“Objection,” Anthony says. “There’s no question in front of the witness.”
“Ask another question,” the judge says.
“Did you see him with the gun after the murder of Wayne Ellis?” I say.
“I can do better than that. I saw him give it to Tags before both men were killed and I saw him take it back after they were dead.”
“Do you know what he did with it?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Objection,” Anthony says. “Hearsay. Calls for speculation. No foundation.”
“How do you know what he did with the gun?” Judge Levine says.
“Because he gave it to me.”
“Why did he give it to you?” I say.
“He told me to get rid of it. He said he paid Tags to kill them.”
“Objection,” Anthony says.
“Sit down,” the judge says.
“What did you do with the gun?” I say.
“I tossed it in the lake.”
I take a breath, look at Kevin to be sure I didn’t miss anything. He gives me the nod.
“Nothing further,” I say.
Anthony leans in and whispers to Moe for a full minute. Then, he flips through his legal pad and stares at a blank page. Finally, he stands.
“You didn’t see your husband kill anyone.”
“Nope.”
“And you don’t know who did.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Your husband’s behavior has been erratic, hasn’t it?”
“Sure.”
“That’s all.”
I stand. “How long have you known Moe Morrissey?”
“Since high school.”
“Has his behavior changed? Or was he always like this?”
“This is him. He’s always been angry and violent.”
Moe yells out, “You didn’t seem to mind when I was paying the bills.”
I could object and ask the judge to admonish Moe for his outburst, but I want the jury to experience his rage.
“I loved you before you had money,” Cecilia says. “And I love you now. But I don’t love what you did. And I think you need to be punished.”
On my way back to the table, I glance at the jurors. Two men, the firefighter and the retired history professor, are shaking their heads in disgust—I hope it’s meant for Moe and not Cecilia. The accountant is clucking her tongue. I’m not sure what to make of that.
Chapter Sixty-Two
As soon as Cecilia gets off the stand, both sides rest. All that’s left is closing arguments and jury instructions. Since I wasn’t sure what Cecilia was going to say, I wasn’t able to fully prepare my closing. I’ll have to think on my feet. Fortunately, the defense goes first, which gives me a little extra time.
Anthony is effective. He uses all the standard defense arguments: the case is based on circumstantial evidence, there are recanting witnesses, police corruption. He hits his stride when he points at me and goes on a rant about prosecutorial misconduct. After about an hour of insults and accusations, he pauses, looks at his client. Then he turns to the jury and sums up:
“Moe Morrissey did not commit one murder, never mind two murders. He wasn’t anywhere near the scene of the crime. He never pulled the trigger, and he doesn’t know who did. He is an innocent man, suffering from a debilitating condition—a good man who has done great things for this city. There’s only one just verdict in this case. Find my client not guilty.”
I have the burden of proof, so I go last. I argue that Moe didn’t have to pull the trigger. He was the mastermind. I remind the jurors of the testimony and the exhibits. And I talk about motive.
“The defense wants you to believe that Moe didn’t do it, but that if he did, he’s crazy. You can’t have it both ways.” I take a breath, look the jurors in the eye, as though it pains me to say what comes next. “Moe Morrissey may have been the pride of Boston, but not anymore. No one wants to believe he did what he’s accused of, but you have to put your emotions aside and look at the evidence. Moe Morrissey is responsible for the murders of two innocent men. He should not be celebrated, he should be punished. Find him guilty.”
When I’m done, I take my seat. The case is over. There are no more witnesses, no more evidence, no more arguments. All that’s left is the judge’s jury instructions, and the verdict.
As soon as the jury goes out to deliberate, I go out the back door of the courthouse and take a walk. I always need to clear my head after closing arguments, and I usually take a stroll with Kevin, but last time we got a little too close. We talked about keeping our relationship platonic, which upset Ty. Out of respect for Ty, I’m going to try to avoid those situations.
As I pass by the back of the statehouse, I see a familiar face and do a double take. It’s Mike Chase, wearing a suit and tie using his remote to unlock his car.
We lock eyes.
I can’t help myself. “Are you here to beg your state rep to help get your job back?”
“You and your boyfriend made sure that’ll never happen.”
“Good.” I wish I could take credit for his demise, but he doesn’t need to know it wasn’t me.
“Thanks to him, and to you, I got kicked off the force.”
“Don’t thank us. You can thank yourself for that.”
They took away his gun, but still, he looks like he could smack me. Before this gets any more heated, I head down the hill and back to Bulfinch. Chase has lost his job, but that’s not a fair punishment. Something more needs to happen.
I go directly to Stan’s office, and his assistant buzzes him. He’s in a meeting but he comes out to the reception area, anxious for information about the case.
“They couldn’t be back this fast. Could they?” Stan says. A quick verdict in a complicated double homicide would not be good for the prosecution.
“No, I’m not here about the verdict. I’m here to ask for a favor.”
He tilts his head, gives me the side eye.
“You’re supposed to wait until after the jury finds him guilty before you ask for time off, or a raise, or whatever it is you’re looking for.”
“This isn’t for me. It’s for justice.”
Stan laughs.
“Can you call a former colleague at the FBI? I want to take out a criminal complaint against Mike Chase. He should be charged with civil rights violations.”
“Go to the Brookline District Court. The clerk can issue a complaint.”
“I want to make a federal case out of it.”
As he considers, I push the button I know any elected official will respond to. “You can take the credit. I don’t care—as long as he has to answer to civil rights charges in the United States District Court.”
When Stan agrees to make the call, I text Ty and ask him to meet me at the FBI office across from the courthouse. Special agent in charge of the public corruption unit, Ken Kramer, interviews me. He’s a just-the-facts kind of guy, which in this case is perfect.
He asks a series of questions to test the strength of the case, as well as my memory and my resolve.
“What hand did Detective Chase use to hold the gun?”
“The right.”
“Did your boyfriend obey his commands?”
“Yes.”
“Did Chase identify himself as a police officer?”
“Not until after the assault.”
“Are you willing to testify in a federal grand jury?”
“Tell me when and I’ll be there.”
When he’s done with me, he leaves to talk to Ty. While he’s gone, I pace around, checking and rechecking my texts. I don’t expect a verdict, but the jury could have a question and I have to be available. About an hour later, Agent Kramer and Ty return.
“I’ll run it up the flagpole,” Kramer says, “but I’m pretty sure they’re going to want me to open an investigation.”
When we get in the elevator, Ty faces me, puts his hands on my shoulders. I can barely meet his eyes.
“It’s just a job.”
Ty kisses my forehead. “Putting killers in jail wouldn’t be my first choice for you. It’s stressful and dangerous. But I know how important it is to you. It’s a big part of who you are, and your passion and commitment are part of the reason I love you.”
“And your patience and kindness are part of the reason I love you.” This time, I’m the one who moves in for a kiss. “Plus, you’re really handsome.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Ty and I walk hand in hand into the courthouse and we settle in a conference room, where we wait for any word from the jury. A couple of hours later, Kevin knocks on the door.
“Come on in.” Ty stands and shakes Kevin’s hand. “I want you to know I appreciate what you do.”
Kevin looks at me, as though he’s wondering, Am I being punked?
“I’m serious. I didn’t want Abby to tell you about my run-in with Chase, but I’m actually glad she did. Out of all of us, you were the one who handled it appropriately. So thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But that doesn’t mean I want you spending so much time with my girlfriend.” Ty smiles, even though he’s not kidding.
Kevin checks his phone. My phone starts to vibrate too.
“The jury’s back,” I say.
Ty, Kevin, and I walk up three flights of stairs, but halfway up, I have to stop and catch my breath. I’m winded, not from the exercise—from the anxiety. A feeling of dread takes hold. I’m frozen in place and I can’t seem to get my feet to move.
“Babe, you’re sweating,” Ty says.
“I know you’re in lousy shape, but we take this walk practically every day,” Kevin says.
“Give me a minute.” I hold on to the railing while I gather my thoughts.
“You put on a good case, especially considering what you were up against,” Kevin says.
I wish he would stop. I don’t want a pep talk right now, I want an Ativan.
“Come on, baby,” Ty says, “I got you.”
Ty takes my arm and we continue up to the courtroom. We’re the last to arrive; even the judge is on the bench.
“Bring in the jurors,” Judge Levine says as soon as he sees us walk in.
I take my place at the table. My mouth is dry and I want to pour myself a glass of water from the pitcher, but my hands are shaking and I don’t want to draw attention to myself.
The jurors file in. As they pass Moe, they all look him straight in the eye. This is a bad sign. Usually jurors avoid eye contact right before issuing a guilty verdict. My heart sinks into my stomach.
“Has the jury reached its verdict?” Judge Levine says.
“We have,” the foreman says.
“What say you, is the defendant Moe Morrissey guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty.”
There is a blur of reactions behind me; the most audible is from Moe: “I want a recount.”
This isn’t a foul ball, where the ump can call for an instant replay, but the judge can poll the jury, and that’s what he does. Moe glares at each juror as they announce their findings. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. After juror number twelve speaks, it’s official. As Moe is cuffed and shackled and taken away, I realize that I’ve been holding my breath.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Guilty verdicts in a first-degree-murder case provide both a sense of relief and validation, but it’s not cause for celebration. Nothing good has happened. Someone has died. Someone is going to prison for life. Both the victims’ and the defendants’ families are devastated. It’s a waste all around. Still, when I wake up the next morning, I can’t help but smile a little.
I spend most of Saturday in bed, only getting up a couple of times—to make thank-you calls to Cecilia and Rebecca, to touch base with Rudy’s and Wayne’s families, and to eat the homemade cranberry scones that Ty has prepared.
On Sunday, I have no choice. I have to get out of bed; it’s the baby’s christening, and I’m surprisingly excited about it. I haven’t had a chance to spend any time with Joy Elizabeth, or Elizabeth Joy, as my mother insists on calling her, and I’m looking forward to seeing her. My parents and their drama, however, not so much.
The ceremony is at the Advent Church on the bottom of Beacon Hill. It’s where Charlie, George, and I were all baptized. My father was baptized there too, as was my grandfather and great-grandmother. I attended services there as a child, but I’ve only been here once in the past decade—after Tim was murdered. I was looking for a sign from the universe that things would be okay. All I got was a migraine, so I never returned.
When Ty and I walk in, we see Charlie and Missy are across the room. I catch Missy’s eye, and she smiles. They both seem to have forgiven me. Fortunately, it’s difficult to stay angry when Joy is around. She’s adorable, with big blue eyes, a full head of brown hair, and the sweetest smile.
“She’s wearing my brother George’s baptism outfit,” I say to Ty.
I hold back tears and look around the church; the dark wood and heavy adornments seem to contradict the reason for our visit. Ty and I join my parents in the front pew. I’m relieved to see that they’re seated next to each other, my mother seems sober, and neither has brought a date.
When it’s time for the ceremony, I join Charlie, Missy, and Charlie’s roommate from Harvard at the front of the church. The white-robed bishop begins a series of questions, and Missy and Charlie provide the responses.
“What do you ask of God’s church for Joy Elizabeth?”
“Faith.”
“Do you renounce the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God?”
“Yes.”
When it’s my turn, Missy puts the baby in my arms and I instantly fall in love. I listen and respond to what is asked, but my focus is on Joy—her curiosity, her innocence, and her trust.
“Will you by your prayers and witness help this child to grow to the full stature of Christ?”
Even though I’m not religious, I will do anything for this child. Someday, I might even want one for myself.
“I will.”
I glance over at Ty, who smiles and nods. He looks down and my eyes follow his. My mother and father are holding hands.
When the service is over, I join Ty, give him a kiss.
“You look like a natural up there holding the baby,” he says.
“I can’t lie; it felt pretty good.”
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I can see it: hope and possibility. Maybe, someday, Ty and I will create a family of our own.
Also by Pamela Wechsler
THE GRAVES
MISSION HILL
About the Author
PAMELA WECHSLER grew up in the Boston area and is a graduate of Tufts University and Boston University School of Law. After spending seventeen years as a criminal prosecutor at the local, state, and federal levels, she moved to Los Angeles to work as a legal consultant, writer, and producer for network television shows. Her credits include Law and Order; Law and Order: Criminal Intent; Law and Order: Trial by Jury; Conviction; Canterbury’s Law; Doubt; and Bull. She is the author of Mission Hill and The Graves. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Also by Pamela Wechsler
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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