The Fens

by Pamela Wechsler

  “Where do you think Moe is?” I say.

  “The Sox are playing at home tonight and he’s in the lineup,” Kevin says. “We can pinch him at Fenway.”

  We can’t wait for him to finish the game, that would be giving special favor and caving to special interests.

  “It’d be better if we grab him before he gets to the ballpark,” I say. “The press is swarming, and we don’t need his arrest to be broadcast live.”

  “Then let’s cut him off at the pass.”

  Kevin issues a BOLO or “be on the lookout” to the local police departments. Moe is likely to be in transit—somewhere between his home in Chestnut Hill and the ballpark in Kenmore Square. We chart out the most likely route and wait in a central location. That way we can be sure it doesn’t take us long to get to the arrest scene—wherever that turns out to be. The Fenway Park area seems like a solid option, so we drive to the Fens and wait, cell phones in hand. Less than thirty minutes later, we get a call from Brookline Police. Moe Morrissey’s car was stopped in Coolidge Corner, and they have him in custody.

  “We captured him without incident,” the captain says.

  My heart races. “Seal off the area, secure the car,” I say. “And be sure no one touches anything. And by anything, I mean anything: the suspect, his car, not even the sidewalk around the car.”

  We jump in Kevin’s SUV and race around the ballpark, through Kenmore Square, and up Beacon Street. Pregame traffic is at a standstill; our lights are flashing and siren blaring, but the motorists and pedestrians are unimpressed. A millennial, in a BU Terrier’s T-shirt, darts in front the car, daring us to hit him, and yells, “Hey, pedestrians have the right of way.”

  We finally reach Harvard Street, where a Brookline police officer is directing cars around the arrest scene. Kevin flashes his tin and we’re waved inside the perimeter. We pull up behind a blue-and-white—Moe Morrissey is in the backseat of the cruiser, peering out at me. We lock eyes.

  “We secured his car, just like you asked,” the captain says.

  “Great,” I say.

  “You’re not going to believe what we found.”

  I take a breath. My head is about to explode. “Found? I told you not to touch anything.”

  Whatever they found, I hope it’s not important. I cringe as the captain smiles and holds up a green box marked Remington .357 Magnum, 125 Grain.

  “You seized that?” My face heats up. “From Moe’s car?”

  He nods proudly. “It’s a box of fifty, but there are only forty-eight bullets inside. That means he used two.”

  “I can do the math.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I told you not to touch anything.”

  “This is Norfolk County, you have don’t have jurisdiction over us. But still, it’s great, right?”

  “No, it is not great,” I say under my breath, aware that Moe is watching and hoping he can’t read lips.

  “Are you jealous that we cracked the case? Is that why you’re pouting?” The captain knows what he did is wrong and he’s trying to turn it around on me, make me the whiny girl.

  I’m not biting. “I specifically told you to wait for me to get here.”

  “You’re nuts, you should be thanking us.”

  Moe is still staring at me. I swivel around so my back is to him.

  “You don’t have a warrant to search the car,” I say.

  “Don’t worry about it. My officer told me it was in plain sight.”

  Moe yells out from the backseat, “That’s bull. There was nothing in plain sight, except my sweatshirt and sports bag.”

  “What’s he talking about?” I say. “He’s saying you planted evidence?”

  “Who cares?” the captain says.

  “I do.”

  Moe calls out, “Those bullets aren’t mine. That cop is lying.”

  “Keep quiet,” the captain says.

  “He’s trying to frame me,” Moe says.

  “That’s what they all say,” the captain says.

  A voice calls out, “It was on the front seat, plain as day.”

  It’s a familiar voice but not a welcome one. My head starts to throb as I swivel around to face the man. I don’t have to look at him because I already know who it is.

  “Hey, I know you,” the man says. “You’re that snotty prosecutor from Boston—the one with the boyfriend.”

  “Officer Chase,” I say.

  “Detective. Detective Mike Chase.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Brookline Police department is less than a mile from Coolidge Corner, where Moe was pulled over. Per protocol, he’s transported to the station for booking; Kevin and I follow the cruiser, up Harvard Street, toward Brookline Village. Kevin parks in the lot, and we watch as Moe is taken out of the back of the car, his hands cuffed behind his back. As he is led inside the brick building, I think about how Ty and I were stopped and harassed not far from here. Even though Ty was innocent and Moe is guilty, there is a common denominator: Mike Chase. I can’t help but wonder if Chase has manipulated the evidence against Moe.

  As Moe is being processed, Mike Chase stands next to him.

  Chase turns to me, grinning broadly. “I caught the big fish.”

  “Booking is not a spectator sport,” I say. “Go write your arrest report.”

  He retreats down the hallway.

  “What’s going on?” Kevin says. “That’s how you’re supposed to treat the bad guys, not the cops.”

  “Sometimes the line is blurry.”

  “Want to tell me what that’s supposed to mean?”

  “Later.”

  Moe is photographed and fingerprinted, and his property is confiscated and inventoried: a custom-made diamond-encrusted iPhone; a Bulgari Diagono chronograph watch; a Ferragamo alligator wallet. He’s definitely not your average prisoner. A successful drug kingpin might have one of these luxury items, two at them very most, but I’ve never known anyone to have all three.

  The booking officer hands Moe a pen. “I need you to sign here and here, Mr. Morrissey.”

  “We only need one signature,” I say.

  The officer holds up two pieces of paper. “This one is for the property sheet, and the other is for my uncle Joe.”

  “He’s not signing autographs,” I say.

  Kevin asks the captain for an interview room, where he takes Moe, and closes the door. I watch from a monitor in the captain’s office, eager to hear Moe’s side of the story. Moe settles into his chair, leans forward, and puts his elbows on the table. He looks as if he were at a postgame press conference.

  “I’ve got a game tonight.”

  “You’re not going to be in the lineup.” Kevin starts to recite the Miranda warnings. “You have the right to—”

  “Don’t waste your breath. I want a lawyer.”

  Kevin clenches his jaw, looks into the camera. “Having invoked your right to counsel, this interview has concluded.”

  We give Moe access to a phone, he makes a call, and he is taken to a cell for the night. He has enough money to post bond, but the magistrate won’t release him. He’s going to have to wait for a judge to set bail at his arraignment tomorrow.

  Since there’s nothing more we can do tonight, I call Ty to see if I can catch him before he heads off to play at the Regattabar in Cambridge. We’re both hungry and agree to meet at Alden & Harlow in Harvard Square. When I was an undergrad at Harvard, the space was occupied by Casablanca, a divey subterranean restaurant, decorated with larger-than-life-size murals of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. Now, it’s a foodie’s delight, where you can order snail tortellini, roasted bone marrow, and fried rabbit. The menu is a little pretentious, but it’s close to Ty’s gig, and they have a great wine list.

  When I arrive, the place is packed with people waiting for tables. I find Ty in the crowd, seated at the bar. He stands, gives me a kiss, and picks up our drinks—a mug of Ipswich oatmeal stout for himself, and a glass of Cabernet for me�
��and we relocate to a booth.

  “You’ll never guess who I ran into today,” I say.

  “I don’t have to guess, it’s all over the news.”

  I look at him, confused.

  “Moe Morrissey?” he says.

  “Oh, yeah, right.”

  “Isn’t that who you were talking about?”

  I take a sip of wine. “I was talking about Mike Chase.”

  Ty’s face tightens, making me wish I’d saved the information until after our first round of drinks.

  “Where’d you see him?”

  “He made the arrest.”

  “He’s the one who locked up Moe Morrissey?”

  Ty takes a long sip of beer. I finish my glass of wine and order another.

  “Unfortunately, Chase was the first to find him,” I say.

  “I hope you have better witnesses than that punk.”

  Thankfully, the waiter comes and takes our orders: the off-menu “secret” burger for me, and raw pumpkin salad and grilled octopus for Ty.

  “I know you’re planning to report him for what happened—and I want you to—but can you hold off?” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Just for a little while?”

  “How long is a little while?”

  “Until the case is over.”

  Ty finishes his beer, puts down the glass slowly, doesn’t speak.

  “Chase searched Moe’s car.”

  “I hope he didn’t find anything important.”

  “He did. He found a key piece of evidence; it could make or break the case.”

  “Then so be it.”

  Ty goes up to the bar to order another round. He could have signaled the waiter, who is standing nearby, but he opts to leave the table instead. He takes his time, more time than necessary, chatting with the bartender for a couple of minutes. When he returns to the table, the food has already arrived. It looks good, but all I can stomach is a few nibbles of the Cabot cheese tuile that came with my burger.

  We make small talk for most of the meal. Ty tells me about his latest bookings, and we speculate about whether my parents will get back together. After one more glass of wine, I get back to the issue of Mike Chase.

  “Moe Morrissey is responsible for a double murder. The entire country is watching. Mike Chase will become a distraction. If you report what happened now, the jurors will focus on him instead of the evidence. It’ll give them an excuse to acquit Moe.”

  “Last week you were itching for me to expose him as the racist that he is.”

  “I still want you to expose him, just not right now.”

  “Maybe he planted the evidence. Mike Chase is a danger to society.”

  “If you had reported him when I asked you to, he would have been put on desk duty while they investigated what he did to us. He would have been taken off the street, he wouldn’t have been available to make the arrest, and we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

  “So this is my fault?”

  I reach for my glass of wine but lose hold of the stem and it shatters all over the floor; a shard of glass narrowly misses the waiter. Someone comes to clean up my mess. Ty gives me the worst kind of look: anger and pity.

  “Let’s put a pin in this and talk about it later,” Ty says. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  I apologize to everyone within earshot. Ty pays the bill.

  “Please don’t do anything about Chase before checking in with me,” I say.

  “Fine. I promise I’ll give you a heads-up before I make a move.”

  He takes my elbow, ushers me out of the restaurant. The cool night air feels good on my face.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

  He gathers his thoughts, considers his words before responding.

  “Abby, I love you. I’m angry, but I’m also worried about you.”

  I know where this is going, can’t meet his eyes.

  “Addiction runs in your family. No judgment, just something to think about.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I slip out of bed before dawn, careful not to wake Ty. He promised not to file a complaint against Mike Chase until he’s checked with me, so my strategy is to evade Ty for as long as possible. Plus, I’m embarrassed about the wine debacle last night. I know I’m only delaying the inevitable, but avoidance is the best I can come up with right now.

  I disappear into the bathroom without making a sound and take the quickest shower on record. I towel-dry my hair—the whoosh of the blow-dryer would make too much noise. I also forgo the electric toothbrush, opting for the disposable one I keep in my purse.

  In the living room, I turn on the TV and mute the volume. No surprise, Moe Morrissey’s arrest is the lead story on every media outlet—national, regional, and local. Every angle is covered: news, sports, and entertainment. It’s not even light outside yet, but Emma is reporting live from in front of the courthouse, eager to catch Moe’s arraignment. I make coffee, burn a piece of raisin bread, and wait for the weather report. It’s May 3 at 5:00 a.m., and the temperature is already eighty-one degrees. Hottest spring on record. Again.

  Luckily, there is two weeks’ worth of dry cleaning in the coat closet, which eliminates the need to go back into the bedroom. I rip open the plastic bag and select a black crepe dress. A lightweight, breathable cotton would be more comfortable, but that’s not one of the options. Fortunately, I always keep a spare pair of hose in my tote. I take them out of the packaging and slip them on. I apply my makeup in the living room, using the mirror app on my iPhone, and blot my lipstick with a paper towel.

  As I’m about to make a clean getaway, Ty starts to stir and the bedroom door creaks open.

  “Babe, I didn’t hear you get up.… Babe? Are you still here?”

  Without responding, I grab my tote, tiptoe out of the apartment and into the hallway, and close the door softly. I hope Ty doesn’t hear the lock click. Downstairs, on the front porch, I feel something sharp in my shoe. I sit on the bottom step and remove a safety pin from inside the toe of my stiletto. As I stand, my ankle brushes up against the splintery stairs, and the fabric of my hose unzips up the length of my calf, all the way to the panel at the top of my thigh.

  As I’m surveying the damage, Kevin pulls up to the curb. I could ask him to wait while I run back in the house and change, but that would involve talking to Ty. Besides, maybe no one will notice a little tear.

  I jump in Kevin’s car.

  “There’s a run in your stockings the length of the Northeast Corridor.”

  “Avert your eyes.”

  He turns his head and I hoist up my dress, pull down my hose, and roll them up into a ball. Bare legs in court is a no-no, especially before Memorial Day, but I’d rather violate the rules of court than the rules of fashion.

  “You seem a little off your game this morning,” Kevin says.

  He hands me a Dunkin’ Donuts bag with a cinnamon roll and unwraps his breakfast, an egg-white veggie flatbread.

  I take a bite, lick the sugar from my lips.

  “What’s eating at you?”

  There’s no use keeping it from Kevin. He’s my partner and we’re in this together.

  “Mike Chase is a dirty cop.”

  He finishes chewing his food and considers my comment.

  “That’s a strong accusation. Where’s it coming from?”

  “We had a run-in.”

  Kevin crumples up the tissue paper and places his Styrofoam coffee cup in the center console. “What do you mean, a run-in? Did he do something to you?”

  As we drive to the courthouse, I tell him about what happened, leaving nothing out. The bag of Chinese food, the stop and frisk, the accusations about drugs, the racial profiling, the gun. Kevin listens intently, not interrupting or interjecting, an interview tactic that he usually saves for difficult murder confessors.

  When I’m done, he seems underwhelmed. “Did anyone get hurt?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  �
�Abby, don’t be naïve. I’m not saying it’s good; in fact I can’t think of anything worse in a cop, but do you know how many cases you’ve prosecuted with that same set of facts?”

  I’ve read dozens of arrest reports about suspects who were stopped by police because they fit the description, made furtive gestures, or were in a known drug area. I never questioned it—I never thought I had reason to. Even worse, I stood up in court and argued passionately to defend the legitimacy of the stops. I must have been complicit in racial profiling—at least once, most likely more. I should have been more vigilant. A wave of guilt and shame washes through me. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about the past, but I can do something about the present. Detective Chase is happening in real time, on my watch.

  “He crossed the line. It’s not even a close call.”

  “You’re the smartest lady I’ve ever known, so don’t go getting any stupid ideas. Proceed with caution.”

  Kevin knows I won’t be able to stay quiet indefinitely.

  “What if he’s lying about Moe’s arrest?” I say. “He’s the one who found the bullets, and no one can corroborate his version of what happened. He could have planted the evidence.”

  “We can report him, but let’s think about it first.”

  Kevin’s argument is the same one I used on Ty last night. It doesn’t sound any better when someone else says it. Ty was right—as much as it will sink my case, I don’t have a choice. Mike Chase can’t get away with what he did. And there is a real possibility that he was lying about the bullets.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Government Center is a circus. Every day, the number of news trucks, reporters, and onlookers seems to have grown exponentially. Inside isn’t much better; the courtroom is at capacity. Everyone wants to see Moe’s arraignment.

  As is the custom, the court officer reserved a couple of front-row seats for the victims’ families, where Rudy’s wife, Rebecca, and Wayne’s boyfriend, Graham, are seated, shoulder to shoulder. As I pass Rebecca and Graham, I nod in solidarity. When Cecilia comes through the door, a deputy guides her to a seat on the defendant’s side of the courtroom. It looks as if Moe’s arrest has driven a wedge between the Bond sisters.