Eight in the Box

by Raffi Yessayan

  “They still have no idea why he’s doing this?”

  “None.”

  “Did they find any evidence, any clues?”

  “She did know the guy was in the house before he attacked her.”

  Mitch stopped twisting a paper napkin from the dispenser and looked at Connie.

  “It looks like she might have tried to call for help from her cell. The crime lab took the phone to be fumed for prints.” Mitch was a great audience. “They’re hoping maybe he grabbed it from her.”

  Mitch dropped the twisted paper. “You said Alves knew this woman.”

  “He grew up with her. He had to tell her mother the bad news. I feel sorry for this guy if Alves gets to him.”

  “There you are.” Nick stood in the restaurant’s door, calling across the crowded room. Right behind him, Connie could see, was Monica, looking irritated. “Thanks for inviting us to breakfast.”

  Connie gave Mitch a dip of the head, letting him know the conversation was over, and Mitch nodded.

  “Your invitation must have been lost in the mail.”

  The waitress deftly slid a plate with a stack of pancakes and cheese grits toward Mitch. “Is this for you or the whole table?” she asked Connie as she put down a serving-sized bowl of grits. “How on earth are you going to eat all that, son?”

  Connie offered a smile. “I can handle it. Thanks.”

  “What’ll it be for you all?” she said, turning to Nick and Monica.

  “Thanks, we’ll eat at the counter,” Nick said.

  Monica stood there for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders before following Nick.

  Connie winked at Mitch then picked up his spoon and started in on his mountain of grits.

  CHAPTER 31

  Going out for breakfast had broken up their morning routine. Now Connie and Mitch were taking turns answering on their cases in Judge Davis’s session.

  Connie admired Judge Davis. He treated everyone with respect. Even more important, he cared about the people in Roxbury. Judge Davis referred to his courthouse as a “beacon of hope for the people of Roxbury.” He had shown his commitment by staying in the community, even after he’d become a successful attorney and then a judge. Born and raised in Roxbury, he had every intention of dying there. From the comments he made from the bench it was clear that he believed that the person sitting in judgment of the many black defendants should himself be black.

  Some of the old-timer Jewish defense attorneys said that he was a man who had true rachmanas, the Yiddish word for mercy. They knew that Judge Davis was never afraid to give someone a second chance, regardless of any criticism he might take from the public or the media. He wanted people to feel that they could come to his court and find true justice. But if he gave someone that second chance and they made him look bad by committing another crime, he wasn’t shy about sending that person to jail.

  “Commonwealth versus Isaac McCreary,” the clerk called out.

  “Good morning, Your Honor.” Connie stood up and looked toward the defense attorney as she approached the bar with her client, a sad sack of a man in a print shirt his wife had probably pressed for him that morning. He looked around the courtroom as though he’d been dropped there from another planet.

  Connie checked his watch and saw that it was 12:40 P.M. “I’m sorry, Your Honor, good afternoon, Conrad Darget for the Commonwealth. The Commonwealth is answering not ready for trial on this matter.” Connie felt like a parrot repeating the same words for the eighth time that day. He had summoned the civilian witnesses on all of his cases, but none of them had shown up for court. Typical.

  The only witnesses who did show up were the police on two drug possession cases. Both defendants pled guilty and were placed on probation. Every other case was “dismissed for want of prosecution.” This case was Connie’s last DWOP of the day and he wanted to get it over with. He tried to get at least one trial a week and eight DWOPs on Monday was a bad way to start the week.

  “Mr. Darget,” Judge Davis said, “why has the Commonwealth answered not ready on so many cases this morning?”

  “I’m not sure, Your Honor, but I do apologize to the court,” Connie said. “All of the civilian witnesses I summoned for this morning chose to ignore their subpoenas.”

  “Mr. Darget, I can issue capias writs to have them brought before the court in custody. Is that what you’d like?”

  “No, Your Honor. These cases have all been relatively minor misdemeanors. The case against Mr. McCreary is a dispute between neighbors that ended in a shoving match. Mr. McCreary is charged with assault and battery. The defendant is forty-five years old, has no prior criminal record and the alleged victim has since moved to a new apartment in another neighborhood.”

  “I understand, Mr. Darget. This case is dismissed. What else do we have on the docket?” Judge Davis asked his clerk as Connie stepped back and resumed his seat at the table with Mitch.

  “What a waste of time,” Connie whispered to Mitch. “What do you have left, Red?”

  “One more case, but I don’t think it’s going. The guy’s charged with selling crack in a school zone. He’s looking at the mandatory two. I’m hoping he’ll take a plea with a little bit of jail time if I dismiss the zone. Stick around and see what happens, then we’ll go upstairs.”

  “Commonwealth versus Anthony Furr,” the clerk called the case as Mitch, the defense attorney and the defendant stood up.

  “Mitchum Beaulieu for the Commonwealth,” Mitch said as he approached the bench.

  “Attorney Norman Woodrum for the defendant, Anthony Furr,” the defense attorney said. He and the defendant, a youngish man with an athletic build and a defiant look permanently fixed to his handsome features, approached the bench. Woodrum was a man trapped in the sixties. He had long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a week. If he wasn’t wearing a cheap wrinkled suit, you’d think he’d just jumped out of his Volkswagen bus after returning from Woodstock. But he was much respected as an advocate for his clients. He was a true believer who never trusted the government and fought like a pit bull to give his clients a fair trial. He felt the system was biased against the indigent and against young black men in particular.

  “All right, gentlemen,” Judge Davis said. “Are we ready for trial or is this going to be a plea? What’s your pleasure?”

  “Your Honor,” Mr. Woodrum started, “my client is willing to change his plea to guilty if the court would place him on probation. Mr. Furr is twenty-eight years old and has no criminal record prior to this arrest. He has always held a regular job as a construction laborer and is married with a young daughter. He was laid off several months ago and foolishly started selling drugs to support his family. His first day on the street he sold to an undercover cop and was arrested. This is his first run-in with the law in his twenty-eight years. He certainly does not deserve to go to jail for two years.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Woodrum,” Judge Davis said. “I understand your position and I would love to place your client on probation. Unfortunately, Mr. Furr sold drugs within a school zone and I have no discretion in what sentence he receives. Mr. Beaulieu and the Commonwealth hold all of the cards here. If the Commonwealth doesn’t move to dismiss the school zone charge, your client has to serve the two years in jail, unless, of course, he goes to trial and is acquitted.”

  Connie caught the implication of the judge’s words. He was sure it wasn’t lost on Mitch either. Judge Davis was trying to pressure Mitch into dismissing the school zone charge. The prosecutors didn’t mind giving a man a break, but any leniency should still involve some jail time. The defendant had to be punished for selling the drugs that were ruining lives.

  “Your Honor,” Mitch began. “I appreciate Mr. Woodrum’s argument, but the law is the law and the defendant was selling crack cocaine within a thousand feet of a school, in a neighborhood that’s been plagued with drugs and violence. The Commonwealth would be willing to dismiss the school zone if the
defendant would plead guilty to the distribution and take a six-month term in jail, followed by two years of probation.”

  “This is the problem I have with the school zone law,” Woodrum argued. “Mr. Beaulieu talks about my client selling drugs near a school, knowing that you can’t go anywhere in this city without being within a thousand feet of a school. Every black kid that gets caught with drugs in the city is looking at a mandatory two years in jail, while kids in the lily white suburbs get a slap on the wrist and sent home to Mommy and Daddy. It’s a racist law. And I don’t see how Mr. Beaulieu can pretend it is not.”

  “I’ll tell you how,” Anthony Furr said. “He’s a fuckin’ sellout. A pawn for the white man.”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Furr. I won’t have language like that in my courtroom,” Judge Davis said.

  Furr turned to stare at Mitch. “Remember one thing, my brother. You’re not white, and the day you realize that, it’ll be too late. You’ll have sold your soul to these white devils.”

  Connie watched as the judge raised his eyebrow to the court officer, warning her to be on alert.

  The court officer took her time rising from her chair and approached Furr from behind.

  “And the devils will turn their backs on you. You’ll face your sins alone. There won’t be any brothers left to stand with you, Mr. Beaulieu, because you’ve destroyed their lives.”

  Mitch stood motionless.

  “Mr. Furr,” Judge Davis said, “that’s no way to speak to the man who holds the key to your freedom. I suggest you let your attorney do the talking for you, and please be more respectful to this man if you plan on walking out of this building without handcuffs and shackles.”

  “That’s just it, Judge. Based on what Mr. Beaulieu has said to my attorney, I’m not walking out of this courtroom of my own free will. I’ve sat in here all day,” Furr said as he turned to face the gallery of seats behind him and continued around to face the judge after a complete pirouette, “and I have watched one black defendant after another stand before this court and get no justice. It’s clear to me. I’m going to be taken into custody by this here court officer,” he said as he pointed to the fifty-something-year-old, heavyset woman standing behind him studying her manicure. “And I’m not going to be led off to jail without first giving Mr. Beaulieu a piece of my mind.”

  Connie turned in his chair to face the court officer. He tried discreetly to get her attention. He’d seen Furr perform his little spin move a moment earlier. Furr had become cagey since he’d first approached the judge. Connie could see that he was checking the number of court officers when he turned toward the gallery. But the court officer was oblivious.

  “I’ve never broken the law,” Furr continued. “Not even a speeding ticket. Then just once, I do something stupid to put food on the table and this man wants to send me to jail. Well, Judge, I can’t go to jail. I made a mistake. I’m sorry for what I did. Mr. Beaulieu, no matter how hard you try, you will never wash my blood off your hands. And, Mr. Woodrum, please tell my wife and daughter that I love them.”

  Anthony Furr turned toward the gallery, this time with no intention of turning back toward the court, and made a break for the door. The court officer struggled to grab hold of him. Instinctively, Connie stood up and started after Furr. Behind him, he heard the officer calling for backup. Connie was hoping to catch him before he made it to the stairs.

  But Furr wasn’t trying to make it to the stairs. As they closed in on the balcony that looked down on the main foyer to the courthouse twenty feet below, Connie realized that Furr was heading straight for the railing at a full sprint, with no intention of stopping. Connie saw two court officers from another session trying to get to Furr, but all of them were too late.

  Seeing how gracefully he jumped over the balcony rail, tucking his arms by his sides and crashing headfirst into the marble floor below, Connie thought that Furr must have been on the diving team in high school. He never uttered a sound as his body fell. It was a beautiful, perfect dive that led to a horrible, messy death.

  As Connie reached the balcony he looked down and saw Anthony Furr, lifeless, lying on his back, his eyes open, staring up at the domed ceiling of the courthouse. A massive pool of blood began to rapidly expand outward from his crushed skull, like a thick red halo. As Connie turned away, he found Mitch standing next to him. His light brown skin was ashen.

  “So what do you think, Mr. Beaulieu?” Woodrum said as he walked up to them and looked over the balcony at his dead client. “Do you think Boston is a safer place now that you permanently removed Anthony Furr, a father, a husband, a hard-working man, from its streets?”

  “Leave him alone,” Connie said. He could see how shaken Mitch was. “You know Mitch was just doing his job. Your client is dead. You can knock off the act.”

  “May God forgive you for what you’ve done, Mitch Beaulieu,” Woodrum said as he walked toward the stairs leading down to the foyer.

  Mitch sank to his knees. Connie put a hand on his shoulder and lifted Mitch off the floor by his jacket as people from the other courtrooms were drawn out by the commotion, gathering around the balcony.

  “Mitch, get up,” Connie said. “You can’t let people see you like this.”

  “Connie, I…shit, Connie, I just killed that man.”

  “Shut the fuck up. You didn’t kill anyone,” Connie said. He put his arm around Mitch’s back and hurried him toward the stairs. “Let’s get up to the office.” Mitch was silent, barely dragging his feet. “I’m not going to let people see you like this, Red,” Connie said.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Whittier Street Housing Development was spitting distance from One Schroeder Plaza. It was also the current residence of Michael Sampson, a convicted rapist and home invader who had been paroled from MCI–Shirley Prison six months earlier. Convicted rapists weren’t supposed to be living in public housing complexes, but Sampson wasn’t on the lease. He was living with his mother, the way he had his entire adult life—when he wasn’t being housed in a prison.

  Angel Alves rang every doorbell in the building except for one. It took less than a minute for someone to buzz him and Mooney in. Alves propped the door open with a large rock, a trick he had learned as a rookie cop, just in case they needed to call for backup. Any delay in getting help could mean the difference between life and death.

  Alves looked around the first-floor hallway, making sure they were alone, before following Mooney to the third floor. They stood on either side of the door to apartment 301 as Mooney knocked on the door. They listened for sounds inside the apartment. Nothing.

  Then Alves knocked on the door, this time much harder than Mooney. “Boston Police,” he said in a loud voice.

  Now there was movement. At first they heard someone walking around, but no one came to the door.

  A third knock, this time from Mooney and a sterner announcement of police presence in the building.

  Much quicker movement in the apartment now, too quick to be Michael Sampson’s elderly mother. Alves removed his gun from its holster and took a few steps back before launching his body into the door. He heard it crack. He stepped back again and hit it with more force. The doorjamb split open. One hard kick and they were in the apartment.

  “Not bad for a little guy,” Mooney said.

  Alves was already moving through the apartment, clearing each room before moving on to the next. One room left: the bathroom at the end of the hall. Alves heard the toilet flush and tried the door. Locked. “Boston Police!” he shouted, more of a courtesy than anything else, before kicking the door open.

  “Don’t shoot,” Michael Sampson said, his hands over his head, “please don’t shoot me.” Water was flowing out of the toilet onto the floor as he tried to flush away a half pound plastic bag of weed.

  “Shithead, pull that out of there before you flood the building,” Alves said.

  Sampson reached into the toilet and pulled out a large Ziploc bag.

  “Now get out here.
” Alves grabbed Sampson by the back of his shirt and threw him down the hall toward the living room.

  “What do you guys want? I didn’t do nothing.”

  Mooney laughed. “You didn’t do nothing? You think your PO will be cool with you having all that weed?”

  Sampson didn’t respond.

  “I didn’t think so,” Alves said. “We have some questions for you and, unless you feel like going back to Shirley on a parole violation, I expect your complete cooperation. ¿Comprende?”

  Sampson nodded.

  “Where were you Friday night? And it better be the fucking truth.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Connie tended to Mitch the way a paramedic might treat a person with a concussion, trying to keep him awake and alert. Mitch was staring down at the table in front of him, eyes unblinking, face covered in sweat. Connie expected Mitch would be throwing up soon.

  Even behind the closed door, Connie could hear the muted sounds of the commotion below. The two of them wouldn’t be alone for long. Mitch still hadn’t said a word. Now he made a low moaning sound, and Connie rubbed the back of his neck in an effort to comfort him.

  Then the door swung open and Liz Moore came into the conference room. “What’s going on downstairs?” she asked. “The front of the building’s closed off by cops and EMTs.”

  “One of the defendants in the trial session jumped off the second-floor balcony,” Connie said. “Killed himself.”

  She glanced at Mitch and back at Connie. “Who?”

  “One of Mitch’s defendants. We thought he was going to plead guilty. Next thing you know, Woodrum plays the race card. The defendant flips out on Mitch, calling him a sellout. Then he makes a break for it. Lands a perfect ten on a swan dive off the balcony.”

  “What was his name?”