“I have no one to blame but myself,” I say.
“Don’t beat yourself up over this. You did what you thought was right for the case.”
“I have a higher duty.”
“God?”
“Justice.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
For the first time since I’ve known him, Anthony beats me to court. When I arrive, he’s all smiles. Nothing gets a defense attorney more excited than an allegation of prosecutorial misconduct—except maybe a not guilty on a double murder rap.
Judge Levine is running late. I make good use of the time, eating chocolate and developing a migraine. By the time he calls us into his chambers, I’ve taken two aspirins and bitten my lip so hard, I need a tissue to blot the blood.
Anthony uses the strategy he prefers when negotiating a plea—asking for twice what he expects to get. “The defense moves for a mistrial with prejudice.”
“Denied.” Fortunately, Judge Levine doesn’t want to start the trial all over again either.
“Disclosure would not have impacted the outcome of the trial,” I say as if some random ADA were involved. “The defense knew about the allegations and we did not call the detective as a witness.”
“It’s a violation of the rules of discovery,” Anthony says. “You knew before it hit the papers.”
“We revealed the substance of the information.” I’m not going down without a fight.
“The trial is going to continue,” the judge says.
I unclench my jaw, take a breath, until—
“But I am going to instruct the jury of the violation.”
This is almost worse than a mistrial. The jury won’t understand that this was a technical violation of the rules. They’ll think I’m a liar. Credibility is a prosecutor’s currency. Without it, I’m just another lawyer.
As soon as the jury is seated, Judge Levine delivers the bad news. “Ms. Endicott withheld a critical piece of evidence from the defense. I am instructing you that you can hold it against her during your deliberations.”
There’s a lilt in his voice, as though he’s soothed by the promise of antiprosecution sentiment. A few jurors shift in their seats. Others won’t meet my eyes. I’m screwed.
On the heels of my admonishment, Moe takes the stand—literally—as if he owns it. His posture, his self-confidence—he might as well be on the mound, hurling a fastball, in the middle of a no-hitter. He denies any conspiracy with Tags. He says he learned about the murder like everyone else. If Tags did it, he should be punished.
Then Anthony tosses him some softballs.
“Did you kill Rudy or Wayne?”
“They were my teammates, my friends, my family.” As Moe speaks, he pauses to look each juror in the eye.
“Nothing further,” Anthony says.
I’m on my feet before Anthony has gathered his papers from the podium.
“Then why was the gun on your property?” I say.
“You’ll have to ask Paul Tagala. He must have tried to hide it there. He had access to my land, was over at the house all the time.”
He’s using my theory of the case against me. Anthony did a good job prepping him.
“Mr. Tagala had no motive to kill, other than the fact that you paid him.”
Anthony jumps up to prevent Moe from answering. “Objection. Ms. Endicott is stating facts not in evidence.”
Technically that’s not the proper objection. He could have complained that the question called for speculation or a conclusion, or that it was badgering—but he’s trying to further disparage me. And by the scowls on the jurors’ faces, it’s working.
“Sustained,” Judge Levine says.
“It was your gun, wasn’t it?” I say.
“No.”
“Paul Tagala returned the gun to you.”
“Is that a question?” Anthony says.
I don’t need to hear the judge’s ruling. Some witnesses are impossible to trip up, and Moe is one of them.
“Withdrawn,” I say. “Nothing further.”
As I move toward my table, I hear a screech and a loud thud from the witness box. Moe has fallen off his chair. Court officers rush to his side. The jurors stand to get a better look. He appears to lose consciousness for a minute. It’s an act, but he’s a performer, especially in the clutch.
“Mr. Morrissey,” Judge Levine says, “are you okay?”
Moe opens his eyes, rolls over onto his knees, and the court officers hoist him to his feet.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Moe says. “I don’t know what happened.”
Perfect timing. His lawyer doesn’t need to redirect him because Moe just testified. He said, Remember I have a medical condition. Remember to feel sorry for me.
When Anthony stands to rest his case, I make sure the jury knows I’m not ready to throw in the towel.
“The Commonwealth has a rebuttal witness.”
The accountant in the jury box looks at me, almost disappointed, as if she was ready to vote not guilty and I’ve foiled her plan.
I recall Kevin to the stand so he can describe the circumstances surrounding the video of Moe and Anthony in the lockup. Then I hit play. Everyone watches as Anthony coaches Moe, and Moe hobbles around the cell.
“Nothing further,” I say.
Kevin stands, to get off the stand, but Anthony stops him. “I have a few questions.”
Anthony doesn’t move to the podium, opting to stay at the defense table. He leans in and whispers to Moe. Anthony’s up to something.
“Detective Farnsworth, you have no idea what I just said to my client, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I could have said, ‘How are you feeling?’”
“Sure.”
“I could have said, ‘Everyone knows you’re not guilty.’”
I’m on my feet. “Objection.”
Anthony doesn’t wait for a ruling. “I could have said, ‘The jurors are too smart to fall for the prosecutor’s cheap antics.’”
“Your Honor!” I say.
“Sustained,” Judge Levine says.
Too little, too late.
“Likewise,” Anthony says, “you couldn’t tell what my client said to me, could you?”
“Correct,” Kevin says.
“He could have been discussing his symptoms.”
“I don’t know what he was saying.”
“Exactly. You’re showing the jury a video and you want them to believe it’s incriminating, but you can’t prove it.” Anthony turns to the jury. “Nothing further.”
This did not go as well as I had expected. In fact, it was a disaster.
“I think this would be a good time to break for the day,” Judge Levine says.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
I stand in front of the mirror to rehearse my closing argument, but get distracted by the dark circles under my eyes. I should try to live a healthier life—eat better, exercise more. Since that’s not going to happen anytime soon, I make a note to buy better concealer.
The judge has ruled I can’t argue Tags killed Rudy and Wayne for money because I can’t prove he actually accepted any money. I can show that Cecilia withdrew the cash, but that’s where the money trail ends.
I pick up the phone and call Kevin.
“What do you need?” he says.
I can hear a ball rolling, a crash, and a series of fast clinks. “Bowling night?”
“Yup.”
“Who is that?” his wife says.
“Work,” he says to her.
“Can you try to run Tags’s family’s financials one more time?” I say. “Maybe his grandmother deposited the money in the last few days.”
“I flagged the accounts. They’d call if there’s any activity. His grandmother has been spending like a billionaire though. She took the kids on a trip to Bermuda, bought some high-end electronics, even got a new car. Can’t you use that?”
“It’s all on credit. They haven’t paid any of the bills yet.”
I did used to have money—a lot of money—but not anymore. My parents would give it all back to me if I quit my job.
“Maybe they’re living on credit because Tags expects to get money, but we can’t prove it,” I say. “Wait, what if he never gets the money?”
“Moe isn’t exactly a stand-up guy.”
“If we’re lucky, maybe he stiffed Tags.”
“If Moe stiffed Tags, then what did Cecilia do with the five hundred K?”
“Maybe we’re following the wrong trail. Maybe Cecilia spent the money on herself.”
I spend the night with Kevin—at headquarters—sorting through Cecilia’s financials: bank records, credit card records, insurance records, utility bills. After a couple of hours, Kevin finds something: a payment to Southern California Edison.
“Why would Cecilia need her lights turned on in Los Angeles?” Kevin says.
“It’s a Beverly Hills address. Do you have any contacts at the LAPD?”
Kevin makes a few calls, and a short time later, a police officer sends us a text. It’s a photo of a mailbox, with Cecilia’s name on it. A real estate trace of the property shows Cecilia bought the house through a straw.
“My guess is she’s planning to leave Moe after the trial, and she wants a place to land,” I say.
“Bad news for Tags—”
“Good news for us.”
Tracey agrees to meet with us. Armed with piles of financial reports and real estate documents, we head over to Nashua Street to meet with her and Tags.
“Moe didn’t put anything in a trust for you,” I say.
“I don’t believe you,” Tags says.
We show him the papers. He reads them carefully, puts them down, unimpressed.
“Moe is never going to pay you,” I say. “If he gives you money, we’ll have the link we need to prove his guilt. He’d be incriminating himself.”
“You and your family won’t get bubkes,” Kevin says.
Tags sits back, crosses his arms, remains silent.
“I know Moe can be both charismatic and scary,” I say. “But your grandmother is in debt up to her ears, and you won’t be able to help her because you’ll be doing life without parole.”
“I want to go back to my cell,” Tags says.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Kevin says. “They’ll be moving you to maximum security as soon as your trial is over.”
“You’ll have to convict me first.”
Tags is not going to budge. I’m wasting time that I don’t have. On our way out of the jail, as we pass through a series of locked doors, Kevin and I do a postgame analysis.
“Do you think it’s money or loyalty that’s motivating him?” I say.
“None of the above. Not anymore.”
“He thinks he’s going to beat the case?”
Kevin nods. “He thinks both he and Moe are going to walk.”
“He could be right.”
“What’s worse is Tags thinks it’s in his best interest for Moe to walk.”
“Do you think Cecilia believes her life would be better if Moe did life without parole?”
Kevin shrugs. “I don’t know. But I wouldn’t mind being the one to give her a glimpse of her future.”
Chapter Sixty
We take the drive to Cecilia’s house in Chestnut Hill. On the way, we pass Fenway Park, another Boston landmark that will forever remind me of my victims and my murderers. No place is sacred for me anymore, not the stately brownstones on Commonwealth Avenue, or the golden dome of the statehouse, not even the Green Monster.
There’s no traffic at this hour and the ride takes less than twenty minutes. Cecilia will probably be hostile, but she isn’t a defendant so we don’t have to notify a lawyer that we’re going to see her. We decide not to call ahead and let her know we’re coming because she’d probably hang up on us or tell us not to bother or, worse, call Anthony.
We don’t expect a warm welcome. When she answers the door, she exceeds our expectations.
“You’ve got nerve coming here.”
Kevin lodges his foot in the door before she has a chance to slam it. “Hear us out.”
“Please leave me alone.”
“You might like to hear what we’re offering,” I say.
“Is it a plea? The only thing I want to hear is you’re offering Moe a deal.”
At least we have her attention.
“We’re not here to talk about Moe, this is about you,” I say.
“It’s a lifeline,” Kevin says.
She starts to turn away.
“We know about your place in Beverly Hills,” I say.
She stops, spins around, and, for the first time, shows a hint of vulnerability. “Does Moe know?”
“Can we come in?” Kevin says.
She steps aside and we follow her into the kitchen. A pot of coffee is on the counter, and a plate of freshly made brownies is on the table, with a stack of unopened bills. My stomach grumbles, but she doesn’t offer us snacks. She doesn’t even offer us seats.
We stand around the kitchen table.
“We know you’re afraid of him,” I say. “You went to great efforts to hide ownership of the home. Nothing is in your name. Well, almost nothing.”
She stiffens; her tough exterior is back. “What do you want?”
“We can protect you,” I say.
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“You don’t want Moe back in the house, do you?” I say.
“Your sister told us she’s afraid of him too,” Kevin says.
Cecilia spins the plate of brownies around on the table. Kevin looks at me and I give him a quick nod. We didn’t want to resort to threats, but it seems like the best thing for everyone.
“We’ll have to tell his lawyer about Beverly Hills. It’d be a violation of discovery rules to keep it to ourselves.”
She pulls out a chair, sits at the kitchen table, and puts her head in her hands. Encouraged, we sit too.
“Don’t you want him to stay in prison?” I say.
She takes a breath, exhales loudly. “What if I help you but he still gets out? Then what am I supposed to do?”
“If you help us, tell us about the gun, he won’t get out,” Kevin says.
“His lawyer said I’m an accomplice.”
“I’ll give you immunity. You won’t be prosecuted,” I say.
“If Moe is convicted, how will I live? How will I support myself and the kids?”
“You’re married. If he goes to prison for life, you and your kids will have a claim to his money,” I say.
“But now that we’re married, I can’t testify against him. That’s what his lawyer said.”
Anthony must’ve been worried Cecilia would flip. He’s covered all the angles.
“That’s not entirely true,” I say. “I can’t force you to testify against him, but you can if you want to. In Massachusetts, spousal privilege belongs to the witness, not the defendant. So it’s up to you.”
She starts to tear up, finds a tissue, and blots her eyes. “I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Your sister’s husband is dead because of him,” Kevin says. “Is this the kind of home you want your kids to grow up in? You want everyone to live in fear?”
We’ve given her a lot to think about. If she makes a decision on the spot, she could change her mind. Whatever she decides, we need it to be definitive.
I give her my card. Kevin gives her a subpoena. All I can do is hope that she shows. A lot is riding on it. If Cecilia doesn’t testify against Moe, it could be the end of the case.
Chapter Sixty-One
Word spreads that we have a surprise witness, and the rumor mill goes into full gear. The press corps somehow got ahold of the jail vis
itors’ log; reporters know we went to Nashua Street and they think Tags has flipped. Other theories float around as well. People speculate that the rebuttal witness could be Rebecca, or the team owner, with new information. By the looks on their faces, no one was expecting me to call Cecilia Morrissey to the stand, not even Moe.
She arrives at the courthouse late and refuses to talk to me or Kevin. She’s not giving me a hint of what to expect, but she’s here and she’s willing to testify. She could take the Fifth or claim spousal privilege, but no lawyer has filed an appearance on her behalf, which gives me hope.
I gather my thoughts as the clerk swears her in. Somewhere between Do you solemnly swear and So help you God, Anthony objects. He comes up with an arsenal of reasons why she shouldn’t be allowed to testify, starting with marital privilege and ending with his not being notified.
“Overruled,” Judge Levine says. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”
Cecilia moves to the witness box, sits up straight, and fixes her gaze on me, avoiding eye contact with Moe and the jury. On my way to the podium, I catch Kevin’s smile out of the corner of my eye.
“Could you introduce yourself to the members of the jury,” I say.
“Cecilia Bond.”
Moe stands and leans over the table and speaks directly to her. “Cecilia Morrissey. You took my name when we got married.”
His tone is sharp, his demeanor is menacing. I couldn’t have scripted this any better. A couple of jurors are startled by the outburst. Three jurors lean away in disgust. The court officers take a step closer to Moe and I take a step away. A defendant hurled a table at me once, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience.
“Sit down, sir,” the judge says.
Anthony whispers to Moe, who reluctantly complies with the judge’s order. People are scared, which means this is the perfect time to ask the clerk for the gun that has been entered into evidence.
“Have you seen this weapon before?” I say.
Cecilia seems empowered by her audience. I barely have to ask any questions. The words flow as though she’s been holding back for years.
“I told him a million times, I never wanted a gun in the house. I didn’t know why we needed one. He insisted. That’s the gun he gave me after the murders. That’s the murder weapon.”
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