“In your medical opinion, does Mr. Morrissey suffer from CTE?” Anthony says.
“I can’t say for sure until he has been autopsied, which hopefully won’t be for many decades, but he does exhibit many of the symptoms.”
Anthony sits. I stand. Stan helped me prepare my cross. Finally, he brings something to the table. Before being named DA, Stan was a forensic psychologist, a profiler for the FBI.
“Moe Morrissey’s so-called symptoms are all self-reported,” I say.
“That doesn’t make them any less real,” Dr. Messinger says.
“No objective tests back up his claims.”
“Not yet.”
“These so-called injuries didn’t show up on any scans.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“It’s convenient, don’t you think, that the defendant didn’t develop the symptoms until we found the murder weapon, in his own backyard?”
“Objection,” Anthony says.
“Sustained,” Judge Levine says. “The jury will disregard that comment.”
“He could be malingering,” I say.
“As I understand it, that’s your burden to prove, not mine.”
I’d like to cut my losses and sit down, but a couple of jurors are chuckling at my expense.
I have to fight back. “How much are you being paid for your testimony?”
“I’m paid for my time, not my testimony.”
“How much are you charging Moe Morrissey?”
“Eleven hundred dollars an hour.”
That could cut both ways. Some jurors will think he’s expensive and, therefore, worth it. Hopefully, others will see him for what he is—a hired gun.
“Is this the first time you’ve ever seen a baseball player with this type of diagnosis?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing further.”
Anthony stands. “This diagnosis is more common among boxers, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Moe Morrissey was a boxer in high school, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, he was.”
“He was hit in the head countless times.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“And the baseball hits could have made it all worse.”
“Most definitely.”
As if that isn’t enough, Anthony cues the projector and shows a series of photographs of Moe in a boxing ring, getting punched in the head. It’s contrived, but judging by jurors’ expressions, effective.
Next, Anthony calls Moe’s high school coach, then a sports doctor, and then an engineer. He pulls out all the stops. He even brings in the CEO of the company that manufactures the baseballs and a physicist to talk about dimensions and weight. He wants to show that baseballs are like missiles, able to inflict serious bodily harm.
When court breaks for the night, Kevin helps me carry my trial boxes out to the Plaza, where his car is parked. It’s a short walk, but I can’t face the media. Reporters are doing live shots and I don’t want to be put on the spot.
Kevin stashes my boxes in the backseat while I climb in the car, keeping my head down. Emma Phelps sees us and runs over to my window.
“What makes you so sure he’s not telling the truth?” The camera is pointed at me, so the viewers can’t see the smirk on her face.
“If this were a legitimate diagnosis, he’d have offered it before the trial,” I say, “not after he started losing.”
Kevin pulls away before I say anything more. “Don’t let her get to you. The jurors will see through the nonsense.”
“Someone really screwed up my case.”
“How so?”
“If he hadn’t leaked the information about Mike Chase, I’d be able to use the ammunition found in Moe’s car. And the jury would know that the bullets matched the murder weapon. That’d help us prove premeditation, and lack of insanity.”
Kevin parks the car. I unclip my seat belt but he remains still.
“I think Ty did it,” I say. “He denied it, but we’re the only ones who were there. I don’t know who else would have reported it.”
Kevin takes a breath. “Ty didn’t leak that information.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I know who did.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
I laugh, until I realize he’s serious. “You torpedoed our case?”
“That wasn’t my intention but someone had to out the guy.”
“I was planning to do it. Afterwards.”
“I guess I beat you to the punch.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Kevin was the leak. I never saw it coming. I have to apologize to Ty for accusing him, and even worse, I have to tell him it was Kevin. He’s working tonight at the Regattabar, so I call him to see if he can have dinner before he heads to his gig. I offer to meet him in Cambridge, near the club.
Henrietta’s Table in the Charles Hotel is the logical choice. It’s one flight down from where he’ll be playing, and it has the most comforting comfort food—Yankee pot roast. They don’t serve dinner, they serve supper, as if that makes the artisanal cheeses and homemade sorbets any less precious.
When I arrive, Ty is waiting at the table, sipping ice water.
“Anything to drink?” the waiter says.
“Just water,” I say.
Nonalcoholic beverages seem like the best way to go. The waiter takes our food orders. As soon as he’s gone, I change my mind, flag him down, and order a glass of wine. It’s been a rough week. I’ll think about my alcohol consumption another time.
I tear off a piece of cranberry nut bread, smear butter on it, and take a bite.
“I shouldn’t have accused you of lying to me.”
Ty meets my eyes. “I know.”
“Turns out, Kevin released the information.”
“How did Kevin know?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but I feel compelled to fess up to what I did. “I told him.”
“After you made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
The waiter puts a wineglass in front of me. I put my fingers on the stem, but don’t pick it up. I know what Ty is thinking.
“Nothing has ever happened between me and Kevin.”
“Yet.”
Another sign of cynicism from Ty. I feel like I’ve corrupted him. He was so perfect when we first met—trusting, patient, calming. We lock eyes.
“You have no reason to be jealous.”
“I can see where it’s going and I don’t like it. You wouldn’t like it if I spent that much time with another woman.”
He has a point. I’ve been pretty dismissive of his concerns. Maybe I need to make more of an effort to put Ty’s mind at ease.
I reach across the table and take his hand. “Kevin and I had a talk a few months ago. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
That definitely didn’t have the intended effect. Ty pulls his hand away, takes a gulp of water.
“Don’t you think that’s kind of weird—that you two had to discuss it?”
I take a breath. I don’t know how to diffuse this. “Are you saying you don’t want me to work with him anymore?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Then what?”
“It’s just something to think about.”
“Duly noted.”
When the food arrives, I push it around on my plate. The pot roast is rich and tender. The mashed potatoes look creamy. I take a forkful of both, then lose interest. Ty bites into his roasted chicken and changes the subject, and I’m relieved that we can move on.
Ty moves the conversation to a tried-and-true subject. “How’s your trial?”
“I could use some witnesses.”
A couple at the next table pose for a selfie, which normally annoys me, but tonight it gives me an idea. As soon as we’re done eating, and Ty gets ready to go upstairs for his gig, I give him the car key and tell him where it’s parked.
“I’ll Uber home
.”
After he’s gone, I look at the Uber app on my phone and see that there’s a car two minutes away. Instead I call Kevin.
“Can you pick me up in Cambridge?”
I can hear his wife in the background. “Who are you talking to? Is that Abby? Again?”
I guess she’s not happy with our relationship either.
“We were just getting ready to turn in,” he says. “What do you got?”
“Jail cells in the courthouse have security cameras.”
“I know.”
“Anthony talked to Moe in his cell, ergo—”
“I don’t speak French.”
“Ergo is Latin. It means ‘therefore,’ as in therefore, when Anthony went down to talk to Moe, they were recorded. We need to find the tape.”
Kevin puts his hand over the receiver but I can still hear him. “Hon, I’m going to have to go out and deliver a subpoena.”
Not exactly true, but close enough. I can’t hear exactly what Kevin’s wife says in response, but I can tell by the hushed tone she’s not happy with the news.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Kevin and I scour the video of the courthouse cells, paying particular attention to the time between Kevin’s testimony about the gun and Moe’s pseudobreakdown. We watch the play-by-play, hitting the pause button frequently. We see a court officer let Anthony into the cell. He sits on the bench and talks to Moe. They huddle for a few minutes. Then, Anthony stands and walks with an exaggerated limp; it’s a demonstration. Moe imitates him for a few steps. Anthony talks as Moe plops down on the bench, drops his head in his hands. Anthony puts his arm around Moe’s shoulder, encouraging him. All they need is a wad of chewing tobacco—then it would look exactly like a coach talking to a player in the dugout.
“We struck gold,” I say. “Anthony is teaching Moe how to fake the symptoms.”
“That’s sleazy, even for a defense attorney.”
“It’s more than sleazy. It’s suborning perjury.”
“We can have two defendants for the price of one.”
As much as I’d like to stick it to Anthony, I’m not going to take out a perjury complaint against him. It could be grounds for a mistrial in this case and I don’t want to have to try it again. Retrials never benefit the prosecution. Memories fade, evidence gets lost, and witnesses start to contradict themselves.
When court resumes the next morning, Anthony rests his defense. Moe eyes the jurors; some look back with sympathetic smiles and understanding nods.
“Anything else from the Commonwealth?” Judge Levine says.
“Yes, we have a rebuttal witness.”
“I haven’t been given notice,” Anthony says.
“We became aware of new information as a direct result of the defendant’s newfound medical condition.”
The judge calls us up to sidebar.
“I’d like to play a video,” I say.
“What’s on it?” the judge says.
I deliver a summary of Moe’s coaching session. Anthony’s face starts to redden—from both anger and shame. Still he remains sharp. He knows what’s coming and tries to stop it.
“Objection. These conversations are protected by attorney-client privilege.”
“There are no conversations, there is no audio,” I say.
“It’s still a consultation. And it’s protected.”
“He does have a point,” the judge says.
“There is no expectation of privacy. It’s an open space. Anyone could walk by.”
“It’s a private jail cell. We’re out of hearing distance. There’s no one in the vicinity.”
“Let me see the tape,” Judge Levine says.
The judge calls a recess and retreats to his chambers. He’s in there for over an hour, probably calling his pals and trying to figure out a way to suppress the tape. In spite of all the evidence, he’s still rooting for Moe.
Kevin and I wait in the conference room.
“If we get a not guilty, I’m going to indict Anthony for conspiracy to commit perjury,” I say.
“We’re going to get a conviction.”
I wish I had Kevin’s confidence. “The jurors love Moe, even now.”
I start to think about all the flaws in the case, working myself into a full-blown panic attack, until the court officer summons us back. I take a few shallow breaths until I can get a full inhale and exhale, then walk to the prosecutor’s table.
“I’ve made my decision.” The judge clears his throat, as though what he’s going to say pains him and he wants to delay it, which I take as a positive sign. “I am going to allow the tape into evidence.”
I want to do the Snoopy dance but restrain myself.
“Before you start your rebuttal,” the judge says, “does the defense have any more witnesses to present?”
“Mr. Morrissey would like to take the stand on his own behalf,” Anthony says.
We’ve backed Moe into a corner. My guess is he wasn’t planning to testify; Anthony would have advised him to remain silent. Opening himself to cross-examination when he doesn’t have to would be a bad move. But now that we have the tape, he has some explaining to do.
“We’d pray Your Honor’s indulgence. Can we have the night to prepare?” Anthony says.
“Any objection?” the judge says.
There are a couple of hours left in the day, and normally I’d object and force the issue. I don’t want to give Anthony time to sharpen his assault, but I could use the extra time.
“No objection,” I say.
“Fine, we’ll adjourn,” Judge Levine says. “Tomorrow we’ll hear testimony, we’ll play the video, and then we’ll go right into closing arguments.”
The judge excuses the jury and we recess for the day. The pressure is on. For Anthony. For Moe. And for me.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Bulfinch is a secure building. Nonemployees can get on the elevator in the lobby, but access is limited to the second-floor reception area; beyond that, the elevators and stairwells are locked. Receptionists sit behind bulletproof glass; visitors check in and have to supply a photo ID, and someone escorts them to the meeting place. Usually, my assistant, Amber, greets my visitors and brings them up to my office.
Amber knocks on my office door and pops in. “Moe Morrissey’s lawyer is in reception. His fiancée … I mean wife … Cecilia is here too.”
“What do they want?”
Amber shrugs, applies a fresh coat of lip gloss—as though being one degree of separation from Moe requires beautification.
“Want me to go down and get them?”
“I need to handle this one. Call Kevin and ask him to come by.”
The reception area is jammed. I have to elbow my way off the elevator and through the crowd. Cecilia is seated; Anthony stands by her side. They’re surrounded by a motley crew of visitors and employees. Everyone in the city has been following the trial on TV; Cecilia was already recognizable from her modeling days, and Anthony has become a minor celebrity in his own right. I’ve never been in a mosh pit, but this is how I imagine it starts.
I push my way past a couple of organized-crime detectives who are giving Anthony their take on this year’s rookies.
“Let’s go up to my office,” I say.
On our way to the elevator, a drug dealer takes out his cell phone and asks for a selfie with Cecilia. With little choice, she leans in and forces a smile. An assault victim with a bandage covering her forehead and three missing teeth Instagrams a photo. A prosecutor from the gang unit holds out a slimy, chewed-up pen and asks for an autograph. I grab the pen and throw him a nasty look.
I escort Anthony and Cecilia to the conference room and tell them I’m going to wait for Kevin. Without him, it’s two against one—I need a witness to the conversation in case there’s any dispute about what is said. I close the blinds to keep away the lookie-loos and leave them alone.
Kevin and I devise a game plan on the phone. We assume Moe wants to plea. We agree that the b
est plan is to listen but not to make any promises. When Kevin arrives a few minutes later, we begin the meeting.
“I’m going to cut to the chase,” Anthony says. “Moe needs help.”
“You didn’t have to come all this way to tell me that,” I say. “He can get all the help he needs in state prison.”
Kevin throws me a look. So much for my listening without comment.
“He needs medical help,” Cecilia says.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” I say. “What are you asking for?”
“He’ll plea to manslaughter,” Anthony says. “Give him six years.”
He can’t be serious. “That comes out to three years for each murder,” I say.
Kevin breaks his silence. “With good time, he’ll practically be out on parole next Tuesday.”
“He’s sick and he needs medical care,” Cecilia says. “Where’s your humanity?”
“He’ll agree to check in to a locked rehab facility,” Anthony says.
“Not going to happen,” I say. “Not on my watch.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to turn it down.” Anthony’s smiling, signaling he’s got something up his Thom Browne shirtsleeve.
“Why’s that?” I say.
“We came here to reason with you, but you’re forcing me to play hardball. You withheld exculpatory evidence. Detective Chase—you knew all about his prior incident and you didn’t report it. You could be sanctioned if anyone finds out.”
My heart starts to race. I put my hand over my mouth to cover my reaction.
Kevin steps in. “I know you’re not trying to blackmail a prosecutor because you’re too smart for that.”
“I’m just stating a fact.”
“I knew about Chase,” Kevin says. “If anyone is going to get in hot water, it should be me.”
This isn’t the first time Kevin has stepped in front of a bullet that was intended for me.
I can’t let him take the hit. “I knew and I was planning to disclose. In the meantime, I didn’t put Mike Chase on the witness list, so there was nothing to disclose. We didn’t offer the bullets into evidence. It wasn’t an issue.”
“That’s for the judge to decide,” Anthony says.
No defense attorney is going to strong-arm me into a plea. I’d rather be disbarred than give Moe Morrissey one less day in prison. Kevin shows them the door and walks with me to my office.
The Fens Page 20