“Anthony Furr,” Connie said.
A look came over Liz’s face. Disappointment? Barely controlled anger? Connie wasn’t sure.
“Woodrum talked to me about this case last week,” she said. “He said Furr wasn’t a real drug dealer, that he’d never been arrested before and he wouldn’t survive in jail. I told him there was nothing I could do for him. Woodrum’s going to raise holy hell. I’d better call the DA before he does.” She looked over at Mitch. His skin was still ashen gray. “Mitch,” she said. “How are you doing?” He stared down at the table. “Bring him into my office,” she said as she stepped out of the conference room.
Once they were in Liz’s office, Connie propped Mitch up in an upholstered armchair. Connie didn’t know if he should leave them alone, but Liz didn’t say anything, didn’t really look at him, so he stood by Mitch’s chair.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Liz said, “but you didn’t do anything wrong. When someone brings up race with one of the white guys, they feel like they’re being labeled a racist. When they do it to you, they make you feel like Judas. You’re not. You’re a good prosecutor. You were doing your job, and you did it well. Furr got caught selling drugs. He’s responsible for what he did. He couldn’t face the penalty for his actions.”
Something in her words seemed to strike Mitch. “Anthony Furr was a decent man who made a mistake. And I stood there selling the company line: If you do the crime, you do the time. I should have listened to his story. Felt some compassion for his circumstances. I never talked to you about the case. Maybe there was something we could have done for him.”
“Would it really have mattered?” she asked. “You know office policy. Even if we reduce the charge, the defendant has to do some jail time.”
“But maybe Furr should have been the exception to the rule. Maybe I showed no compassion toward him because he was black. If that’s the case, then my actions are inexcusable.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Would I have done more for him if he were a white man with no record? Did I assume that he’d be able to survive in jail because he was black? I don’t think that’s what I did. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Listen to me. I’ve supervised you long enough to know that’s not how you think. I’ve watched you in court and the way you handle pleas. You treat everyone with respect and professionalism, no matter what their race. You witnessed something tragic today. But it wasn’t your fault.”
Liz stood up. “Let me tell you a story. My first day on the job, I was excited just to be standing in a courtroom, doing something for the community. I’m preparing a stack of thirty or so arraignments, thinking I’m the good guy and everyone’s going to admire what I’m doing for them. Then the first defendant I’m about to arraign calls me a ‘sellout bitch’ in open court. I look out over the faces in the gallery and can tell they think the same thing. It hurt. I knew that a lot of people in the black community didn’t trust the police or prosecutors, but I believed it would be different for me. As a black woman, I thought I’d have some credibility with witnesses and defendants in the courtroom, that people would see me as a fair prosecutor. I was wrong. But I didn’t let that stop me from doing my job.”
“I took this job for the same reasons. Now I’m not so sure—”
“There are people who appreciate what you do every day. Unfortunately, you don’t get a chance to meet them. All you see in the courthouse are angry defendants and reluctant witnesses who don’t want to be labeled as snitches. But most people in this community want to live in a neighborhood where their children can play outside without the constant fear of gunfire.”
Mitch sat up straighter, his long fingers relaxing on the chair’s arms. Liz was starting to get through to him in a way that Connie could not.
“Mitch, those are the people who respect you and appreciate what you do. You’ll probably never meet them because they’re busy working two jobs and don’t have time to hang around a courthouse and thank you for the work you do.”
Liz moved back toward her desk. “See those two Norman Rockwell prints?” she said, pointing to the wall behind her. There were two gold-framed prints, one of a little black girl in pigtails and a white dress; the other an illustration of parents, circa 1943, lovingly tucking their kids into bed, the father holding a newspaper with a headline of wartime bombing. Connie wanted to get that same Rockwell print of the bed-time scene—after all, Freedom from Fear was the only one of the four freedoms they had control of as prosecutors.
“Those aren’t up there because they’re pretty,” Liz was saying to Mitch. “They’re up there to remind me every morning why I do this job. They help keep me strong in my mission. The print of the little girl is called The Problem We All Live With.”
“That’s the little girl,” Mitch said, “Ruby Bridges, who had to walk the gauntlet every day, escorted by federal marshals, just to go to her desegregated school in New Orleans.”
Liz nodded. “Do you think that six-year-old girl had someone telling her that they appreciated what she was doing for every black child in America? Do you think anyone in that mob told her how much they respected her as they called her ‘nigger’ and threw rotten fruit at her?”
Mitch’s eyes were fixed on the print.
“I’m not nearly as brave as Ruby Bridges,” she continued. “I keep her picture there to remind me of what she did for me, to help me keep fighting for the next generation of children out there. Are you familiar with the other print?”
Mitch nodded. He wiped at his face with his shirtsleeve.
“Our job as prosecutors is to try to make every parent in this city feel that safe about their kids, whether they’re tucking them in bed at night or dropping them off at the park to play. Until we reach that goal, our work isn’t complete.”
Mitch stood up from his chair. “Thanks, Liz. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
“My door’s always open,” she said.
Connie glanced at Liz as Mitch stood up and walked unsteadily out of her office.
“You think he’ll be all right?” Connie asked, looking after him.
She shrugged. “No one has ever killed himself because of me doing my job. My guess is, right now it doesn’t matter what we say. He has to work things out for himself and decide if he really wants to be a prosecutor. Being a prosecutor is a tough job. We have incredible power over other people’s lives.”
CHAPTER 34
Mitch stared at his computer screen saver with its simulation of fast-moving stars. He imagined himself floating through space, dreaming he was someone other than Mitchum Beaulieu, the person responsible for another man’s death.
He wished he were a young kid again, back in Laurel, Maryland, where he’d been raised by his adoptive father, a wealthy, eccentric widower, Marshall Beaulieu. Marshall’s young wife, Christina, had died giving birth to their stillborn child.
Marshall had sworn that he would never love another woman, but he had always wanted a son to carry the Beaulieu name. His father told him how sometime after Christina’s death he’d decided to adopt a child. He traveled to the Sisters of Hope orphanage in Baltimore to find a son. All of the children looked the same to him with their fair skin, blond hair and blue eyes.
Then Marshall Beaulieu saw a young boy, no more than two years old, sitting alone on one side of the room coloring on a piece of white construction paper. “You were always different,” his father told him. The other children wouldn’t play with him and he didn’t seem to care. “You were all alone in the world, like I was.”
The boy had light brown skin and a full head of reddish-brown hair. He had gray eyes, a shade of gray that Marshall was familiar with, the color of a storm cloud on a hot August afternoon, the color of Christina’s eyes. And as though he were watching that storm cloud fast approaching in the summer heat, Marshall anticipated the relief that rain would bring.
When his father approached him, Mitch stopped coloring and looked up. Marshal
l tried to coax him over for a hug, but he got frightened and started to cry. He was the most handsome child in the room, even when he was crying, his father told him, and Marshall knew right then that this child would be his son.
Mitch closed his eyes and imagined himself back in that room, getting hugged by his father. It had been so long since he had seen his father, touched him, spoken with him, smelled his distinctive smell of sweet pipe tobacco and peppermint. He missed him, especially at a time like this when he needed his support and advice. He realized he had no one in his life now. Everything around him was shattered. He needed someone to help him make it through.
A punch in the arm startled Mitch from his thoughts. “Hey, Red, are you going to come get a workout or what?” Connie stood beside him, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder.
“I think I might stay here and try to get some work done,” Mitch said, trying to focus on his computer screen.
“You might stay and do some work?” He sounded like a parent questioning a child who’d refused to do his chores. “A workout will help clear your head. Come with me.”
“But I really don’t feel like—”
“I don’t care if you pedal around on an exercise bike or walk on the treadmill, you’re not going to stay here alone and think about what happened today. It’ll burn off some stress and you’ll feel better.”
“I don’t want to stay long. And I don’t feel like lifting any weights.”
“Fine,” Connie said. “No lifting—even though nothing relieves stress better than pumping iron. You don’t even need to break a sweat. I just want you to get up and do something.”
Mitch could see Connie wasn’t going away. He turned off his computer.
“Great,” Connie said. “Let me just say good night to Andi. She and Rachel are going to dinner with her parents tonight.”
Mitch stood and started to pack his briefcase. He wasn’t going to get any work done anyway, so he snapped the case shut and slipped it under his desk. He was putting on his suit jacket when Connie came back.
“Let’s go,” Connie said.
Mitch followed Connie down the stairs, shuffling after him like a little kid tagging along behind his big brother.
CHAPTER 35
Alves focused on the road in front of him. “Who’s next on the list, Sarge?”
“Whoever you want. We’ve got guys in West Roxbury, Eastie, Brighton. Take your pick. They’re all the same. Psycho losers who live with their mothers and run around attacking any woman they come in contact with.”
“Let’s go to Eastie. I’ve got a good feeling about the other side of the harbor.”
“You want to grab a coffee first?”
“I’m all set.”
“I’m not. Stop at the next Dunkies.”
Alves was frustrated by the day they had put in, questioning six of the worst sex offenders from their list. None of them seemed to be their man, but he felt as if they were on the right track. At least they were out of the office, shaking people down, trying to make something happen. A couple of his old drug informants had mentioned some of the same people from their list as possible suspects. If they kept at it, he was sure they would catch the bad guy.
Alves stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts on Boylston Street. Mooney didn’t get out of the car. He sat there, staring at Alves, examining his face, something he had done a couple of times during the day.
Alves looked straight out the windshield, refusing to look over at Mooney.
“You okay, Angel?”
“Yeah.” Alves didn’t turn his head.
Mooney was patient. He was good at what he did, not the least bit bothered by the uncomfortable silence in the car. Mooney seemed to be waiting for Alves to turn toward him. Alves wasn’t about to lose this test of wills.
Finally Mooney said, “I want to get this guy as much as you, but you’ve got to slow down a little. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself.”
“I’m not putting—”
“Yes, you are, and that’s okay. That’s what makes a good Homicide detective. But I can see that you’re personally affected by this case. And that’s not okay. I like the drive you’ve been showing the last couple of days, but you can’t let this eat you up. Even when he’s behind bars, it isn’t going to take away the pain that he’s caused. Robyn’s mom has been destroyed and she’ll be fucked up for life. All we can do now is keep this guy from hurting anyone else.”
Mooney opened his door. “You sure you don’t want a coffee?”
Alves shook his head.
Mooney nodded and slammed the door shut.
CHAPTER 36
Andi Norton had trouble inserting the key into the knob. The hallway was poorly lit, several bulbs burned out in the chandelier. She heard a noise on the first floor and waited to see if anyone was following her up the stairs. Everything was silent. She opened the door to her condo with one hand, holding Rachel up over her shoulder with the other. Rachel had fallen asleep during the ten minutes it took to go from Newbury Street in the Back Bay to their condominium in Southie. Her own place was a reward from her parents for getting into law school. They were pretty cool, choosing to give their only daughter some of her inheritance while they were still alive.
Without turning on any lights, Andi moved quietly down the front hall, through the living room and into Rachel’s bedroom. Andi felt Rachel’s regular breaths on her neck. She was sleeping soundly. Andi pulled the quilt back and gently placed Rachel on the bed, her blond hair forming a halo around her head as it spread out on the pillow. She slipped off Rachel’s jacket and her shoes. She could sleep in her leggings and jersey. No need to wake her up. Pulling the covers up, Andi kissed Rachel on the forehead. “Sweet dreams, princess.”
Back in the living room, the answering machine was blinking. One message. It was Connie. “Hi, Andi. Just me. I’m still out with Mitch. We’re at Kilronan’s. Just checking in to see how dinner went. Miss you. Talk to you tomorrow.”
A muted rustling sound just outside her door. Was someone in the hallway? Her door was at the end of the hall. It couldn’t be Connie. He was at Kilronan’s. Had she locked the door? The dead bolt? She moved toward the door. Don’t run. No need to panic. Then she heard the noise again. Someone fooling with a doorknob? She turned the dead bolt and leaned against the door, trying to relax. She took a breath and turned to look out the peephole. Down the hall was her neighbor, balancing grocery bags and fooling with her keys in the dark hallway just as Andi had done a few minutes before.
She needed a drink.
Andi went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of merlot. On the couch, in the dark, she sipped the wine. She tried to think positive thoughts. Connie. She’d been seeing him for only a few months, but she was starting to care for him. He seemed to understand her situation as a single parent, how she wanted to take things slowly for Rachel’s sake. It was important that she not have a bunch of men walking in and out of her daughter’s life.
Andi needed a man that wasn’t just out for sex, someone who was mature enough to realize that there was a child involved in the relationship. Conrad Darget was starting to look like that man. But she needed to be sure. She took another sip of wine. He respected her responsibilities. During the time they’d dated, he’d never tried to do more than kiss her. A perfect gentleman. He’d told her that they could take their time until she was ready, and he had kept his promise.
Andi couldn’t believe she cared so much about a man she’d never slept with, or maybe what she couldn’t believe was that she hadn’t slept with a man she cared so much about. Connie had been very patient. Too patient? A nagging thought crept into her daydream. What if she was being played? What if this was his way of getting to her?
No. It was the wine, the late hour, too many bad dates talking. He’d done so much for her at work, and he wasn’t showering Rachel with gifts and attention to win her over. Andi moved into her bedroom without turning on the lights.
CHAPTER 37
Mitch stayed at the table while Connie went to the bar for another round of Murphy’s Irish Stout. He felt miserable, but grateful that Connie had made him go out. The workout had helped take his mind off things and now the beers were working their magic, helping him forget a little. Hanging out with a friend was much better than sitting all alone in that empty apartment, thinking about how Sonya was right.
It was Connie’s idea to go for a beer at Kilronan’s in Mission Hill, a Boston neighborhood made famous by Charles Stuart. Stuart shot and killed his pregnant wife before making a frantic 911 call. He accused a black man of the shooting, bringing the city to the verge of a race war as the police engaged in an aggressive manhunt for the killer. The police eventually turned their attention back toward Stuart, but the damage to the black community had been done. In the end, Stuart took his own life by jumping off the Tobin Bridge into the Mystic River.
Kilronan’s was about a mile from the courthouse and right around the corner from where Stuart had killed his wife and unborn son. Tonight, there were only a couple of other people in the pub, all sitting at the bar, while the two of them huddled at a table in a dark corner.
“Hey, buddy,” Connie said as he returned with the beers, “you’re not getting depressed on me again, are you?”
“No.”
“Good, because if we’re going to survive in this business, we have to get used to making tough decisions. Once we get up to superior court the stakes will be even higher.”
“Connie, I killed a man today. Could the stakes be much higher?”
“You only did your job. You were given a set of facts and presented those facts to a judge. And, like you said in court, the law is the law, no matter what Woodrum says.”
“But what if I am a sellout? I feel like the Judas that Furr accused me of being.” That quickly, Mitch felt dangerously close to breaking down again. “Connie, my sole purpose in life is sending young black men to jail. I don’t know if I can do it anymore.”
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