wall clock in the morning.
He fluffed his thin pillow for the hundredth time and tried to find a comfortable position on the twin mattress. Then Kelly heard a sound above the rattle of the fan. The front door creaked. Sometimes the wind would blow it open, but it was usually followed by a slam. This was not.
Kelly leaned over and pulled the chain to the rickety fan twice. The noisy whirl slowed to a stop. In the following silence, Kelly listened. A creak, and then the distinct sound of someone trying to conceal a cough. The muffled rasp carried throughout the colonial. His father always said, “This house has got good bones. Like mine, they tend to creak a bit with age.”
He sat up slowly, trying to minimize the squeak of the springs. Kelly moved across the room with soft steps on his bare feet. No need to bother turning on a light. He knew the house like the back of his hand and could navigate it wearing a blindfold. He tucked his Glock into the waistband of his sweatpants and cinched the drawstring tight. Kelly then grabbed a baseball bat from his closet.
Kelly slowly turned the knob and opened the door. He stopped when it was half-open because the hinge was in desperate need of some lubricant and would yelp loudly if he went any further with it. He slid his body sideways, navigating the small opening, entering onto the second-floor landing.
Heel to toe, his bare feet took the progression to the stairwell carefully. Kelly wanted to catch the perp off-guard and give himself the best opportunity to overwhelm the intruder.
As he moved down the stairs, he heard the cough again. This time it came from the kitchen. Once at the bottom, Kelly could see the light from the kitchen pooling out into the living room. What self-respecting burglar turned on the lights?
He paused along the wall near the hall entrance to the kitchen. He waited and listened, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the perp before making his entrance. Then he heard the suction release as the fridge door was pulled open. Kelly seized the opportunity.
Kelly spun into the threshold connecting the narrow hallway to the kitchen, bat held high. He could see the rear end of the man sticking out from behind the refrigerator door.
Kelly wielded the bat, leveling it onto the exposed buttocks of the unaware prowler. The blow’s contact was deflected slightly by the impact with the door. Regardless, it was enough to cause the man to arch back and scream.
Kelly prepped himself for a second swing. He stopped midstream as he recognized the disheveled man standing before him.
His brother gave him a pained look as he rubbed the left side of his butt wildly. “What the hell, Mikey?”
Kelly felt like giving his brother another whack for posterity. “Who comes in during the middle of the damn night? Are you outta your ever lovin’ mind?”
Brayden didn’t answer; he turned back to the fridge, fishing out a beer and some leftover lasagna, plated and covered in plastic wrap. “I’m hungry.”
“Hungry? You show up at two in the morning to grab a bite to eat? Ma and I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”
His brother sat at the table. He cracked open the beer and took a long pull. Brayden Kelly pulled off the plastic and forked a large piece of cold lasagna into his mouth. He groaned in enjoyment as he devoured the first bite.
“You’re killing Ma. You know that? You’re all she talks about.”
Brayden smirked. “The golden child, Saint Michael, is feeling left out?”
Kelly didn’t give in to his brother’s goading. He put the bat down, in the event anger got the best of him. “What happened to you?”
Brayden stuffed another piece in his mouth. “Life.”
“Don’t give me that load of crap! We were raised in the same house. Under the same rules. You just chose a different path.”
“Maybe. Or maybe we’re just cut from a different cloth.” Brayden winked.
“Cut the crap, Brayden. I just cleared your bar tab. Two hundred fifty!”
“I didn’t ask for your charity.”
“Next time I’ll let Cooney settle it his way.”
“That no-neck son of a bitch ain’t gonna do shit to me.” Brayden put down the fork and pulled a loose cigarette from his breast pocket. He played with it, twirling it between his fingers.
“I don’t know how to help you.”
“Not everything needs your fixing. Ever think of that? You’re not a superhero. God only knows you’ve got enough problems of your own to worry about without spending time on me.”
Kelly sat in silence. Sadly, his brother was right.
“Maybe it’s time you knew the truth.” Brayden slipped the cigarette behind his right ear and took a sip of his beer.
Kelly eyed his brother hard. “The truth about what?”
“Enough from the both of you!” Kelly’s mother caned her way into the kitchen. Kelly had been so focused on his brother he hadn’t heard he
r approach.
“Ma, sorry I woke you. Brayden decided to pay us a late-night visit.”
“Hi Ma.” Brayden stood and walked around the table to give his mother a kiss on the cheek.
Kelly caught wind of his brother as he passed by to return to his seat, and he was days past due on a good lather. Brayden spun the fork on the flowered porcelain plate.
“What is it you think I need to know?” Kelly asked, resuming the inquiry his brother had started.
Brayden looked over at their mother.
“You shut your damn mouth, Brayden Kelly!” As a woman who rarely swore, her sudden verbal explosion was unexpected. She turned to Michael and immediately softened her expression. “Michael, go back to bed. You’ve got the hearing tomorrow. You can’t be facing those folks unrested.”
Kelly knew she was right. In a few hours he’d be speaking about the Baxter Green death and his role in it. He and his brother would finish this conversation at a later date.
“Wait! Before you two go your separate ways I want to hear my Kelly boys say it.”
Kelly looked at his brother. There was an underlying disdain in Brayden’s expression.
In a softly delivered unison, they recited their family mantra, “Family first. Family always.”
21
The courtroom was small. The criminal trials took place a floor below and were designed with a larger audience in mind. Civil litigation most often took place behind the scenes, with settlements reached absent the media spotlight. That was not the case in the Baxter Green civil suit. The shooting had made national news and sparked the ongoing debate about military tactics deployed in civilian law enforcement situations.
Most of the general public viewed SWAT with jaded perspective. They saw the military-styled personnel carriers as they occupied an area under threat. The operators, in heavy vestments, carrying automatic rifles, often gave rise to questions of excessiveness. The counter side is quite simple, but rarely understood. Deploying law enforcement tactical elements, more times than not, greatly reduces the injury or likelihood of casualty to both criminals and police by statistically drastic numbers. Kelly waited in a room down the hall. Marty Cappelli had stopped in to check on him before running off to handle some unrelated administrative union flareup. He promised to be back in time for the start. Kelly watched reporters pass by, wondered if they would cover both sides fairly, whether they had already made up their mind as to what happened the day Baxter Green died.
The days before Kelly’s testimony were lined with tactical’s accounting for the facts and circumstances leading up to the tragic death of the seven-year-old Baxter Green. Kelly was the closer, so to speak. After his deposition was given, the judge would retire to counsel and make a determination of fault. The family, in particular Trevor Green, had waived a jury in the hopes of expediting the decision by the court.
The re-written accounting of Kelly’s eleven hours of negotiation was in his hand. The majority of the first ten hours remained unchanged. It was Kelly’s last hour Cappelli had deemed a problem. The wording was wrong. Kelly, although without authority to do so, had maintained control of the operation when it should have shifted solely to Captain Lyons’s shoulders. Kelly was given wiggle room to come up with an alternate resolution as he guided the decisions of the tactical element. Kelly read the suggestions made by Cappelli and pocketed the papers.
Cappelli knocked and entered without waiting for Kelly to respond. “Are you ready, Mike?”
“As much as I’ll ever be.”
“Did you have a chance to read my suggestions?”
“I did.” Kelly didn’t offer anything further as he followed Cappelli’s brisk pace down the corridor to the courtroom.
“And?” Cappelli asked over his shoulder.
“I know what I’m going to say.”
Martin Cappelli stopped short, at a door marked Courtroom C1. “I really don’t like the sound of that.”
“Not your place to decide my fate.” Kelly eyed the doorknob. “Let’s not keep the judge waiting.”
Cappelli opened the door and guided Kelly to the stand. There was a slight rise to the open-gated box where Kelly would be speaking. A wooden-backed swivel chair was set inside, and an adjustable long-stemmed microphone was centered on a ledge, facing out. The judge sat in his dark robe and turned to greet Kelly as he took the stand.
“Detective Kelly, would you please remain standing while I swear you in?” Judge Coleman instructed.
“Yes, Your Honor.” Kelly stood and squared himself to the judge.
“Please raise your right hand. Do you swear that the testimony you shall give, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you, under penalty of perjury?”
“I do,” Kelly said.
“Please state your name and occupation for the record.”
“Detective Michael Kelly, Boston Police Department. Currently assigned to Homicide.”
“Thank you, Detective. You may take a seat.”
Kelly did so. He scanned the crowd. No cameras were allowed inside the courtroom at the request of the family. A sketch artist peeked out from behind a large pad. Kelly locked eyes with Trevor Green. He was in a red jumpsuit, the color indicative of his current assignment in 10 Block, an area of the prison assigned to dangerous inmates. Of the sixty cells set aside for isolation, Green occupied one. His eyes were thirsty for interaction with the outside world. He was seated in a separate section of the room accompanied by a court security officer. The year of incarceration had only added to the bereaved father’s intensity.
“Detective, you understand that you will not be directly questioned by counsel today? And that your sole purpose is to provide your verbal recollection of the incidents that took place on February twenty-fourth of last year?”
“I do, Your Honor.”
“Then whenever you’re ready, you may proceed.”
Kelly cleared his throat and leaned forward to bend the microphone closer to his mouth. He felt the thickness of the folded paper pressing through his pants pocket. He ignored it and sat up straight.
“Last year, I was assigned as a negotiator with our department’s Crisis Negotiation Team, or CNT for short. Around twenty-three-hundred hours our unit was notified of a Code 99, an armed barricade situation, in the Jamaica Plain neighborhood. My partner, David McElroy, and I were on call that day, and arrived on scene about an hour after the barricade situation began. We immediately attempted to establish communication with the subject, Trevor Green. He did not pick up, or refused to answer his cellphone, so we deployed a throw phone. The phone was tossed through a bedroom window. It has the ability to receive transmissions even when not in use, although we prefer to use it as a direct link to communicate with a subject. I was able to establish contact and took on the role as primary negotiator, while my partner, McElroy, served as recorder. Trevor had described killing his wife and another male when he’d come home early from work. His seven-year-old son was home asleep at the time.”
Kelly sipped from the cup of water provided. “Trevor was not planning on coming out. He’d made several comments about knowing his situation and the subsequent future waiting. As time progressed into the early morning hours, Trevor Green began making statements about not letting his son fall victim to the system. Based on his display of emotional volatility demonstrated by the killing of his wife and her lover, we, both CNT and tactical, decided that negotiations had stalled and were proving unlikely to bring an end to the standoff.”
Kelly looked out in the audience at Lyons, who’d decided to stick around for Kelly’s retelling of events. He’d worked under the man when he was a member of SWAT, and always felt he wore his emotions on his sleeve, a man easy to read. But this morning, Kelly couldn’t make heads or tails of the tactical leader’s take on his speech thus far.
“Captain Lyons had drafted a plan to make a dynamic entry on the dwelling. I was concerned that, without knowing the exact whereabouts of the hostage, entry
could prove dire. I suggested an alternative solution, one in which I would negotiate Trevor Green to a window and expose him for a sniper shot. I saw it as a safer plan of attack. Lyons allowed me the opportunity to attempt my plan. Although the captain was technically in charge, I was in control. After several failed attempts, I was able to reestablish phone contact with Trevor. I asked him to bring his son to the bedroom window so that we could visually verify the boy’s well-being. He eventually complied. During the verbal exchange with me from the window, I gave the green light for the shot which was passed on by Captain Lyons to the sniper team located across the alleyway.”
Kelly had not retold this story aloud to anyone, and the telling of it now caused him to choke up as he saw the young face of Baxter Green fill his mind’s eye.
He drained the remnants of water and set the plastic cup on the railing in front of him. “At the point the shot was taken, Baxter Green changed position and hugged his father. The bullet struck the boy in the back of the head, killing him instantly.” Kelly made eye contact with Cappelli, who subtly shook his head. “I, Michael Kelly, take full and complete responsibility for the decision to make a sniper-initiated assault, the result of which took the life of Baxter Green. I greatly apologize to the boy’s family and, for what it’s worth, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of that moment.”
The judge turned and surveyed Kelly carefully. “Thank you for your time. Is there anything else?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Judge Coleman addressed the small crowd. “If there’s nothing further, we’ll recess, and I will have my answer once I’ve had an opportunity to review all of the testimony from this week. I’ll notify counsel once I’ve rendered my decision.” The judge then turned to Kelly. “Thank you, Detective. You may step down.”
Kelly stood and stepped out of the witness stand. Cappelli met him at the rear of the courtroom and the two walked into the back hallway.
“You just couldn’t hold back. Not even a little? Do you think falling on your sword is going to help the department out of this mess?” Cappelli turned a shade redder.