I’m not entirely comfortable with Charlie’s cavalier attitude toward the affair, but he’s right. These days, financial deceit, not consensual extracurricular sex, is what brings politicians down.
Kiki taps on the door. “Hong Kong is on the line.”
My father moves to take the call at his desk.
“If I were you, Abs, I’d worry more about myself,” Charlie says. “You’re smack in the middle of this mess.”
While Charlie isn’t exactly offering words of comfort, I’m glad someone has thought about how this could impact me. As I stand to leave, my father puts his caller on hold.
“I spoke with the governor,” my father says.
“Thanks, but I think it’s a lost cause. I’m too controversial.”
“Thomas Greenough is trying to sabotage your prospects,” my father says, “but since he’s been arrested and arraigned, his influence is waning. You’re still in contention.”
My father returns to his call. Charlie walks me out into the foyer.
“You’re forgetting something,” Charlie says. “The governor’s term is almost over. He’s going to be looking for a job, and I’m sure he’d love to land here.”
This is veering into felonious territory. The mention of quid pro quo, even among family, makes me nervous. It’s one thing to imply it; it’s another to articulate it. I hug Charlie good-bye, grab an espresso for the road, and head back to work.
Chapter Forty-Seven
When Valerie is discharged from the hospital, she takes the semester off from Tufts and moves into Walter’s apartment in Somerville, not far from campus. I give her a few days to rest and then call her. I tell her I’m going to stop by, see how she’s doing, and prep for grand jury. She tries to put it off, but I press. The next court date is looming, and as much as I hate to contribute to her anxiety, there’s a limited amount of time to secure a superseding indictment. Chip was indicted on three counts of murder; I have to add the rape and kidnapping charges.
When I pull up to the Jacksons’ triple-decker, there’s a black-and-white Somerville police cruiser stationed out front. The media ignored Valerie’s request for privacy, and reporters have camped out across the street. The local PD agreed to provide a security detail, and a uniform stands watch on the front porch.
I flash my badge, and the uni nods me through, avoiding eye contact. I don’t know why he’s giving me the cold shoulder; maybe it’s because I prosecuted a Somerville detective for a domestic assault a few years ago.
I push on the doorbell. Walter’s voice crackles through the intercom.
“She’s asleep.” He’s more dismissive than informative, a far cry from the man who was seeking my comfort and reassurance a few weeks ago.
I’m not dissuaded. “I’ll wait until she gets up. I brought work with me.”
There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “Please, come back another time.”
After some back and forth, he buzzes me in and directs me to the parlor, a room filled with balloon bouquets, floral arrangements, and a couple of teddy bears clad in Get Well Soon T-shirts. I use the time to work on my grand jury presentation.
After almost an hour passes, my stomach grumbles, and I start to feel light-headed. I haven’t had anything to eat today; I’m tempted to break into the Whitman’s Sampler on the coffee table and steal a few vanilla butter creams, but settle for a couple of Tic Tacs from my tote.
Finally, Valerie emerges from her bedroom. Her bruises have matured into the color of ripe bananas, and most of the swelling has subsided. As she sits, she moves her hand to her throat and rubs her fingers gently over a thin line of scabs. She seems disappointed, as though she expected the wounds to have healed during her nap.
I ask her how she’s doing and give her information about survivor groups, for when she feels ready to leave the house. For now, all she can handle is phone therapy with a rape crisis counselor.
“I don’t want to testify. He almost killed me.” Her words express fear, but her affect is flat, probably from Valium or Ambien.
I think about motioning the court for an extension, but that will only delay the inevitable.
“I know you’re scared, but you can do it.”
“You have no idea what it feels like.”
“Trust me, I know what you’re going through.”
She rolls her eyes, crosses her arms. “Yeah, right.”
I haven’t shared my feelings about my own brush with death, not even with Ty or Kevin. I’m not sure I’ve fully sorted my emotions out in my own mind, but I know that fear is at the top of the list. It’s unprofessional to talk to a victim about my own personal experiences, but it seems selfish to withhold it from her.
“Last year someone tried to kill me. For months I wanted to jump out of my skin when a neighbor’s door slammed. My heart raced every time the phone rang. I broke into a sweat when a strong breeze rustled the trees. Last winter a snowstorm knocked out our power, and when the sun went down, I had a panic attack. I got in the car and drove all the way to Rhode Island, in the middle of the blizzard, until I saw lights on in a hotel.”
She studies my face. I’ve struck a chord. “What do you need from me?”
“Chip Aldridge is in jail. I want to keep him there.”
“What do I have to do?”
As I start to explain the process, she yawns and her eyelids grow heavy. She hit the wall and won’t remember another word of what I’m saying. Walter is in the kitchen, clanging pots and pans, cooking something garlicky.
“Valerie, we’re eating in ten minutes,” he says.
She promises to appear for grand jury, but I can’t risk taking her at her word. Without her, my case will get directed out at trial; the defendants will argue there isn’t enough evidence to convict, the judge will agree, and the charges will be dismissed before the jury has a chance to deliberate. I serve her a subpoena and tell her Kevin will be by in the morning to pick her up.
I head back to Boston. Driving through Porter Square, I notice a Somerville police car behind me. The lights blink, and the siren blips. I move to the right side of the road to let the car pass, until I realize the signal is directed at me. I pull over, and the cruiser follows.
The officer approaches. “License and registration.”
We’ve crossed the city limits, into Cambridge, which is beyond her authority, but the best course of action is to comply with her order, rather than debate jurisdiction. I reach into my tote and feel around for my wallet; it takes me a minute to find it, buried under a few loose Junior Mints and an empty pretzel bag. I pop one of the melty chocolates in my mouth and hand her my registration.
She examines the document with disdain, as though she suspects it’s counterfeit.
“Have you been drinking?” she says.
“No, Officer.”
She shines a flashlight in my face, then indicates the stripes on her sleeve. “It’s Sergeant. You failed to signal when you turned onto Mass Ave. Where’s your license?”
I’ve always scoffed at ADAs who stash their IDs in their badge cases, so they can not-so-subtly flash their tin at times like this. Now I wish I hadn’t been so sanctimonious. I pull the license from my wallet and hand it to her.
“I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Abby Endicott, chief of homicide at the Suffolk County DA’s Office,” I say.
That should settle things. She should extend some professional courtesy, maybe even apologize, and let me go.
“Wait here.” She’s not impressed.
She returns to her cruiser to run a check, taking more time than she needs, probably calling her spouse to ask what’s for dinner. Just as I’m about to call Kevin to ask who he knows at Somerville PD, she’s back.
“ADA Endicott, you of all people oughta know better. You were going forty in a thirty-five zone. You could’ve killed someone.”
This is the first she’s mentioned speeding or vehicular homicide. This has to be about more than my prosecution of a colleague
. I can’t imagine that punishing a man for pummeling his wife would elicit this much animosity, even if the defendant was a detective. This could only be about one thing: Senator Greenough.
I’m done playing nice. “Issue me a citation and let me go.”
“Not so fast. Your insurance has been canceled.”
I’d completely forgotten. I haven’t paid the car insurance in months; the policy must have lapsed. My financial insolvency is impacting more than my shoe collection.
“I’ll straighten it out when I get back to the office.”
She opens my door. “Step out of the car.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Operating uninsured is an arrestable offense.”
“You don’t have authority to make an arrest. We’re in Cambridge.”
“Get out of the car, or I’ll write you up for resisting.”
Short of stepping on the accelerator and triggering a high-speed chase, there’s nothing I can do. I get out of my car. She pats me down, running her hands up and down my body, which is humiliating, and then she cuffs me, which is more painful than it looks. The back of the cruiser is hot and claustrophobic.
When we arrive at the station, I’m booked. My property, including my phone, is confiscated. As I roll each finger onto the glass to have my fingerprints taken, I look around for a familiar face but don’t see anyone I know. After my mug shot is snapped, I demand to speak with the chief but am told he’s unavailable.
An officer walks me to a holding cell, where six women are seated on concrete slabs that line the wall. The door slams closed; I find an open spot and sit down. It’s my luck that I don’t know any of the police officers, but I do recognize one of my cellmates, a bank robber I prosecuted a few years back. Her head flops over to the left; she’s dozing, unaware of my presence, until—splat! She vomits all over my Jimmy Choos.
She opens her eyes, wipes her mouth with her sleeve, and looks up at me. “Hey, I know you.”
“Shhh.” The last thing I need is for the rest of my fellow prisoners to know I’m a prosecutor. “I’m working undercover.”
Her head drops; she goes back to her drug-induced reverie. When I’m finally given access to a phone, I think about calling Ty to come get me and make me feel safe and human again. Instead, I call Kevin, the more practical choice, the most likely to get me out of this place in one piece. He picks up on the third ring.
“Can you pick me up at the Somerville PD?” I say.
“What the heck are you doing there?” His voice is gravelly, like I woke him.
“Don’t ask.”
“I’m staying at my in-laws, down the Cape. Sit tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I spend the next hour in a panic, alternating between sitting and pacing, experiencing a panoply of my phobias: claustrophobia, entomophobia, and germophobia. Finally, an officer unlocks the cell. I follow him to the booking area.
Kevin is at the desk, mouthing off to a lieutenant. “I hope that none of you are planning to come to Boston anytime soon. If you are, here’s a piece of friendly advice: don’t drive, take the T.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the sergeant at her desk; a photo hangs on the wall behind her. It’s an autographed picture of Senator Greenough with his arm around a teenager.
“Senator Greenough is good people,” she says. “He got my boy an internship at Homeland Security.”
Kevin turns to the sergeant. “If you’re trying to strong-arm ADA Endicott, thinking she’ll cave and go easy on that sleazeball, forget it. She’s not that kind of prosecutor.”
I collect my tote, check to be sure my wallet and phone are inside. On our way out of the station, Kevin hands me the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received: a pocket-size bottle of hand sanitizer.
“I know how you are,” he says. “I always keep a spare bottle in the glove box.”
“I could kiss you,” I say and then immediately wish I could take it back.
There’s a moment of awkward silence as he unlocks his car with the remote and opens my door. As soon as I settle in and buckle up, I unscrew the top of the bottle and bang it against my palm, until a glob comes out. It smells better than any expensive perfume. I put the top back on and stuff the bottle in my tote. We drive back to Boston, more resolved than ever to catch the bad guys.
Chapter Forty-Eight
There isn’t enough time to go home and shower, so I head directly to the office. When I arrive at Bulfinch, wrinkled, smelly, and exhausted, I try to make myself presentable with a spritz of dry shampoo, a fresh coat of lipstick, and a smear of deodorant. I slip into one of the clean white shirts that I keep on hand for inappropriately dressed witnesses and head to court.
On the way, I stop by Starbucks, order a double latte and heart-healthy bowl of oatmeal. As the cashier rings me up, I change my mind and ask for a cranberry scone. After a night in a jail cell, I deserve a fat-filled, nonnutritious breakfast.
Inside the courthouse, I pass through security and jump on an empty elevator. I push the close button, but someone jams in a briefcase, and the doors bounce open. Cassandra hops in and sniffs the air.
“Ewww, it smells like someone barfed in here,” she says.
I cleaned off my shoes as best I could, but apparently I missed a spot. I look at Cassandra and raise my eyebrows, like I don’t know what she’s talking about, like she’s nuts.
“I don’t smell anything,” I say.
On the sixth floor, I’m surprised to find all twenty-three grand jurors seated and waiting. They’re nearing the end of the term, a time when attendance usually becomes spotty, but when I scheduled the case, the foreman told me they were itching to hear from Valerie.
The room is somber, with none of the usual sounds. No idle chitchat, clacking knitting needles, or crunching popcorn. The retired postal worker and the graphic designer have relocated from their seats in the back up to the front row. The landscaper from Revere is sporting a jacket and tie. Even the nurse’s aide from Chelsea is here; she’s been a no-show for weeks.
I set a cup of water and a box of tissues on the ledge of the witness-box and get Valerie, who is seated in the waiting room between her father and Kevin. She follows me, and as she takes her seat, she stumbles and knocks over the water, spilling liquid onto the carpet. Her eyes well up, and she drops her head, looking more defeated than before she walked in.
The postal worker picks up the cup and refills it. “Don’t sweat it. People do that all the time. Yesterday, a guy knocked over the whole pitcher.”
I’m grateful for his fib, and so is Valerie; she hugs her purse and settles in. I pull my chair out from behind the table and drag it next to the witness-box. This way, maybe she won’t feel so alone.
When I raise my right hand, she mirrors me.
“Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to present to this grand jury will be the truth and nothing but the truth?”
She leans into the microphone, so close that she bangs it with her tooth, then lurches back.
“Yes. I swear.”
She coughs, clears her throat, then coughs again. The nurse’s aide offers her a lozenge, which she accepts. The grand jury is an awkward forum for all but the most experienced police officers. It’s formal, with rules and procedures, but the absence of judges and defense attorneys allows interaction between jurors and witnesses, including expressions of empathy.
Valerie starts to relax her shoulders as I direct her through background questions: name, age, address, education.
“Were you receiving financial aid at Tufts?”
“Yes.” She chomps on the cough drop.
“Did you work?”
She lifts her gaze from the floor. “Yes.”
Valerie looks and sounds robotic, which isn’t lost on the jurors, who are getting fidgety. I cut to the core of her testimony.
“Were you a paid escort?”
“Yes.”
A couple of jurors sit up straighter
.
“The weeks before your abduction, did you post an ad on backpage.com?”
“Yes.”
“Did Thomas Greenough Jr. respond to the posting?”
“Yes.”
“Did he pay you to attend parties?”
“Yes.”
At this point, I have to stop leading the witness with yes-or-no questions. If she doesn’t tell her story in her own words, I’ll be accused of misconduct and the indictment could be dismissed.
“Where were the parties?” I say.
“Mostly at hotels around Boston. A couple of them were in Washington, D.C.”
“Who attended?”
“Lobbyists and people who worked for the government. Some were kind of famous. One of them looked like that guy who used to be governor of New Jersey. Some of the girls said FBI and Secret Service agents were there.”
“Tommy Greenough organized the logistics and the invitation list?”
“I think so. He screened the women and introduced us to men.”
The postal worker blurts out, “So you’re saying that Greenough was a pimp?”
Valerie looks at me, startled. The jurors know to wait for my cue before asking questions, but sometimes they can’t help themselves. Admonishing the juror for interrupting will slow things down, so I keep going.
“Did you ever see Senator Greenough at a party?”
“A couple of times. He steered me to some of the men, told me to be nice.”
“How did you meet Chip Aldridge?”
“Tommy set me up with him, on a date.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
Her hand trembles as she rubs it across the ridges in her throat. We sit in silence for a few seconds. She exhales.
“I agreed to meet him at the Sheraton on Route 128. When I got to the room, he was walking around in circles, looking out the window. He seemed weird, maybe like he was on something, and it kind of freaked me out.”
“Did you tell him you wanted to leave?”
“Yes. He blocked the door and wouldn’t let me go.”
Valerie stops, gnaws on a cuticle.
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