On the other hand, thought Nick, she had a great body, tall and athletic. Not an ounce of fat on her, and blue eyes to go with her short blond hair.
“I’m with the DA’s office too,” Nick said. “I think you’re going to be tagging along with me today in arraignments.”
“I didn’t mean to snap,” she said, taking a moment to grab a breath. “It bothers me when people assume I’m a juror or a victim because I’m a woman.”
Nick nodded. “Sorry for making that assumption,” he said. “Listen, let me show you around. The clerk’s office and probation department are at those counters,” he said, pointing straight ahead past the metal detectors and the security checkpoint. “The courtrooms are this way.” He gestured toward the stairs.
She walked two steps ahead of him as they made their way up the stairs. A swimmer, he figured, or a runner. Hell, she could probably finish the Boston Marathon without breaking a sweat.
“You ever been in a courtroom or argue in front of a judge?” Nick asked as they reached the second floor.
“No.”
“Not even an internship?”
“Nothing.”
“So you really are new at this? Get ready, because you’re about to take a crash course in the criminal justice system.” It was clear he was going to have to teach her everything. Not a bad assignment at all.
“I’ve seen courtrooms on TV. I’m not worried.”
He laughed out loud. He knew she wouldn’t appreciate it, but he couldn’t help it. “You better be worried. It’s a lot different in a real courtroom, when you’re the one standing up there arguing in front of the judge. Let’s see if the first session is open,” he said, pointing down the hall. “I’d rather show you around before the courtroom is crowded.”
Nick directed her down the corridor. On second thought, maybe she was too good-looking. How was he supposed to concentrate on his work?
The door to the courtroom was locked, but he jiggled the handle and it popped open. One of the advantages to working in the same courthouse every day was that he got to know all of the little idiosyncrasies of the building. He held the door for her. They entered the courtroom with its white walls and pale woodwork, and he saw the look of surprise on her face.
“This isn’t at all what I pictured,” she said.
“I told you. Get that TV crap out of your head.”
“I was expecting dark wood-paneled walls and ceilings with antique chandeliers. This place looks so modern and bright. It’s so …plain.” She pointed toward the front of the courtroom and the two tables separated by a podium in front of the bench. “Which table is ours?” she asked.
“The one on the right,” he said. “We are the prosecutors, you know.”
“Right,” she said with a smile. “Thanks. You know? I like this place. I think I’ll be just fine.”
“Don’t get too cocky. You’re still in an empty courtroom. This place will be a circus by ten o’clock. We arraigned more than eight thousand new cases in this courtroom last year. That’s almost seven hundred a month.”
“Do you guys get a lot of jury trials?”
Wow, she was ambitious. Her first day on the job, she hadn’t even done an arraignment and she was trying to figure out how many jury trials she was going to have. “If we’re lucky we average about two a month.”
“That’s all?”
“If you were at a firm you’d be lucky to get one a year.”
“Yeah, but I’m not at a firm. I’m in a courthouse that had eight thousand arraignments last year, remember?”
“What a wiseass.” He laughed. “Very few cases go to trial,” he explained. “Most of them plead out or get dismissed. There are times when you think a case is definitely going but something goes wrong at the last minute. Your witnesses don’t show up, the defendant defaults, the Creole interpreter doesn’t show up or you don’t have enough people to sit a full jury.”
“You actually have days when you can’t get twelve people to show up for jury duty?”
“Eight,” he said. “District courts use six-person juries with two alternates.” He gestured toward the jury box with its eight empty seats. “You could go to trial with six jurors, but if you lost one for any reason—illness or family emergency—you’d have a mistrial and have to start all over.”
She walked toward the front of the room and stood at the podium. She looked back over at the empty courtroom and jury box, and then turned toward the judge’s bench. “How long have you been with the office?” she asked, her head tilted up at the seal of Massachusetts high on the wall behind the bench. It wasn’t an innocent question. She wanted to know how experienced he was, if she should take his advice.
“A year,” he said. “I’ve been at South Bay the whole time. There’s so much turnaround, I’m already one of the more experienced prosecutors here. Liz has been around for three years. Most people leave the office if they don’t get promoted to superior court within three years. Some with political aspirations put a year or two in as a prosecutor so they can say they’re ‘tough on crime.’ But most of us are here to get trial experience that you can’t get anywhere else. That’s how we justify making less money than the secretaries at most big law firms.”
“How many trials have you had?” she asked, still facing the judge’s bench. She didn’t seem overly impressed by his long-winded explanation.
“Ten, over the past six months,” he said. “Most of them were dogs, but the defendants wouldn’t plead guilty, so I took them to trial. They weren’t the sexiest cases, but in the end I’d done ten openings, ten closings and a bunch of directs and crosses.”
She turned toward him, looking at him directly. “What’s your record of wins and losses?”
The one question he had hoped she wouldn’t ask. He didn’t want her to know he had lost every one of his trials. “No one around here cares about wins and losses as long as you try the case.”
“Still, you must keep track of your record.”
“Really, I don’t. If I start counting wins and losses I might get gunshy about trying a case. The way I see it, if a defendant refuses to change his plea to guilty—no matter how weak or strong my case is—then bring in the jurors, give me eight in the box, and let’s start the trial.”
Nick could see that Monica wasn’t impressed with his explanation, and he was starting to lecture her. Here was this gorgeous woman, his captive audience for the day, and he was boring her before their first cup of coffee. He needed to change the subject or he was going to blow this perfect opportunity.
“Shit,” Nick said, looking up at the clock and heading back toward the door. “It’s eight o’clock. We’d better get upstairs and start prepping these files.”
CHAPTER 14
Connie sat at the far end of the conference room watching Andi Norton as she practiced her opening statement. She faltered a few times, and whenever she paused she mumbled a deadening “um…” Still, he had to test her ability to concentrate under stressful conditions. Better for her to panic now than in front of the jury. Connie looked around the room—the bored juror routine. Andi stopped mid-sentence. From the corner of his eye he saw her scrambling to collect her thoughts, finally shaking her head in frustration. “What’s wrong?” he asked innocently.
“You know what’s wrong,” she hissed at him. “Why did you do that to me?”
“You need to focus on your case and nothing else. You can’t worry about what the jurors or the judge are doing. If someone comes into the courtroom during the trial, you don’t turn to see who it is, even if it’s the DA himself.”
“Connie, give me a break,” she said. “I’m not even a goddamn lawyer and I’m about to start a trial.” Her face flushed with intensity.
“I love the emotion you show, but you need to tone it down a bit or you’re going to turn the jurors off. This is a drug case, not a murder.”
“I’m so scared my hands are shaking.” She held her hands out for him. “Can you see that?”
“No.”
“The defendant has no record, so even if you convict him, he’ll probably get probation. Correct?” He was asking her leading questions the same way he’d control a defense witness during a cross-examination.
“Correct.”
Her shoulders had loosened up and the redness in her face had mellowed.
He continued to hold her hands and looked into her eyes. “The way I see it, whatever happens, this case isn’t exactly Sacco and Vanzetti. I understand it’s tough standing up in front of a jury for the first time. What about the first time you did an arraignment or argued a motion in front of a judge?”
“I was nervous.”
“Do you still get the jitters when you argue a motion?”
“Nothing I can’t deal with.”
“Because you’ve gotten used to it. You realize that you know more law than some of the judges. The jury doesn’t know anything about the law. They know even less about the facts of your case. Aside from standing up in front of a bunch of strangers, you have nothing to be nervous about.”
“I’ll trust you on that,” she said, “because right now I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“One more tip to get you into a rhythm at the beginning of the trial: Once the judge tells me I can begin my opening, I take a deep breath and a sip of water. I stand up and slowly push my chair back in to the table.” Connie demonstrated for her. “This little ritual—I know it doesn’t seem like much—gives me a second to pull my thoughts together. The jury is focused on me and nothing else in that courtroom. They’re watching me, and I’m performing some simple movements that I can’t screw up. They see how calm and poised I am, and I haven’t said a word yet.”
“Eventually you have to say something. That’s when I’m going to look like an idiot.”
“You’re not, because the next thing you’re going to do is introduce yourself and tell the jurors what your role is in the trial. Now, you’re talking, but you’re saying something familiar. You can’t mess it up. Before you know it, you’re talking to the jury. From that point on it’s simple: You tell them a story. You explain the facts of the case the same way you explained them to me a few minutes ago. Then you’re examining witnesses, doing a closing argument and the case is over, just like that.” Connie snapped his fingers. “Did you practice your opening and closing last night?”
“Yes, while I was lying in bed.”
“That’ll have to do for today, but from now on you should do it in front of the mirror or just stand in your apartment and imagine you’re in the courtroom. Pretend the couch is the jury box and the TV is the judge, that kind of thing. Either way is good, but I think the mirror works best when you’re first starting out. There’s nothing tougher than watching yourself talk into a mirror.”
“Now I feel like I’m going to screw up.”
“You’ll be fine for your opening. Just tell the story to the jury. The closing is more important. We can work on that at lunch. I’ll be second-seating you, anyway, so if you run into any problems, I’ll jump in. But you’re not going to run into any problems, are you?”
“No,” she said, smiling.
He nodded. “It’s only been a couple of years since I had my first trial, so I know how hard it is. The key is to jump in there and get started, because once you’re on your feet getting into your case—and remember, you’re the one that knows every little detail of it—you won’t have time to be nervous. We’re like actors waiting for our stage call. Once we hit the boards, you can’t hold us back.”
CHAPTER 15
“Good news!” Mooney shouted in Angel’s ear. Like many of the pre–cell phone generation, Mooney shouted into the phone like he was talking to someone in the next room. “I’m at New Balance in Brighton. The irregulars are called factory seconds. This is the only place in the city that sells them. They’re pulling all their credit card sales for me.”
“What if he paid cash?”
“Then we get nothing. I’ll fax the list of names over to the office. Run their BOPs and Triple I them. Let’s see if anyone has a record instate or out.”
“How far back are they going? He could have bought the sneakers months ago.”
“The shoe is a model they put out last month.”
“What about security cameras?” Alves asked. “Do they video the register sales?”
“Yes. But they tape over them every couple of weeks. I need you to check with McCarthy’s credit card companies to see if she bought anything here. Same thing for Hayes. And call Walter McCarthy to see if he can meet me at the house again. Apologize for being such a pain in his ass. Tell him we’re looking for any receipts from New Balance. Maybe that’s where this guy locked onto her.”
“That’s a long shot, isn’t it, Sarge?”
“Everything’s a long shot at this point. Just fuckin’ do it,” Mooney snapped. “We need to look at every link we have to this guy. And tell McCarthy I’ll meet him at the house in an hour. I’ll catch up with you later to see how it’s going with the list.”
“Got it,” Alves said.
“Anything else?” Mooney asked.
“Yeah, some bad news. I heard back from the lab. There were no obvious extraneous hairs or fibers anywhere in the McCarthy house. The dryer vent didn’t turn up anything either. All they found was a lot of lint that’ll be impossible to sort through. No fabric or human cells on the jagged edges of the sheet-metal dryer vent cover. They’re going to keep sifting through the lint, but Eunice didn’t sound enthusiastic.”
Mooney grunted. “I’ll touch base with you later,” he said.
Alves caught the edge of disappointment and urgency in his sergeant’s voice. Mooney was in investigation overdrive. The man was under pressure, both from outside—the commissioner and the mayor—and from within. He seemed to be holding himself responsible for the murders. Angel thought—and not for the first time—that he would never be as driven as Mooney.
CHAPTER 16
The defense attorney was already an hour late. Connie was irritated, but he could see that the long wait in the hall outside the trial session was starting to wear on Andi. She kept adjusting her hair, flipping it back, pulling it forward over her shoulder. The defense attorney was sure to get a lecture from Judge Davis for showing up late on trial day. Good enough for him. “Stay loose.” He touched her shoulder. “This could be a defense tactic to rattle you.”
“Connie.” He turned to see Brendan Sullivan. Brendan had been the rookie prosecutor in the office before Monica Hughes was hired. He had grown up on the streets of South Boston, a product of the D Street projects, one of the toughest public-housing developments in the city. A true Southie boy who had never left home except to go away to college. Connie admired his intelligence, his quick wit and his vicious sense of humor. And nobody put in more time working up a case than Brendan. Like everyone from Southie, Brendan was also politically connected. His influence was a direct line to the DA himself, and he made a point of letting everyone know that he couldn’t lose his job unless he got caught, as he liked to say, with a dead hooker in the trunk of his car.
“What’s up?” Connie said.
“You got a minute?” Brendan waved Connie away from Andi. “I’ve got a case with an old friend, Peter Fitzpatrick.”
Connie smiled. “The state senator’s son?”
“The one and only. We grew up together. Just joined his dad’s law firm. Wants to make a name for himself, impress the old man. He’s trying to pressure me to take care of him on a case.”
“Want me to handle it for you?” Connie asked. “I don’t mind, if you feel uncomfort
able telling him to fuck off.”
“I don’t want you to do my job. I’ve been around here long enough to handle things on my own. I just want to make sure I’m doing the right thing.”
“Go with your gut. If he was really your friend, he wouldn’t put you in this posi—”
“Hey, Sully.”
Connie turned to see a tall, beefy, red-faced Peter Fitzpatrick coming out of the second session. The man’s gym membership had obviously expired some time ago.
“Let him know how things work around here,” Connie said under his breath, through a forced smile of greeting. “Tell him that you don’t hand out favors.” Connie could feel the muscles in his jaw tensing up. The thought of someone using a friendship, trying to curry favor, using political connections for personal gain—all of it went against everything he believed in, everything the system stood for.
Brendan stepped toward Fitzpatrick to shake hands. He was just as tall as the senator’s son, but Brendan was thick with muscle, not bloat.
“C’mon, Sully, do me this one,” Connie heard Fitzpatrick say.
“You know I can’t do that, Pete,” Brendan said. “I have to treat every defendant the same, no matter who his lawyer is.”
“It’s not like that, Sully. My client’s not a bad guy. If he gets a conviction, it’ll end his career. He’s a union carpenter. Needs his car and license to get to work. A cocaine distribution and they’ll yank his license. It’s a felony conviction. Sully, he shared some coke with a friend and an undercover saw it go down. I’m just asking you to cut him some slack and break it down to a straight possession, a misdemeanor. Then maybe I can get the judge to let him plead to sufficient facts. I don’t want him to end up with a guilty on his record.”
The two men exchanged a few words Connie couldn’t make out, and then he heard Brendan, his voice louder, firmer. “This is a legitimate distribution case. It doesn’t matter if he sold the stuff or shared it, it’s still a distribution. How can I reduce it to a possession?”
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