“I’m still a lawyer. As a lawyer I’m advising Mitch not to say another word until I have a chance to speak with him. Let us step out into the hall for a minute and we’ll be right back.”
It was obvious that Mooney didn’t like what was happening, but he had told Mitch that Connie would be sitting in on the interview as an attorney. He’d only done that to gain Mitch’s trust. Now it was backfiring on him.
“All right,” Mooney said, “you can go out in the hallway, but that’s it. And I’m going to be watching you the whole time, Mitch. Don’t even think about running.”
CHAPTER 82
Mitch tried to gather his thoughts as they stepped into the hallway. This could not be happening to him. He looked toward the stairs, then back over his shoulder into the DA’s office. Mooney was watching him through the glass door.
“Mitch, you are fucked,” Connie said.
“What?” Mitch asked.
“You heard me,” Connie said. “You’re fucked. It’s time for you to shut up.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Mitch shot back, “but it would have been more helpful about ten minutes ago.”
“I’m telling you now. Stop talking and tell them you want a lawyer, so they can’t ask you any more questions. With everything you just said in there, you may as well have confessed.”
“What do you mean, confess? I had nothing to do with any murders. Why would I confess to anything? You don’t believe I killed anyone, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe, it matters what evidence they have against you.”
“It matters to me. Do you think I killed those people?”
“Mitch, I don’t know what to believe right now. I know that you could never do anything like that. I told them as much. But the evidence they have against you is pretty compelling.”
Mitch looked down at the marble floor, shaking his head. He could see that Connie was trying to remain loyal to him, even though he was having doubts about his innocence. “You actually think I did it. You’re supposed to be my best friend.”
“I am your best friend. That’s why I’m telling you to shut the fuck up and say you want a lawyer. I don’t care if I work for the government. They can fire me if they want. I’m not going to let you say another word. Otherwise you’re just going to dig yourself deeper.”
Mitch thought he saw his father’s face in the pattern of the marble. He closed his eyes to see his face more clearly, seeking guidance. Thinking of his father, the idea came to him. At first it was just a flicker in the back of his head, but as he focused, the plan crystallized in his mind. The stress he had been feeling for months was suddenly gone. He was at peace. “There’s only one way out of this,” Mitch said, lifting his head, a feeling of resolve coming over him.
“I know. There is only one way out of this and that’s for you to be quiet while I call you an experienced defense attorney.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Connie. No lawyer’s going to get me out of this. The evidence they have against me isn’t just circumstantial, it isn’t all a coincidence. Don’t you see? Someone set me up. They planted this evidence against me. I know that’s the truth. If you don’t believe it, why should I expect a jury to believe it?”
“You can’t think like that, Mitch. We’ll get you the best team of lawyers. If you didn’t do this, they’ll get you off.”
“If I didn’t do it?” Mitch asked, disappointed. “You’re right, Connie, I am fucked. Like Mooney said, I’m going to be convicted and spend the rest of my life in prison. I can’t survive in a place like that. You know that. There’s really only one way out of this. You’ve been a good friend to me and you understand why I have to do it this way. And because you understand, I know you’re not going to do anything to stop me.”
Connie watched him without saying a word.
Mitch looked into his friend’s eyes once more. Then the two turned toward the district attorney’s office.
Connie saw that Mooney was watching them through the glass. Connie stood in the frame of the door, blocking anyone from coming out. Mitch, a step behind him, pivoted on his heels and turned toward the balcony. Now the sergeant was moving toward Connie and the door, shoving aside chairs and a startled secretary. But it was too late. Mitch had a good head start as he began to sprint for the railing. Within seconds he was on the rail and airborne, his arms by his side and eyes closed. He never uttered a sound as he fell three stories and his skull hit the polished marble floor below.
CHAPTER 83
“Why the hell did you let him do that?” Mooney shouted at Connie. He moved quickly, following Connie and Alves as they ran for the stairs.
“I didn’t let him do anything. We were heading back inside.” Connie took the stairs, two at a time, pulling ahead of Mooney and Alves. Connie had let Mitch jump the rail, but he had to. He at least owed Mitch that much, letting him go out on his own terms, instead of being led out in handcuffs.
On the second-floor landing, Brendan Sullivan called toward Connie, “What the fuck happened?”
“Mitch jumped.”
“Mitch?” Brendan joined them as they ran down the last flight of stairs. Down in the lobby Mitch’s prone body was surrounded by the court security officers. One look and Connie knew his skull was crushed, his body motionless.
There was a piercing scream from the balcony. Above them, Monica and Andi stood on the third floor. On the second floor, spectators, witnesses, officers, even the judges had piled out of the courtrooms to gawk at Mitch’s body.
“Why did he do it?” Brendan asked Connie.
Connie turned from the unfolding chaos back to Brendan. “They were questioning him. About the murders. I stepped out of the office with him. One minute he’s talking with me,” Connie explained, “next thing I know, he’s running for the balcony. He was upset, but I…I never expected….”
Mooney was right behind them. “What did you guys talk about?”
“I told him he needed to get a lawyer. He wanted to clear things up. He was scared. I tried to tell him that everything was going to be all right. That he needed to shut up. I thought we were in agreement. I had no idea he was…going to….”
Mooney looked toward Mitch’s body. “This was no one’s fault but Mitch’s,” Mooney said, turning to Connie and Brendan. “You may find it hard to believe, but your friend was a murderer.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Brendan said. “Mitch couldn’t kill anyone.”
“He saw his world crashing down around him,” Mooney continued. “I never should’ve let him walk out of that room.”
“What next, Sarge?” Alves said.
“We’ll need warrants to search Beaulieu’s place, his car, his desk at work. If he had a locker at the gym, we’ll need that too.”
“Mitch’s body isn’t even cold and you’re talking about warrants?” Brendan said.
“At this point, we don’t know if anyone else is involved. We don’t want evidence suppressed. The case isn’t over by a long shot. We’re going to search every part of his life. I’m going to find those bodies.”
Mooney turned and walked away through the gathering crowd.
CHAPTER 84
The church had been almost empty, and Connie felt bad about that. Usually when a prosecutor or police officer died there would be standing room only at the service. But nobody showed up except for Mitch’s closest friends. There was no family left. Even the district attorney was a no-show, to avoid any controversy and risk losing votes in the next election. The pastor at Mitch’s church had performed a moving ceremony at the Faith Baptist Church in Cambridge. The ceremony was dedicated to celebrating Mitch’s life rather than mourning his death. There’d been no mention that Mitch was believed to be a killer.
Sonya’s and Mitch’s friends from Harvard Law School had sat together at the church and now huddled in a small group at the cemetery. Sonya was holding a man’s hand. Apparently she’d moved on with her life while Mitch had kept dre
aming of getting back with her. The pastor drew in toward the casket with the group from Harvard. Connie and the other ADAs remained back at a distance. Sonya and company hadn’t made them feel overly welcome, refusing to acknowledge their presence. There was no eulogy at the cemetery, just a reading of some Bible passages by the pastor.
“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”
“That’s John 3:16,” Connie whispered to Andi as she held his hand. “Mitch believed in Christ. He went to church every Sunday, you know. I really think he’s in a better place now. He’s been granted eternal life.”
“Connie,” Andi whispered back. “I know you keep trying to block it out of your head because he was your friend, but Mitch was—”
“I can’t believe that,” he said.
“Connie, they found his hair and DNA at the last murder scene. They had all that other evidence. He used his work computer to Google those women to learn more about them before he killed them. Alves even told you about the locked room in his house. The creepy shrine for his father, with religious artifacts and family heirlooms. Crazy stuff. Serial-killer type stuff. I’m sorry, Connie.”
“If he did kill anyone, it’s because he was sick. Something had to have been wrong with him. You didn’t know him like I did. I should have been there to help him before it went this far. I should’ve stopped him from jumping over that rail.”
“Listen to me, Connie,” she said, turning to face him. “You’re not responsible for Mitch’s death. And you’re not responsible for anything he did. You simply didn’t know him as well as you thought you did. The police have done their investigation. They’re satisfied that Mitch was the killer. He knew he’d been caught. That’s why he killed himself instead of calling a lawyer. He knew a lawyer couldn’t help, because he really was guilty. You have to stop taking the blame for this.”
“She’s right,” Liz interrupted. She’d come up quietly behind the two of them. “Connie, you can’t keep beating yourself up. Mitch was sick and under a lot of stress. Unfortunately, none of us realized how bad things were. But we can’t lose sight of what he did to those poor people. And maybe what he did to Nick too.”
“You know what’s bothering me the most about this whole thing?” Andi said. “I keep thinking about that Christian Burial case we talked about when I was prepping that motion a while back. I can’t help but think how horrible it is that none of Mitch’s victims received a proper burial and their families haven’t been able to lay them to rest. I pray Nick is okay, but I can’t help thinking of his body lying in the woods somewhere. It was selfish of Mitch to kill himself without letting someone know where the bodies are.”
“And for that he should never be forgiven,” Monica said, the venom in her voice surprising all of them. Monica had given her notice to the DA and was talking about teaching high school history.
Connie and Liz didn’t say anything. They listened silently as the pastor read some final passages. It had been cloudy and raw all morning. Now the sky opened, and a cold, bleak rain began to fall.
“Hey, guys,” Brendan said as he moved in close to them. “Why don’t we get out of here before we get soaked? We’re not welcome anyway. What do you say we go to Kilronan’s and talk about some of the good times we had?”
“That sounds good,” Andi said. “Connie, there’s nothing left for us to do here. Let’s get going.”
“Sure,” Connie said. He took off his jacket and draped it over Andi’s shoulders. He put his arm around her and pulled her close as they walked back to their cars. “If it makes you feel any better,” he whispered in her ear, “I’m sure that Nick and the others are in a better place now, regardless of whether or not they received a proper burial. I truly believe that with all my heart.”
CHAPTER 85
Connie looked around the courtroom. It was small but impressive. The walls were dark paneled, solid cherry, leading up to the judge’s bench. The same beautiful cherry made up the rail in front of the jury box. Connie leaned forward and picked up the pitcher of water on the table. He poured some into his glass and took a small sip, placing the cup back on the table. Finally he stood up from his chair, walked behind it and slowly pushed it in toward the table. His ritual. He had that well-rehearsed, concerned look on his face so the jurors would think he didn’t know where to begin his opening.
When he knew that all eyes were on him, and there was absolute silence in the courtroom, Connie looked up at the jury and scanned the entire panel before speaking.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Conrad Darget and I represent the Commonwealth in this case.” He paused for a moment. “On October seventh of last year this defendant”—he pointed to the defense table—“Jesse Wilcox, was in possession of a nine-millimeter semiautomatic Glock handgun, twelve rocks of crack cocaine and fifty packets of heroin.”
Connie had to be careful not to mention the items the police recovered in Wilcox’s apartment, the large rock of crack that hadn’t been packaged yet, the three fingers of heroin that hadn’t been cut, the scale with the cocaine residue on it or the $4,530 that was stuffed in an envelope under the mattress. He couldn’t talk about any of it because it had all been suppressed from evidence. In a sense, the whole trial would be a sham. Everyone in that courtroom knew about this evidence except for the people that mattered—the eight jurors.
“On that evening Detective Angel Alves and two patrolmen responded to a radio call for a domestic dispute at Ten Franklin Street, third floor. When they got there, they heard a woman screaming and a baby crying. They forced their way into the apartment. There they found the defendant casually sitting on a couch next to an open window on a chilly night. His girlfriend was sitting at the kitchen table with her six-month-old baby, both of them crying. The officers searched the area below the open window and found a gun and drugs. They were clean and dry except for the dirt on the barrel of the gun, which was next to a divot in the sod, as if the gun had just been thrown from a window.”
Connie hated being dishonest, not mentioning the evidence the police had recovered in the room. But it was the law. Rules were rules. When a judge decided the police had violated someone’s constitutional rights and that the items seized could not be used as evidence, he had to live with it.
Connie continued with his opening statement, making eye contact with each of his jurors. He looked back to Emily Knight, his foreperson. There was a time when he believed she was his best juror. But then she’d let him down. This was her chance to redeem herself and put Jesse Wilcox in jail where he belonged. He gave her a slight smile.
He moved on to the other jurors. It was a diverse group. He was proud of his jury-selection skills.
He locked eyes with Robyn Stokes. She was a strong woman. He respected her more than any of them, because she came from nothing and had made so much of her life. She was wearing one of the oversized, brightly colored shirts she wore as a nurse. She had earned her position as a charge nurse and deserved to be recognized by the others for her accomplishments. As the sole African American on the jury, Connie knew that Robyn Stokes would fight to keep her neighborhood safe.
Jill Twomey, Michelle Hayes and Linda Bagwell were upright and alert, ready for him to continue.
On the left side of the jury box sat Edwin Ramos. Blue-collar, a true craftsman. A man like Ramos would bring common sense to the table.
And Nick Costa.
Nick would provide the perspective of a first-generation American, with the background of his Mediterranean immigrant parents.
Connie was very pleased with how Nick Costa and Edwin Ramos balanced his jury. They were the only men, but they’d certainly be able to hold their own in deliberations with the women. Though Susan McCarthy might give them a run for their money. She was a fighter.
The scene was almost perfect. The only thing missing was a judge on the bench and someone second-seating him at the prosec
ution table, an attractive woman, someone like Andi Norton. That would certainly help complete the scene. He would love to make those additions to his courtroom, but he couldn’t risk it. Not right now. After all, the police thought that they had their killer.
Poor Mitch. Connie had no choice but to frame him—with the hairs he took from his stuff at the gym, the condom, wearing his sneakers at the McCarthy house—but he’d never imagined things would work out so neatly with Mitch killing himself. The shrine to his father in that locked room was the final puzzle piece. Connie felt bad for him. They were friends. But he couldn’t allow feelings to interfere with the natural order of things. Mitch’s sole purpose was to provide an escape for Richter, just like a rabbit’s sole purpose in life was to provide food for the wolf.
Connie looked back at his jurors, seated in the jury box in his basement courtroom, a mockup of the trial session in South Bay, which he’d built after killing Emily Knight. He continued his opening, knowing that he needed to connect with each of them in order to win a conviction. The real trial would begin in the morning. This was going to be a tough case. Jesse Wilcox always seemed to find a way to avoid going to jail. This time, with the right preparation and with some help from his attentive audience, Connie would get his conviction.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Lin Haire-Sargeant, Peggy Walsh and Candice Rowe, the members of my writers’ group, for their critical observations, encouragement and support; to Mark Meadows, always a hospitable host serving us delicious desserts at each of our meetings; to Paul Treseler, a prosecutor and a friend, who turned out to be a great editor as well; to MaryKay Mahoney who graciously read early drafts with a keen eye.
Special thanks to Kevin Waggett, a Boston Police sergeant detective, lawyer and friend who had great passion for the novel, spending many hours on the phone, day and night, imparting his police knowledge and critical insight.
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