The deputy comes back and bangs his knuckles on the wall. “All rise.”
The door opens, and I do a double take when Judge Charmaine Swanson enters the courtroom. A Tiffany-blue scarf is knotted around the collar of her black robe, but it doesn’t detract from the film of sweat above her lip. The camera light flashes; she gazes longingly at the door to her chambers, then inches toward the bench. She’s in over her head, and she knows it.
“Initially, Judge Hynes was assigned this matter, but she’s become unavailable.” She clears her throat. “I will be presiding.”
The fix is in. Judge Swanson is one of the greenest and most biased jurists in the Commonwealth. She was appointed to the bench two months ago, at age thirty-five, with the support of her father’s former law partner, who is married to the attorney general. She is the worst possible choice—political, manipulable, and single.
The room quiets, and the clerk announces the case. Josh files his appearance, which makes him the lawyer of record for the Greenoughs.
“My clients plead not guilty and waive argument on bail.”
Josh wants to prevent the facts from coming out for as long as possible.
Judge Swanson turns to Chip. “Where…” Her voice catches, making her sound like she’s choking. “Where is your lawyer, sir?”
Chip jumps out of his chair. “Most respectfully, Your Honor, I wish to assert my rights, under the Sixth Amendment to the United States Constitution, and represent myself.”
I’m impressed. Chip’s attendance at Yale Law School was unauthorized, but it was time well spent. I’m also nauseated. The only thing worse than a sleazy defense attorney is no defense attorney. Chip’s decision to go pro se will force me to interact with him and treat him like any other lawyer. It’ll be intimidating to my witnesses, who will be subjected to his cross-examination. I should have anticipated this move. He’s played pretend doctor; of course he thinks he can play pretend lawyer. For a guy like Chip, scamming a jury is the ultimate con.
Chip hands his appearance slip to the court officer, who passes it to the judge. She picks up the water pitcher; her hands are unsteady, the liquid sloshing around as she fills her glass. She’s buying time, unsure of how to respond. This gives me an opportunity to take control.
“Your Honor, since the defendant has waived counsel,” I say, “perhaps we could proceed with the arraignment and resolve the issue of representation at another date.”
I refer to him as the defendant more times than necessary, knowing it must sting.
She nods, grateful for my assist. “How do you plead, Mr. Aldridge?”
He stands and pivots to face the back of the courtroom, staring directly into the TV camera. “I am 100 percent not guilty.” His voice is forceful and seductive, like a radio personality.
He faces the judge and smiles. Her eyes follow his hand as he brushes a stray hair into place. She tucks her own hair behind her ears. He’s reeling her in, and she doesn’t even know it. Like so many others, myself included, she’s captivated by his casual charm. I want to scream. Don’t fall for it.
I try to break the spell. “Your Honor, may I be heard on bail?”
She looks at me, then the audience, as though she forgot we were here, and shakes her head. “Yes, proceed.”
“If convicted, the defendant faces three concurrent sentences of life in prison with no possibility of parole. He has no roots in this, or any other, community. We don’t even know his true name. He has no family ties and no work history. If released, he has no incentive to return to court and answer to these charges. He is the ultimate flight risk. The Commonwealth submits that no amount of bail is sufficient to guarantee his appearance, and we ask that he be held without bail.”
I take my seat. If I were wearing a mic, it would pick up the sound of my heart pounding.
“This is a witch hunt.” Chip pauses to look at me. “The prosecutor’s allegations are unfounded. She has no direct evidence, no DNA, no fingerprints, no eyewitness identification, no confession. Her entire case is based on a personal ad posted on the Internet. I give you my word that I will return to court. I have every incentive to come back and prove my innocence.”
His argument is effective, designed to both get himself out of jail and fire a warning shot at me. He hasn’t mentioned Valerie. If he doesn’t know she survived his attack, he’ll know soon. I’ll have to provide her name as part of discovery.
“May we approach sidebar?” I say.
She nods. Chip follows me to the bench. As we stand in front of the judge, Chip brushes his elbow against mine. I try to ignore him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he’s getting under my skin.
“Your Honor, I want to inform the court that the defendant and I have had several interactions.”
Judge Swanson looks at Chip, then at me. “Are you saying there was a personal relationship?”
“I believe it was part of a calculated plan to extract information, threaten me, and possibly inflict harm. He surveilled my neighborhood, and he planted a tracking device in my bag, twice.”
“You forgot about lunch.” Chip looks at the judge. “I took her to lunch at the Four Seasons.”
Judge Swanson opens her mouth, but no words come out.
I power on. “I considered seeking indictments for stalking and intimidation of a witness, but decided not to file charges.”
Chip interrupts. “Charges? I paid for that lunch. It cost me a hundred and fifty bucks.”
Finally, Judge Swanson finds her voice and cuts to the chase. “Mr. Aldridge, if you believe that the prosecutor has a conflict of interest, I’m prepared to recuse her from the case.”
There is clearly a conflict, but if Chip agrees to waive it, the judge can allow me to remain on the case. If Chip refuses, he’d take me out of my misery. I’d be free of this nightmare. I could focus on my political plans, my family, and Ty. In the alternative, I could simply concede and put an end to it myself.
I glance over at the victims’ families, who are leaning forward, straining to read our lips. Even from across the courtroom, I can see the toll that this has taken on each of them, how much they’ve aged over the past six months. Delia Driscoll’s brown bob has grown shaggy and gray. Walter Jackson has gained about thirty pounds. Cheryl Walker’s complexion has become wrinkled and sallow.
I don’t wait for Chip’s response. “I would submit there is no conflict.”
Chip nods. “Agreed.”
As he speaks, I can smell peanut butter on his breath. They must have given him a sandwich for breakfast.
“Sir, I can give you time to think about it and consult with experienced counsel.” Judge Swanson sounds like she wants to recuse herself.
“That’s not necessary,” Chip says. “I look forward to going toe-to-toe with Ms. Endicott. She is, by all accounts, a worthy opponent.”
Judge Swanson stares at him for a minute.
“The bail, Your Honor?” I say.
“Mr. Aldridge, I’m holding you without bail until trial. You are remanded to the Nashua Street Jail.”
The court officers swoop in and move him back into the dock, with the other criminals. I exhale and keep my head down, relieved that he’s out of reach—not his reach, my reach. Otherwise, I might throttle him.
Chapter Forty-Five
After Judge Swanson gets off the bench, I steer the families to a conference room, away from the crowds. The room is quiet, unsure how to interpret what just happened. Delia is holding a notebook; she flips a page and starts a new section: Meeting with ADA. Everyone settles around the table.
Rose’s father, Ed Driscoll, speaks for the group.
“We couldn’t hear what went on up there with the judge,” Ed says.
“She ruled in our favor and denied bail,” I say.
Ed’s shoulders relax a little. “So he’ll be locked up?”
“Yes, and the same goes for the Greenoughs.”
Caitlyn’s former roommate, Nadine Frank
lin, raises her hand, as though she’s in one of her seminars at Wellesley. Her coat sleeve is matted with dog hair. I resist the urge to offer her the lint brush I keep in my tote.
“If he doesn’t have a lawyer, then who will ask us the questions when we testify?” she says.
“He will.” I don’t try to sugarcoat it. “He’ll cross-examine you.”
“That doesn’t sound fair.” Nadine tears up.
Fairness rarely applies to victims. The game is rigged in favor of the accused: He has the right to confront his accusers. He has the presumption of innocence. He has the right to a trial by jury. And as much as I’d like to let Nadine know I share her sentiment, ethics rules strictly prohibit prosecutors from speaking negatively about the defendant or his lawyer, so I keep my disgust to myself.
“What about my girl’s case?” Valerie’s father, Walter Jackson, says.
Walter is a solid six foot three, and it looks like, up until his daughter went missing, he hadn’t missed a day in the gym. Sitting here, he looks small and powerless. I want to give him a hug, but now is not the time. This is the time to present the facts, let everyone know what to expect.
After the meeting, the room empties slowly, except for Caitlyn’s roommate, Nadine. She sits, shell-shocked.
“How are you holding up?” I say.
“I can’t testify,” Nadine says.
“I need you to give background about Caitlyn, identify her photograph, and provide a timeline for her movements that night. You were the last person to see her alive. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
She puts her hands to her face and starts to sob. Her moans escalate into wails, and she sounds like she might hyperventilate. I dig in my bag for tissues and water.
“I’m going to get you through this,” I say.
“I can’t face him.”
“You’ll be safe.”
I put my hand on her forearm. She’s shivering—with grief, or fear, or something else. It could be a delayed response to the trauma, but it seems more urgent. After she leaves, I slump in my chair, feeling like I just climbed Mount Washington, in stilettos, carrying a backpack full of pain.
When I get outside, Max’s communications director is organizing a presser. The last time we held a formal briefing on the case was the night Caitlyn’s body was discovered in East Boston. At that time she was the second of two victims. Now she’s the second of four.
A black SUV pulls up, and Max steps out of the passenger side, greets a few police officers, and moves behind a jumble of microphones. He delivers a canned speech about the diligence and determination that went into solving the case, as if he had anything to do with it.
When he’s done, he waves me up to the podium; I step in front of the firing squad and field a few questions. The rules only permit me to repeat what I’ve already said in the courtroom, so I don’t reveal anything new. After a few minutes of I’m sorry, I can’t comment on that at this time, the conference ends and reporters set up their live shots.
Max jumps back in his SUV and takes off. He’s too self-absorbed to offer me a ride, which is fine. I don’t want to sit in a car with him either. I barely make it a few feet when Carl Ostroff steps in front of me, blocking my path.
I don’t wait for his question. “I can’t talk about the case.”
“This isn’t about the arraignment.” He holds my eyes, stone-faced. “I’m looking into a story, and I suspect you’re going to want to know about it.”
I hesitate, then step around him.
“It’s about your family,” he says.
I stop, look around, and consider my response. Press vans are parked up and down the street. A reporter from the Herald is keeping a careful watch on us. I can’t be seen huddled with Carl. People already suspect we feed each other information.
“Call me,” I say. “We can talk on the phone.”
I leave him, head back toward my office. As soon as I round the corner onto Cambridge Street, my phone vibrates.
“Did your father write a check to Max?” Carl says.
Suddenly, I long for the time when Carl was obsessed with my alcoholic mother. I’m glad he can’t see my face. I maintain a steady tone of voice and try to blow it off.
“It’s no secret my father is a generous donor when it comes to political campaigns.”
“I’m not talking about campaign donations.”
Even though we didn’t do anything illegal, I want to talk to Max and my father before responding. Otherwise, I risk getting caught up in a lie. Lying is never the best route, especially to a major news outlet.
“I’m not sure why you think this has anything to do with me,” I say.
“You’re the common denominator,” he says. “I can hold off running with it for a day or two, but this story isn’t going away.”
Chapter Forty-Six
My father’s offices occupy a nineteenth-century McKim, Mead & White building on the sunny side of Commonwealth Ave. Out front, the landscaping is meticulous but simple, with flowering shrubs and evergreens. Inside, the lobby has a white marble fireplace and a Simon Willard grandfather clock. There are no shiny sculptures or massive art installations. My father doesn’t shout money. He whispers wealth.
The firm is a lean operation, employing about two dozen full-time investment managers and analysts, including my brother Charlie. According to Forbes magazine, it turns quite a profit. My father inherited a sizable fortune, but he’s successful in his own right. Over the years, he’s managed to parlay tens of millions into half a billion, give or take.
After my street encounter with Carl, I call to see if my father and brother have time to talk. I want to fill them in and come up with a plan. When I call my father’s private office line, it goes to voice mail.
I dial the main number, and his assistant, Kiki, picks up on the first ring.
“Hi, Abigail. They’re both in meetings. Can we return?”
“Can you squeeze me in this afternoon?”
“Come by, we’ll figure something out.”
When I arrive, I press the buzzer, and Kiki, who is two years out of Bryn Mawr and earns more than most of the senior lawyers in the DA’s office, comes down to greet me. In a couple of years, she’ll apply to Harvard Business School, my father will support her application, and the firm will pay the tuition. For now she’s learning the ropes; by the time she’s my age, she’ll be a fund manager, raking in millions.
Kiki takes my coat, and we ascend the grand oak staircase to the second-floor landing. She tells me my father is finishing up a phone call and offers me an espresso, which I accept, even though I’d prefer a shot of whiskey.
As she grinds the beans and tamps the coffee into the filter, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to work in a place like this, where it feels like a private home, and employees don’t have to worry about leaving their coats unattended. Here the executive suite has a Palladian window rather than bulletproof glass, and a successful day is measured by the number of dollars earned, not the length of prison terms imposed. It would be nice to host visitors who have come to discuss acquisitions, rather than losses.
My father walks into the room, looking almost casual in shirtsleeves, the cuffs of his blue Turnbull & Asser rolled up. When he gives me a hug, I’m comforted by the familiar lime scent of his shaving cream. He leads me into his office, and we take seats at the conference table.
“What’s on your mind, muffin?”
I start to answer but am interrupted when Charlie strides in, wearing the Hermès tie I gave him as a stocking stuffer last Christmas. My eye follows the glint of platinum on his ring finger; I’m still not used to seeing him wearing a wedding band.
“Abs, it’s always great to see you, but I’m pressed for time.” Charlie remains standing. “I can guess why you’re here, and there’s nothing we can do. Mom isn’t going to rehab.”
If I had been meeting with a victim, this is the point where I’d reach into my tote and pull out one of the pa
mphlets I keep on hand. I travel with a stash of information on everything from battered women’s shelters to methadone clinics. I’m tempted to offer my brother the brochure on codependency, but I didn’t come here to recommend an alcohol counselor. We need an accountant.
“This isn’t about Mom,” I say. “Can we see if Prescott is available for a conference call?”
My father leans back and shakes his head. “We’ve talked about this. I’m not going to green-light the release of funds unless and until you’re out of the murder business. If you become the district attorney, with a full-time security detail, we can revisit the issue.”
“I came to talk about your finances, Dad, not mine.”
Charlie, now interested, takes a seat. “What about his finances?”
“Dad transferred a lot of cash to Max.”
He turns to my father. “How much are we talking?”
I’m surprised my father didn’t mention the payment to Charlie.
“A hundred grand.” My father shrugs: no biggie. “His computer system was hacked, he was afraid people would find out that he was playing footsie with his secretary, so we paid the ransom.”
Charlie doesn’t see the problem. “If Max is going to be the next mayor, then it sounds like a solid investment.”
“Not if everyone gets indicted,” I say. “Carl Ostroff from Channel 7 found out about it. You have to be sure everything is aboveboard and declare it on your taxes as a loan, rather than a gift.”
My father laughs and waves his hand, as though swatting away a small nuisance. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Aren’t you worried about bad publicity?” I say.
“In my line of work, an overly generous contribution is viewed as a savvy business decision.”
“People won’t be as impressed with Max. He’s a public official.”
“That’s his problem.”
“He probably would have been better off if he hadn’t paid the extortionist,” Charlie says. “If word of his affair had leaked, the only person who’d care would be his wife.”
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