“Did Chip Aldridge attack you in that hotel room?” I say.
“He raped me.”
The landscaper interrupts, “What do you mean, he raped you? How could he rape you, when he paid for it?”
A couple of jurors in the back exchange looks. The nurse’s aide whispers to her neighbor, who nods; I can’t tell if they’re being supportive or judgmental. I decide to let Valerie answer the question; it’s a question a lot of people will be asking.
“I know I was there for sex, but it was rape. I didn’t consent.” Her voice is confident and resolved, and I’m proud of her.
“Did you tell him to stop?”
“Yes, definitely.”
“What did he do?”
“He put a pillow over my head. I thought he was going to suffocate me.”
“Tell us what happened afterward.”
“I put on my clothes and left the hotel. I went into the parking lot and was about to call for a ride. He grabbed me from behind and covered my mouth.”
She looks at the landscaper, who nods: Okay, I get it. He raped you. The other jurors, the skeptics, seem to have softened, too.
“Did he force you in the car?” I say.
She takes a breath, then speaks slowly. “Yes, we drove for a while. When we stopped, he put a cloth over my mouth. It smelled like chemicals, and I passed out. When I woke up, we were on a boat, and I was naked. I tried to fight with him. He wrapped a string around my neck, it was like a shoelace or something, and he pulled and pulled and pulled until I blacked out. I guess he thought I was dead.”
“When did you regain consciousness?”
“I was in the water.” She looks directly at the jurors. “I almost drowned. I saw the lighthouse, and I swam to the rocks. I don’t know how I did it.”
We’re in the home stretch. Now I have to give them a chance to make inquiry.
“Does anyone have any questions for this witness?”
I say this for the record, but glare at them and issue a silent plea. Please, no questions. No one says a word. I excuse Valerie, turn off the recorder, and give the foreman the letters of indictment.
“I’ll be outside,” I say.
In the waiting area, I take off my suit jacket and sit down. I could be here awhile. To issue indictments, grand juries only have to find probable cause to charge, not guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and they only need a majority vote, not a unanimous one. But they have a few charges to consider, and the evidence is scant.
After a minute passes, I’m surprised when the foreman comes out and hands me papers.
“We voted,” he says. “It’s a true bill.”
I sign the indictment forms, then walk to Valerie. I give her a hug, and she almost hugs me back.
Chapter Forty-Nine
When I get back to the office, there’s a logjam at the elevators, and the fourth-floor library is packed with reporters. Max is delivering a speech about the opiate addiction crisis, but no one is listening; the cameras and microphones don’t even seem to be turned on. Everyone is biding their time, waiting for him to wind down, so they can ask about the mushrooming allegations of corruption. Cassandra probably planted the rumor as payback to Max for dumping her. Sabotaging my candidacy is an added bonus.
My father, who is at the center of the controversy, conveniently jetted off to Hong Kong, or at least that’s what his assistant is telling people. He’s probably where he always is at this time of day—in the steam room at the Harvard Club. I’d like to avoid the reporters, too, but that would make me look complicit, and I have a political career to worry about.
Max is at the podium, with a well-crafted response. He must have ice blocks in his shoes, because he’s the only person not dripping with sweat. To discourage lingering, his campaign manager cranked up the heat and removed the water cooler. Some of the reporters take off their jackets and roll up their sleeves. An audio technician fans herself. A cameraman looks like he’s about to faint from heat exhaustion.
As soon as Max finishes talking, Cassandra’s favorite Herald reporter pipes up. “Can you explain the financial transaction with ADA Abby Endicott’s father?”
Max is defiant. “Nothing illegal or unethical transpired. Our computers were hacked, and it was in the best interest of the people that we serve to protect the confidential information.”
“What kind of information?”
“Names and addresses of rape victims, testimony of gang members who turned government witness, strategies about capturing drug traffickers.” He omits the part about an extramarital affair between himself and a member of his staff.
Carl raises his hand but doesn’t wait to be called on. “Then why not be open about it and pay out of office funds?”
Max grins. “That’s a first, the press complaining that I’m saving the taxpayers money.”
A few people in the audience laugh. Carl isn’t one of them.
“ADA Endicott, since this involved your family, do you think it will impact your chances of getting the appointment?” Carl says.
“What I think isn’t relevant,” I say. “It’s what the governor thinks and, ultimately, what the voters think that matters.”
“You already sound like a candidate,” Carl says.
I flash a smile, cameras click. A couple of reporters try to follow up with questions about my candidacy.
Max steps back up to the podium. “ADA Endicott has a big trial coming up, and she needs to prepare. Today is about the opiate crisis, not unsubstantiated rumors. Thank you all for coming.”
An aide whisks Max away, into a locked stairwell. The hot, hungry reporters move in and surround me.
“Sorry, I’ve got a meeting,” I say.
I jump into an elevator; Carl manages to slip in with me. I swipe my badge over the security sensor and push the button for the eighth floor.
“I spoke with your boyfriend this morning,” Carl says.
He looks at me, wants me to think he has information about something outrageous—something about my father or mother or Ty. I’m not biting. Ty isn’t politically shrewd, but he’s smart, not one to be lured into giving away secrets, and he’s a performer. He can hold his own against Carl.
“Stay out of my personal life.” I watch the floor numbers flash: 5, 6, 7.
“It’s a valid story. Candidate for DA was living with a convicted drug dealer.”
He was bound to ask about Ty’s drug conviction, but I’m not worried. I’ve already discussed it with the governor’s committee. We reach my floor, and the elevator doors slide open.
“Wait … was living with a drug dealer?” I extend my arm to prevent the doors from closing.
“Your boyfriend told me he moved out.”
This can’t be true. I hope. Either Carl misunderstood or Ty just said that to get Carl off his back. The elevator door timer runs out, and the alarm bell sounds. I step into the hallway and rush past the receptionist.
“Jack Rater is waiting for you in your office,” she says. “He brought the evidence from the crime lab.”
“I’ll be with him in a minute.”
I’m late for my trial-prep meeting with Jack, but I won’t be able to concentrate until I talk to Ty. I duck into an empty conference room and phone him. When the call goes to voice mail, I hang up. After two more tries, he answers.
I forgo the pleasantries. “Did you tell Carl Ostroff you’re moving out?”
He hesitates. “Babe, I tried to talk to you about it, but you wouldn’t listen.”
The room feels like it’s spinning. “So it’s true?”
“I was going to tell you when you got home. I sublet a place in Brighton.”
The receptionist is standing outside the conference room. She taps on the glass, startling me. I look at her and hold up two fingers.
“Give me two minutes,” I say to her.
Ty thinks I’m talking to him. “We can talk later,” he says.
I start to tear up. “You don’t have to move. I can handle Car
l.”
“It’s more than just him. Two radio stations and a newspaper called. Some guy from The Harvard Crimson was out front of our apartment building this morning.”
The receptionist waves her arms over her head, like a football referee signaling to stop the game clock. I swivel my chair around so she can’t see my face.
“It’ll blow over,” I say.
“We should both lie low for a while.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind the scrutiny.”
“Well, I’m not okay with it,” he says. “First I get grilled by the governor’s people, then reporters start calling. This is taking on a life of its own.”
“You’re breaking up with me? Over that?”
“It’s not just your job. I love you, but let’s face it—you came pretty close to cheating on me.”
“But I didn’t.”
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He’s not supposed to leave me. I’m supposed to leave him. In all of my past relationships, except for Tim, I’ve always been the one to cut and run.
There’s another tap on the window; it’s Jack. He points at his watch. I have to go. I hold up a finger. I’ll be right with you.
“I’ll call you later,” Ty says.
The line goes quiet. I can’t lose Ty. I take him for granted sometimes, but I can’t imagine life without him. I look up and see Jack, still outside the window. I find a tissue and blow my nose. There’s no time for self-pity; three women are dead, and their families are counting on me. I open the door and let Jack in the room.
We sit around the conference table and review the evidence. A milk carton, streaked with Caitlyn’s blood, from the alley in East Boston. Links of Rose’s necklace, from Christopher Columbus Park. Pieces of Britney’s scalp from King’s Chapel Burying Ground.
Jack is imparting important information, but my head is throbbing. As he talks about body fluids and hair samples, I imagine Ty, packing up his reeds and sheet music. By the time Jack starts to talk about Valerie’s rape kit, I have a migraine. Somehow I make it through the meeting.
When I get home, my apartment is dark and empty. There’s no light on in the hallway, no food sizzling on the stove, no music wafting through the air. I check the closets; Ty’s clothes are gone. He’s taken all of his things, everything but the leather coat I gave him for his birthday, which is still folded neatly inside its glossy red box.
Chapter Fifty
The trial is still months away, but pretrial motions are scheduled for this morning. The courtroom is at capacity. My victims’ friends and family members take up about a third of the gallery. Reporters, lawyers, and court watchers fill another third. The Greenoughs occupy the rest. As far as I can tell, no one is here to support Chip, at least not openly.
I take my place in the front of the room. Behind me, there are two tables; one has three chairs, for Josh and the Greenoughs, and the other has one chair, for Chip. Some defense attorneys would opt to push the tables together, allowing the parties to consult and present a united front, but Josh doesn’t want the visual of his clients sitting next to Chip.
The courtroom quiets as the three defendants are escorted in through a side door. The contrast between lawyer and defendant is usually obvious, but not in this case. All four men show signs of privilege. The Greenoughs look pasty and thin, but they still have expensive dental work, good posture, and quality wing tips. And I have to admit Chip cuts a fine figure in his navy-blue pinstripes. The telltale sign of incarceration, however, is the haircut, and Chip’s has turned the corner from thick and wavy to bushy and unkempt. Prisoners don’t have the benefit of Newbury Street stylists.
The court officer gives each prisoner their files, along with pads of paper and pens. While Chip thumbs through his papers, I sneak a look at his hands. They’re no longer smooth and manicured but still could pass for the strong and steady hands of a surgeon.
“All rise,” a court officer says.
Judge Swanson emerges from her chambers, takes the bench, and eyes Chip. She was practically swooning over him at the arraignment, when he was outfitted in an orange jumpsuit. Now that he’s dressed for success, she looks at him wide-eyed, like she thinks he’s dreamy. I want to scream at her: I thought he was handsome, too. Remember: He’s not really a lawyer. He’s a cold-blooded killer.
Josh and I wait for her to acknowledge us, but Chip either doesn’t know or doesn’t care about courtroom decorum. He jumps out of his seat, careful to position himself so he’s facing forward, toward the bench, while also allowing the cameras in the back of the courtroom to capture his perfect profile.
“Your Honor, may it please the court, I have filed a motion for a speedy trial. Most respectfully, I ask to be heard.” In an instant, Dr. Aldridge has transformed himself into Attorney Aldridge.
Judge Swanson doesn’t scold him for speaking out of turn; in fact, she encourages him.
“Certainly, Mr. Aldridge, I’ll hear you.” There’s a lilt in her voice.
“Rule 36 of the Massachusetts Rules of Criminal Procedure, as well as a significant body of case law, mandate that the defendant receive a trial free of unnecessary delays,” Chip says.
He puffs out his chest, proud of himself. His oratory skills are eloquent. If you scratch the surface, however, his legal reasoning doesn’t hold water. When he was sneaking into classes at Yale Law School, he should have paid more attention to criminal procedure. The rule he cited doesn’t apply, but I’m not going to quibble with him. My victims’ families want to move on with their lives, and so do I. The investigation is complete, and my witnesses are ready; this is as good as it’s going to get. Unlike First Growth Bordeaux, murder cases don’t improve with age.
“The Commonwealth answers ready for trial,” I say.
Not one to give up the spotlight to anyone, least of all an ex-girlfriend and a fake lawyer, Josh is on his feet. “I filed a motion to sever. My clients should have their own separate trial. Otherwise, there’s a substantial risk of guilt by association.”
Chip backs him up. “I concur with my cocounsel.”
Josh flinches when he hears Chip refer to him as his cocounsel.
Judge Swanson looks to me. “What’s your position on severance?” she says.
He’s on solid legal footing, but this would be a disaster. Two trials will double my workload, the witnesses will have to testify twice, and the families will have to sweat it out while they wait for two verdicts.
“It will be a waste of time and resources,” I say.
Chip takes a deep breath and exhales loudly, as though I’ve offended his sense of justice. “Protection of the defendant’s rights, not economy and expediency, should be the primary consideration for this court.”
Not bad for an amateur.
Josh picks up the baton and sprints to the finish line. “The evidence in the Greenoughs’ cases is irrelevant and unduly prejudicial to Mr. Aldridge’s case, and vice versa.”
Judge Swanson nods. “We’re going to have two trials—one for the Greenoughs and one for Mr. Aldridge.”
I’ve been ambushed. The Greenoughs smile in victory. Josh gives the appearance he wants nothing to do with Chip, but clearly they strategized and plotted this out ahead of time. I never would have agreed to Chip’s request to fast-track the cases if I’d known that they were going to push for separate trials.
Josh and his clients start to pack up their papers. Judge Swanson eyes the door to her chambers, ready to bolt. Chip isn’t done.
“One more thing,” he says. “I filed a motion to exclude the alleged use of aliases.”
I stand. “Mr. Aldridge’s false identities are relevant and an exception to the hearsay rule,” I say.
The judge fiddles with her pen as she scans Chip’s rap sheet. Hopefully, his sex appeal drops a notch with each false name and date of birth. She looks up and checks her watch, as though she has someplace more important to be than here, at the biggest trial that will ever come across her desk.
“I agree
with Mr. Aldridge. The proffered evidence is excluded from the trial,” she says.
“Your Honor, may I—”
“No. I don’t want to hear about aliases or dates of birth. We impanel in the morning.”
The ruling is a huge loss. It means the jury won’t learn about Chip’s past and his experience in the art of the con. Some may take him at his word. Chip doesn’t need a lawyer—it looks like Judge Swanson is going to assume that role. She might as well get off the bench and take a seat next to him at the defense table.
When I get home, I go straight to bed. It’s only nine o’clock, but I need to rest up while I can. The past few days have been brutal, but the next few weeks are going to be worse. The only upside to being on trial is it gives me a valid excuse to let everything else in my life fall by the wayside. I don’t have time to think about my family, my relationship with Ty, or the election. For now, my sole focus will be on convicting Chip Aldridge and sending him away for life.
Chapter Fifty-One
The next morning, a tent and staging area are set up in the middle of Pemberton Square. The case is a boon for local merchants who, unlike me, would like the trial to go on in perpetuity. An enterprising vendor is selling two styles of T-shirts. One has a photo of Chip’s face behind bars, with GUILTY stamped across his face. The other has a picture of Chip, surrounded by a picture frame, with the word FRAMED on his forehead.
Choosing a jury is always a crapshoot, but this one will be even more so. It seems that anyone with a pulse has already formed an opinion, which means selecting a so-called fair and impartial jury will be nearly impossible. The only people likely to declare they can keep an open mind are either lunatics or liars.
The jury commissioner issued summonses to seven hundred Suffolk County residents. From that group, we select sixteen jurors for the panel, twelve of whom will ultimately deliberate. Under the rules, we each have eighteen preemptory challenges, jurors we can eliminate without giving a reason.
Voir dire is tedious. Potential jurors file into the courtroom in groups of fifty and fill out twenty-page questionnaires. They’re supposed to report any prejudices or biases, for or against the defendant, and we’re supposed to take them at their word. As if.
The Graves Page 21