Judge Weissberg looked directly at each of the Cassidys.
Then he picked up his gavel and slammed it as hard as he could onto a wooden block, which resounded like a gunshot and startled everyone in the room.
“Dismissed,” he said.
37
Jesse lagged behind the Cassidys as they left the courthouse.
Richard and Portia were clearly agitated. Courtney seemed stunned.
They headed toward a black Lincoln Town Car that was waiting for them at curbside. A driver opened the back door.
“I suppose you’re satisfied,” Portia said to her husband.
He didn’t say anything.
“We got shafted. I certainly hope you’re planning to withdraw your support from his reelection campaign.”
Richard remained silent.
“Well,” Portia said.
She looked at him.
They were now standing beside the Lincoln. The driver stood awkwardly next to them, holding on to the car door as if for ballast.
Courtney stood apart, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her eyes downcast. She didn’t look at either of her parents.
“How dare he abandon us like that,” Portia said. “Who contributed more than we did.”
“He must have come under some kind of scrutiny,” Richard said.
“Probably from someone who has an ax to grind with you.”
“Why don’t you stay out of it, Portia. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh? Now I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Keep out of it.”
“To hell with you, Richard.”
“Most likely he couldn’t risk being compromised,” he said, as if to himself.
“So she has to pay the price,” Portia said, indicating Courtney.
“I don’t mind,” Courtney said, looking up at her parents at last.
“What,” Portia said.
“Please stop arguing. I’ll do what the judge said. I can’t stand this constant arguing.”
“We’re only looking out for your best interests,” Richard said.
“You’re not. You’re making me the scapegoat so that the two of you can continue to fight with each other.”
Neither of her parents said anything.
“You hate each other.”
“How dare you say a thing like that,” Portia said.
“It’s true. You hate him. You never say anything nice to him. You’re horrible.”
“Don’t talk to your mother that way,” Richard said.
“You’re no better than she is,” Courtney said.
“Get in the car,” Portia said.
“No.”
“Do you want to be grounded?”
“I’m as good as grounded already. What does it matter?”
Portia walked over to Courtney and angrily grabbed her arm. “I said get in the car.”
“Fuck you,” Courtney said, breaking free of Portia’s grasp.
Portia slapped her.
Courtney reached for her face, fighting back tears.
Richard stepped between them.
“Do as your mother says. Get in the car.”
“Fuck you, too,” she said.
She stepped to the car and opened the front passenger-side door. She looked at her parents with contempt.
“You don’t know anything,” she said.
She got in the car and slammed the door behind her.
Richard and Portia exchanged angry glances. They climbed into the backseat. The driver closed the door after them, quickly got into the car, and drove away.
Jesse stepped from the courthouse shadows. He watched the Lincoln disappear into the late-morning traffic.
When it was out of sight, he got in his cruiser and drove off.
38
The mood on the set was euphoric. The first week had gone smoothly, and the production was both on schedule and on budget.
More important, the rushes had shown Marisol to be delivering the most complex and fully realized performance of her career. Although it was still early in the process, expectation levels for the movie were on the rise.
The Hollywood-based studio executive who was overseeing the production had phoned Marisol to offer his compliments and to schmooze with her.
“Marisol,” said the voice on the other end of the line, “it’s Ross Danielson.”
“Ross,” she said. “What a lovely surprise.”
“I just had to pick up the phone and tell you how amazing the dailies are.”
“Really?”
“You know what a fan of yours I am,” he said. “I’ve never seen you better.”
“Oh, Ross. That’s so sweet of you.”
“I totally mean it. I’m already smelling Oscar.”
Marisol giggled.
“I totally mean it. I’ve mentioned it to Sumner, and he’s instructed me to start formulating a campaign.”
“An Oscar campaign?”
“Absolutely.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Just keep up the good work. Bonnie Garvin in marketing and I are trying to clear our schedules so that we can fly out to see you.”
“You mean visit the set?”
“I do.”
“Wow.”
“I’ll let you know,” he said.
Fresh flowers sent from the head of the studio appeared in her motor home. Elaborate gift baskets filled with fine wines, fresh fruit, and exotic cheeses showed up in her hotel room.
Frankie had asked Jesse to stop by at lunchtime, and they were seated together in the catering tent when Marisol poked her head in. She sat down with them, accompanied by Crow.
“I heard you were on set,” she said to Jesse. “I wanted to stop by and say hello.”
Jesse smiled at her.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Marisol said. “Mr. Crow here has looked after me very well.”
Jesse looked at Crow, whose flat-eyed expression revealed nothing.
“Your lovely phone has worked miracles,” she said. “Not a single call from him. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”
“Which shows in the work,” Frankie said. “Things are going extremely well.”
“I’m very pleased to hear that,” Jesse said.
“We owe you, Jesse,” Marisol said.
“Not at all,” he said.
She stood.
“I just wanted to stop by and say hello,” she said to Jesse. Then she turned to Crow.
“Mr. Crow,” she said. “I think I have just enough time for a quick nap.”
She smiled and headed for the exit.
Crow stood. He looked briefly at Jesse.
“Mr. Crow,” Jesse said.
“I’d appreciate it if you would call me that, too,” Crow said.
Then he hurried over to Marisol and accompanied her out of the tent.
“She’s happy,” Frankie said.
“Seems that way.”
“She hasn’t heard from him all week. She told me he’s gone camping.”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“She said that Crow made her feel safe.”
“He tends to do that.”
Frankie looked at her watch.
“We’re almost back. I have to go speak with the First AD.”
They stood, and Jesse walked with her to the AD trailer.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied,” Frankie said.
“I understand.”
“I’ll call you.”
She kissed him lightly and then disappeared into the trailer.
39
Ryan waited until dark before returning to the cottage. It was Sunday, and the movie company would be at rest until tomorrow.
He drove by the shooting location and saw only a single vehicle parked in front of it. He assumed it belonged to the security officer assigned to look after the equipment, who had more than likely made himself comfortable inside.
Ryan conti
nued past the cottage.
Once out of sight, he turned the Prius around, driving past the location until he reached the cottage closest to the intersection of Lakeside Drive and Fisherman’s Road. This cottage, too, had been closed up for the winter.
He turned into the driveway and headed for the back. Once there, he got out of the car and walked to the detached garage. He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, jimmied the lock, and opened the door. He backed the Prius inside. He reached for his backpack and closed the garage door behind him.
Using the cottages on his side of the road as cover, he made his way past the location, stopping across the way from the cottage he had chosen. When he was certain that no one was watching, he ran across the road.
He walked to the rear of the cottage and opened the kitchen door, which he had earlier left unlocked.
Once inside, he emptied his backpack. He had brought a two-day supply of food, which he placed in a kitchen cabinet.
Then he went to the smaller of the two bedrooms, where he unloaded the rest of his things.
He picked up his .38-caliber Beretta automatic pistol and press-checked it. He placed it on the night table.
He looked at his watch. It was three-fifteen a.m. He yawned.
He lay down and made himself comfortable.
He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when he pulled the trigger.
40
When Courtney came out of the main building of the Wilburforce School, she was surprised by the sight of Jesse Stone standing beside his cruiser.
“What are you doing,” she said to him.
“Working on my tan.”
“No. I mean what are you doing here?”
Jesse looked at her.
“Waiting for you.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
“So why are you waiting for me?”
“What did you think of the hearing?”
“I think I was railroaded.”
“‘Railroaded’?”
“Yes.”
“Do you even know what the word means?”
“I was dealt with unfairly.”
“It was your mother, right?”
“My mother what?”
“Who used the word.”
Courtney didn’t say anything.
“I guess the arrogance is hereditary.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You weren’t railroaded, Courtney. No one was out to get you.”
She shifted uncomfortably.
“The first thing that has to happen, if you’re going to learn anything from this, is that you have to accept responsibility for what you did.”
Jesse moved away from his car and stood face-to-face with her.
“You made a mistake. Several of them. But what’s done is done. Now you have to admit those mistakes and take responsibility for them.”
“Why are you hassling me this way? Isn’t it enough that you made me lose my license, and now I have to walk everywhere? That I have to endure six months of some stupid community service?”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“Why are you so exasperating,” Courtney said.
“It’s time for you to learn that you’re not acting in your own best interests.”
“I don’t have to listen to this crap.” She turned away from him.
“You’d do yourself a favor if you took what I’m saying seriously,” he said. “You can’t help yourself if you don’t first recognize that you need help.”
Courtney started to walk away. Over her shoulder, she called back to him.
“Screw you,” she said.
“My point exactly,” he said.
41
It was early Monday evening when Jesse pulled up in front of the Community Services Building. He made his way to William Goodwin’s office.
Ida Fearnley greeted him warily.
“He’s waiting,” she said.
She ushered him inside, where he found Goodwin standing at his desk. Beside him stood Oscar LaBrea, pointing a short-barreled Ruger .45-millimeter automatic pistol at Jesse.
Ida remained in the room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it.
“Aw, hell,” Jesse said.
“In case you’re wondering, I know how to use it,” Oscar said. “Put your gun on the commissioner’s desk.”
Jesse sighed.
He took the Colt from his shoulder holster, turned it so that the handle was facing Goodwin, and placed it on the desk. Then he sat down.
“What’s this about,” he said.
“You’ve flown too close to the flame,” Goodwin said.
“Quit talking in metaphor.”
“Are you aware of what the people of Massachusetts are getting away with? Have you any idea how much they’re receiving for so little?”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“People are being given the bargain of their lives, and they neither appreciate nor respect it. I tried for years to get them to listen. No one cared. As a result, we continue to squander our most important natural resource. Every time someone takes a piss and flushes the toilet, one and a half gallons of clean water flushes away with it. What’s wrong with this picture?”
He began to pace the room. His already high-pitched voice continued to rise with his anxiety level.
“This despicable behavior has to stop.”
Goodwin sat down, weary from the energy expended on his diatribe.
“Unbeknownst to them, however, the citizens of Paradise have been personally funding the water facilities of the disenfranchised. Thanks to our efforts,” Goodwin said, with a nod to Oscar and Ida, “hundreds of thousands of dollars have been anonymously contributed to help cure the world’s water ills. We are singlehandedly changing the planet, drop by drop.”
“Illegally,” Jesse said.
“What?”
“Regardless of whatever good you think you may be doing, you’re breaking the law. You’ll be held accountable for it.”
“Accountable to whom,” Goodwin said.
“To the citizens of Paradise.”
“Who’s going to tell them?”
“I am,” Jesse said.
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” LaBrea said, stepping closer to Jesse. “You won’t be alive to tell them.”
Jesse turned to LaBrea, whose pistol was still trained on him.
“I’m going to shoot you, you bastard,” LaBrea said.
42
The second week of filming was devoted entirely to night work.
The crew had been called for the late afternoon and had completed their prep by sunset. Now they waited for darkness to fall.
At magic hour, those final moments of the good natural light of day, the cast and crew were on set, blocking the scene they were about to shoot. The scene took place on the back porch of the cottage.
As night began its slow descent, bringing with it wisps of cloud and a hint of fog, the director rehearsed the actors, placing them in the various positions that the scene required.
The cinematographer stood alongside the director, noting the actors’ movements during the rehearsal.
A camera assistant placed different-colored strips of masking tape on the floor, to indicate the marks the individual actors would need to hit during the scene.
Other crew members delivered props to the set, hung and focused lights, and laid dolly track for the smooth movement of the camera mount. Wardrobe personnel carried costumes and accessories.
Craft service employees brought trays of sandwiches and beverages to a specially laid table located within easy access of the set. Bowls filled with fruit and plates full of cakes and cookies were already on the table. As were jars filled with candy. This allowed members of the cast and crew to grab a snack or a drink without having to venture far from the action.
A group of extras stood at the ready, waiting to be selected by one of the assistant directors for inclusion
in the background activity of the scene. Extras were hired by the day, depending on the dictates of the screenplay.
As this was a night shoot, the number of extras was held to a minimum. On this night, only eight of them were in attendance. Later in the evening, when the action moved to the front of the house, they would be called on to appear either on the street or in passing vehicles. As of now, they were gathered near the set, watching the proceedings.
Unnoticed by cast and crew in his beard and wig was Ryan Rooney. He had left the commandeered cottage at nightfall, emboldened by the pipeful of Shabu he had smoked.
He felt great. He felt strong. He was ready.
He walked with purpose to the set. In the organized chaos of working in partial darkness, nobody paid him any mind.
He stood within sight of Marisol, but for all intents and purposes, he was invisible.
—
Ryan watched as the director finished blocking the scene.
He saw Marisol being accompanied to the makeup trailer by a large man who appeared to be Native American. The man seemed fit, and his movements were lithe and economical. Ryan presumed he was either her assistant or her bodyguard. Or both.
He waited.
She emerged from the makeup truck in the company of the Indian and went to her personal trailer, which was parked a few feet from the set.
He waited.
She soon emerged, in costume and full makeup, ready for work. The Indian led her to the set and the nearby row of canvas-backed director’s chairs. One of them had her name embroidered on it.
Marisol sat in her chair and was soon joined by another woman, who Ryan recognized as Frankie Greenberg, whom he remembered from Tomorrow We Love.
She sat down next to Marisol, a leather-bound script in her hand.
It was dark, and when Frankie opened her script and turned to a specific page, she held a flashlight over it. Marisol studied the page, the two women chatting quietly.
Ryan noticed Marisol signaling to the Indian, pointing to Frankie’s script and shrugging her shoulders as if to suggest that she wanted her own copy.
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