The Fens

by Pamela Wechsler

  Moe’s lawyer, Anthony Cashman, thunders in and files an appearance. Anthony will be a tough opponent. There’s nothing subtle about him. He’s one of the rare defense attorneys who is actually worth his whopping fee. When I first joined the DA’s Office, he tried to lure me away, by offering to quadruple my salary. He made the same proposition again last year. I turned him down both times, without hesitation. I respect his lawyering, but I’ll never represent murderers. I’d sooner try patent cases or wait tables.

  Moe is escorted into the courtroom, flanked by two burly, but doting, guards. He looks dapper in a pin-striped Zegna suit. After he’s seated and unshackled, he turns and blows a kiss to his fiancée, Cecilia, who smiles nervously. Judge Norman Levine opens the door to his chambers and takes the bench. Judge Levine was recently elevated from the district court to the superior court. He’s a former public defender, and we are not members of each other’s fan club. When he was a lawyer, we butted heads early and often. He’s a true believer, a civil libertarian, who believes his mission in life is to ensure the government is kept in check. He hates prosecutors, especially the ones he can’t outsmart. I’m not sure how he got promoted to the superior court, but my guess is he knows someone high up in the government—the same government he finds so abhorrent.

  Judge Levine rarely holds people on bail. He says he doesn’t like to keep people in “cages.” But I’m not worried about this arraignment. Since ninety-nine percent of the time, defendants in homicide cases are held without bail. In those rare cases when a cash bail is assigned, it’s so high that no one has enough money to get out anyway. The few exceptions are cases involving battered women who claim self-defense, and vehicular manslaughter cases. Even Judge Levine detains first-degree-murder suspects.

  This hearing should be a cakewalk. Nonetheless, I make a forceful and impassioned argument—for the benefit of the judge, the record, and most important the victims’ families. I never want to give the impression that I’m phoning it in.

  “The defendant stands accused of two horrific murders. Two men, with brilliant futures and loving families, were gunned down in the prime of their lives. The defendant has millions of dollars at his disposal. He has the means and the incentive to flee the jurisdiction and never return for trial. There is no amount of bail sufficient to assure his return.”

  When it’s Anthony’s turn, he stands and gestures for his client to do the same. Moe rises, proudly, chest out, head held high, and listens to his lawyer’s argument. Anthony looks and sounds as if he actually believes what he’s saying. And that there’s a chance he might get his client out of lockup.

  “Your Honor, my client has every reason to return to court and clear his name. He has long-standing, deep roots in this community. Even if he intended to flee the jurisdiction, which he doesn’t, he wouldn’t get very far. He’s recognized worldwide. Further, he has no criminal record, not so much as a traffic ticket. And most importantly, he is not accused of carrying out the murders. Even if you were to believe the government’s outrageous assertions, Paul ‘Tags’s Tagala is the triggerman, the real criminal. He’s the only one who should be behind bars. We intend to mount a vigorous defense. The deceased were both involved in secret relationships, and they were both engaged in the use of illegal steroids—which could also provide motive for their murders.”

  My throat tightens as I watch the judge, who is actually nodding in agreement. This can’t be happening. I clear my throat and stand to reassert my position.

  “Your Honor, the defendant is accused of two counts of first-degree murder, which as the court well knows, carries two mandatory sentences of life with no possibility of parole—”

  “I’ve heard enough. The purpose of bail is to assure the defendant’s presence at trial, not to punish him. I find that the defendant does not pose a risk of flight. He’s not a danger to the community. I’m allowing him to post bail in the amount of one million dollars cash.”

  “That amount is nothing to a man like Moe Morrissey,” I say, stating the obvious.

  I’m shocked. The judge is letting a double murderer back out on the street. “Can you at least set restrictions on his release?”

  “Like what?”

  “Home confinement.”

  “My client is having significant health problems, resulting from a recent blow to the head during a game,” Anthony says. “He needs to be able to see his physician.”

  “They have medical care in the jail.”

  “He also wants to go to church, and—”

  “Relax, I’m not ordering home confinement,” Judge Levine says. “I take it your client will be able to make the million-dollar bail.”

  Anthony turns around to look at Cecilia, who stands, reaches into her purse, and pulls out her wallet. “Who should I make the check out to?”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  After the arraignment, I walk out of the courtroom past the probing microphones. I stiffen my neck, hold my head high, and take the staircase to the next floor. I don’t know how I’m going to explain to Tags that Moe posted bail while he’s still locked up. I’ll figure that out later because Rebecca and Graham are waiting in the conference room, and I have to at least appear confident, shield them from my despair.

  I take a breath, steel myself, and open the door. Rebecca is seated. Graham is standing, pacing.

  “What happened in there?” he says.

  I don’t have a good explanation so I punt. “The purpose of bail is to assure the defendant will return to court; it’s not punitive. The judge believes he’ll come back.”

  “He’s the reason two people are dead. He shouldn’t be allowed to go home and sleep in his own sheets.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” I say. “The judge made a bad decision.”

  I take a seat next to Rebecca. She’s looking down, peeling the paper label from her water bottle. I touch her forearm but she pulls away.

  “This is wrong,” she says.

  “If you’re afraid of him, I can get a protective order or move you to a safe house.”

  She looks up slowly, meets my eyes. “There’s no way Moe killed Rudy. He loved Rudy like family.”

  A tear slides from her eye, comes to rest on her cheek. I offer her a tissue, but she ignores me and stares straight ahead.

  “Are you crazy?” Graham says to Rebecca. “Moe is behind this.”

  “No way. It doesn’t make any sense. Rudy was a little jealous because Moe had all the fame, and the big paycheck, but that’s as far as it went.”

  “Did Moe buy you things?” I say.

  “Yes, Moe was generous to our family. He paid for our house, our boat.”

  Rebecca unwittingly just bolstered my case. She has no idea what was going on. Even though there’s already enough heartbreak to last a lifetime, I have to tell her my theory—it’s going to come out at trial and it’s better that she hear it from me.

  “We have evidence Moe was paying for Rudy’s silence.” I turn to Graham. “And he was paying Wayne too.”

  “Paying him off?” Graham says. “For what?”

  “Moe was cheating.” I let this land.

  “On Cecilia?” Rebecca says.

  “On everyone but Cecilia. He was cheating on his fans, his opponents, his teammates.”

  “That’s a lie,” Rebecca says.

  “He was greasing the ball. His catchers could tell.”

  “You think Wayne was extorting money from Moe?” Graham says.

  “Yes, and Rudy too.”

  “No way,” Rebecca says. “I don’t believe it.”

  There’s a knock on the door. Cecilia peers in the small window and comes inside. “Becca, let’s go.”

  “The DA is saying Rudy was extorting money from Moe,” Rebecca says.

  “Don’t listen to her nonsense. She’s looking to make herself famous by taking Moe down. That’s what this is about.”

  Cecilia gets in my face, so close I can smell her coffee breath.

  “Mr
s. Morrissey, I think you should wait outside,” I say.

  She doesn’t move. “You’re not going to destroy my family.” She looks angry enough to smack me. “You probably made up evidence, like that dirty cop from Brookline.” She gives me a final scowl. “Let’s go, Becca.”

  Without glancing in my direction, Rebecca picks up her purse and follows Cecilia out the door. Graham looks the way I feel—shell-shocked. I fill the silence by giving him the Reader’s Digest version of criminal procedure—the grand jury indictment, the case transfer to superior court, the trial.

  “Are you really going to be able to prove Moe is guilty?” Graham says.

  “I can’t promise anything, but, yes, I believe I can.”

  I text Kevin, who offers to drive Graham home, and then I head to my office. As soon as I step outside, I start to sweat. During the three hours I was in the courthouse, the temperature climbed another ten degrees. The crowd outside has dwindled, but a few hard-core pests remain.

  A couple of voices call out.

  “Abby, do you want to make a comment?”

  “ADA Endicott, does this change your strategy?”

  I keep walking, ignore them both.

  Emma Phelps keeps pace, sticks her microphone in my face. “That was a blow to the prosecution. Can you recover?” She’s taunting me, and I’m not going to take the bait. “Was Moe using steroids too?”

  I swat at the microphone and take out my cell. Pretending to listen to a nonexistent caller, cupping my hand over my mouth, as though I’m speaking.

  Emma persists. “Moe’s lawyer said he has health concerns. Sounds like he still hasn’t recovered from that ball he took to the head.”

  I keep walking, lose Emma halfway up New Chardon Street, and turn the corner onto Cambridge Street. The timer on the pedestrian light says I have two seconds to cross the street. Good enough.

  As I step into the crosswalk, a red SUV comes barreling toward me. Boston drivers are notoriously bad, but I have the right of way, so I continue to cross the street. As the car gets closer, the driver doesn’t slow down; in fact he seems to pick up speed. He blasts his horn and I start to retreat, but I’m already committed, in the middle of the street.

  “Look out, lady,” someone says.

  I pivot, take two steps back toward the sidewalk. The driver is only a few feet away and is making no effort to jam on the brakes or swerve to avoid me. Left with no option, I jump out of the way, hurling myself to the ground, half in the street and half on the sidewalk. Finally, the driver slams on his brakes, stopping about two feet from me.

  He opens his window, exposing only his elbow. I jump to my feet, try to get a look at him. The driver spits out a wad of chewing tobacco. Some of the juice slimes my bare knee before landing—splat—on the pavement. It’s Moe Morrissey, all smiles. Cecilia is in the front passenger seat, glaring at me. Rebecca is in the back, looking down.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I say.

  “You were walking against the light,” Moe says. “Be careful, or you’ll get yourself killed.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Stan must have issued an APB for me because when I get back to Bulfinch, his assistant is waiting in the lobby, near the elevators. She gives a half smile and shrugs. Not a good sign.

  “I take it Stan saw the arraignment,” I say.

  “The whole office watched. It was live-streamed.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In his office.”

  I follow her into the elevator and we get off at the executive suite. I can hear Stan from the reception area. He’s berating a junior ADA for giving a three-time shoplifter probation. I can only imagine what he has in store for me.

  As soon as I cross the threshold to Stan’s office, he dismisses the poor first-year with a “Do it again and you’ll spend the rest of your career prosecuting drunk driving cases.” Stan starts to launch into me, but stops and gives me the once-over.

  “Are you okay?”

  I hesitate. “Yes, why?”

  “You’re sweating, and you’re bleeding.”

  I follow his eyes to the side of my hand, where a trickle of blood has formed.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “I tripped, I’m fine.”

  He searches his desk for something I can use to blot the cut, but comes up empty. I take a crumpled-up paper napkin from my purse. I consider telling him the truth about what happened, in an effort to garner sympathy, but decide not to. Given the scowl on his face, he might use it as cannon fodder to yank me from the case. Before I can decide whether to pull the injury card, he loses interest in my well-being and takes something off his printer and waves it in the air.

  “What the hell is this?”

  I grab his hand to stop the paper from fluttering around. It’s a newspaper article: Brookline Police detective Mike Chase … allegations of racism involving stop and frisk … raises questions about Moe Morrissey’s arrest and key piece of evidence … Entire case could be in jeopardy.

  Someone leaked the information. I stand, stunned, in silence, and try to get a read on how much Stan knows about my connection to the story. Ty’s name isn’t mentioned in the article, but Stan has access to a lot of sources; maybe he’s done some digging.

  “What do you know about this crap?” he says.

  “Which part?”

  “All of it.”

  I have no idea how to respond—fortunately, he doesn’t wait.

  “Who the hell leaked it?”

  I don’t tell him what I’m thinking: Ty. “It could’ve been anyone. The cop has a bad rep.”

  “The timing is suspect.”

  “Regardless, it’s probably true.”

  “That’s Brookline’s problem. Right now, all I care about is this case—someone is trying to sabotage it. Find out who.”

  When I get to my office, I read the article again, then get online and surf. The story has spread, and not surprisingly, the accusations have multiplied. Three other men, all African-American, felt empowered by Ty’s disclosure; they came forward to complain about their own illegal stop and frisks by Chase.

  My phone sounds; it’s Ty. I hit decline, sending him to voice mail. He betrayed me in the worst way—he undermined my work. It’d be more forgivable if he cheated on me. I trusted him, which I rarely do with anyone, and I’m not sure how we’ll get past this.

  The next call is from Kevin. “Did you see the papers?”

  I hold the phone to my ear, unsure of how to respond. “Our whole case is about to fall apart,” I say. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

  “How?”

  “By proving the stop was legit.”

  “We don’t know that it was.”

  “Then we have to find someone to corroborate Chase’s story and refute Moe’s version of what happened.”

  “That’s for the internal affairs investigation,” Kevin says. “We can’t unring the racism bell.”

  “You realize the impact it will have on a jury?”

  “Look at the bright side. It’s probably for the best that it’s out there now, while we’re still building our case. It’d be a lot worse if this happened on the eve of trial, or worse, after we’ve picked the jury.”

  He has a point.

  “As it stands, we can’t call Chase as a witness,” I say. “It’ll turn into a sideshow like OJ.”

  Kevin knows this means I won’t be able to use one of our strongest pieces of evidence—the bullets Chase found in Moe’s car.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  For the next few months, I spend every waking moment filing discovery motions, responding to various defense requests, shoring up witnesses, avoiding the press, and worrying—about the case, my family, and my relationship with Ty. On the eve of trial, I prepare for voir dire and put the final touches on my opening statement. I hit the wall at about seven. I’m in need of food and drink, but I don’t want to go home yet; Ty is scheduled to play at Wally’s, he probably won’t leave the apart
ment until nine, and I don’t want to run into him.

  I’ve been avoiding Ty, using work as an excuse, to delay any further discussion about the Mike Chase leak. We’ve talked about it a little; he hasn’t admitted to being the source of the leak, and I haven’t probed. In true Endicott fashion, rather than talk about what’s bothering me, I’ve been cold and distant. In true Ty fashion, he’s given me space. We both know, however, we can’t go on like this indefinitely. I’m hoping to put it off until the trial is over.

  I call my sister-in-law and invite her to dinner. Charlie is still at work and she’s available. She’s also suspicious about the reason for my call.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Of course,” I say, pretending that a spur-of-the-moment, midweek social call, in the middle of a high-profile murder case, is an everyday event.

  Missy is eight months pregnant and exhausted, so we choose Toscano, on Charles Street, a short walk from her Beacon Hill town house. When I arrive, she’s already settled into the coveted window table, sipping Pellegrino. I order a glass of Sangiovese, which comes in a carafe that could easily serve three, and linguine vongole. Missy gets halibut and steamed asparagus.

  “What’s your secret?” she says.

  I take a long haul of wine, wondering which of the many secrets she could be referencing. “Secret? I don’t have secrets.”

  “How do you stay so thin?”

  “Nervous energy burns a lot of calories.” I rip off a piece of bread and dip it in olive oil. “It’s one of the upsides to my job. I’m in a constant state of anxiety.”

  When our meals arrive, we make small talk about my parents, preschools, and the upcoming trial. Missy knows something’s on my mind but she doesn’t press. I take a forkful of pasta and twirl it on a spoon, around and around.

  “Ty betrayed me, in a big way. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Who is she?”

  “No, it’s not another woman, but I almost wish it was.” I finish my first glass of wine. “He really let me down.”

  She takes a sip of water and hesitates before speaking. “Abby, disappointment is part of any relationship. You just have to decide how much of it you can tolerate.”