When they’re done checking boxes and scribbling answers, they look up and wait for Judge Swanson to emerge from her chambers. She takes the bench, fidgets with her lavender infinity scarf, and asks a litany of questions: Do you understand the defendant is presumed innocent? Are you related to a police officer? Have you ever been the victim of a crime?
Anyone who raises a hand is called up to sidebar for further inquiry. Judge Swanson seems more interested in what the men have to say, particularly the single advertising executive who lives in the South End and the divorced dermatologist from the Seaport District. Someone should remind her: it’s a jury pool, not a dating pool.
When she’s done, she allows us to inquire. No surprise, Chip’s questions are clever, charming, and superficial. He addresses the first juror with confidence, as though he’s done this dozens of times before.
“I noticed that you’ve brought reading material with you. May I ask, who is the author?”
The woman holds up her book and smiles. “It’s a novel by Danielle Steel.”
“My sister’s favorite. Excellent choice.”
Well played. It sounds like a throwaway question, but during this little exchange, Chip accomplished two things: he humanized himself and bonded with the juror. He made himself out to be a loving brother, and he also flirted a little. He’s probably never heard of Danielle Steel, and I doubt he has a sister.
He moves on to the next juror. “I see you’re not married. Have you ever stretched the truth to impress a date?”
The man shrugs. “Hasn’t everyone?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Chip uses most of his preemptories to eliminate men from the panel, but he holds on to this one. They’ve formed a connection over deceptive dating practices.
My voir dire questions are designed to do three things: elicit information, establish my theory of the case, and begin the process of persuasion. It’s like a push poll.
I start with the question that the grand jurors had grappled with. “Some people think a prostitute can’t be the victim of a sexual assault. Do you?”
Many of them respond by saying they’re not sure, which gives me latitude.
“Do you believe if a woman says no, the man has an obligation to stop, regardless of her occupation or station in life?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Because no means no, right? No matter if you’re a prostitute or a physician.”
“Right.”
I move on to another juror. “Could you convict someone based purely on circumstantial evidence?”
“I think so.”
“Even if the defendant has destroyed the DNA?”
“Sure.”
When we’re done with impanelment, the final sixteen jurors don’t appear pleased to have made the cut, particularly number five, a high school teacher from Mattapan, who rolls her eyes and mutters under her breath. Judge Swanson appoints the dermatologist foreperson. She seems to fancy him, which is fine by me. Better that she favor the real dermatologist than the fake lawyer.
First order of business is to take the jury on a view. I give a brief view opening, to let the jurors know what we’re about to do, and then we set out to visit the four crime scenes. First stop is the Graves, the island where Valerie was picked up by the Coast Guard. We travel to the harbor by bus. Chip and I sit up front with the judge, clerk, and stenographer. The jurors are in the back.
When we reach the harbor, a Boston police boat transports us to the island. It’s a twenty-minute ride; the air is cold, and the sea is choppy. As a child, I was a competitive sailor, accustomed to rough waters, so I planned ahead and popped a Dramamine before we left the courthouse. As we near the rocky shore, some jurors take in the skyline and others watch the harbor seals frolic, but as we start to loop around the island, jurors number four and seven complain that they feel seasick, Chip looks a little green, and Judge Swanson leans over the side of the boat and throws up. Not a good way to start a trial.
The next day, we visit King’s Chapel Burying Ground, where Rose was dumped, and Christopher Columbus Park, where we found Britney. Then we set out to our last stop, the alley in East Boston, where Caitlyn was discovered.
When we arrive, the jurors look out the windows and hesitate. They’re not eager to get off the bus. A couple of them give me the stink eye. They should blame Chip, not me. I didn’t pick the location; he’s the one who killed Caitlyn and left her here. As soon as everyone is off the bus, a rat scurries by, and the schoolteacher stumbles and slips on a splotch of slime. Chip comes to her rescue and catches her, preventing her from falling.
“Thank you,” she says as though he’s her hero.
On the way back to Boston, we get stuck in rush-hour traffic, and people grumble. Jurors number three and four have child care responsibilities; the judge lets them make phone calls, and I can hear them frantically asking people to pick up their kids from school. When we finally get back to the courthouse, Judge Swanson is worried they’ll leave and never come back.
She admonishes them in advance. “If you’re not here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, I’ll send the police to find you.”
The next morning, they straggle in, and we start opening statements. I have the burden of proof, so I go first. I stand and look around the courtroom, at my victims’ families, the reporters, the court watchers. Kevin is seated in the back. Cassandra is front and center, whispering to her favorite reporter from the Herald.
I plant myself in front of the jury box, then turn and point at Chip. “This man is a triple murderer. He may not look violent or menacing, but he is. He is a cold-blooded killer, a man who murdered three women and tried to murder a fourth.”
When I look at Chip in disgust, he holds my eyes. I turn back to the jury and recite the facts of each murder, highlighting the most horrific parts. I apologize in advance for what they are about to experience and warn them that the details will be gruesome. When I’m done, I sit down, shaking from anger, nerves, and adrenaline. Chip rises. Everyone is eager to hear his response, but no one more than I.
“Respectfully, ladies and gentlemen, this prosecutor is mistaken. I didn’t do what she’s accused me of. And because she has arrested the wrong person, the real killer is still out there.”
His tone is moderate, his demeanor even tempered. The contrast is obvious. He’s trying to make me look like an overly emotional woman.
He continues. “But don’t take my word for it. Look at the facts. You will see that there is nothing tying me to the murders. No witnesses, no scientific evidence, no videotape, no DNA, and no confession. Their entire case rests on one person, Valerie Jackson, a woman who was herself the victim of a brutal attack. She was vulnerable and confused, and now that she has regained her strength, her story will change. When she comes in this courtroom, she will not identify me as her assailant. You’ll see, I am an innocent man.”
As he returns to his seat, I glance over at the jury box. Two of the women won’t meet my eyes; a third glares at me. When we take the morning recess, I find Kevin in the hallway.
“Why is he so confident Valerie isn’t going to make the ID?” I say.
“He’s bluffing,” Kevin says.
“I hope he hasn’t threatened her.”
“You worry about the trial, I’ll talk to Valerie.”
“Our whole case rests on her. If she doesn’t identify him, it’s game over.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
I always kick off my trials with an emotional witness, preferably a member of the victim’s family. Before the jurors learn anything about the crime—how, what, when, where, why—it’s important for them to feel the full impact, the loss. This ups the chances that they’ll pay closer attention to the evidence, and it will make them more likely to despise the defendant.
I turn to the court officer. “The Commonwealth calls Delia Driscoll to the stand.”
Witnesses are usually sequestered during the trial, but the judge allowed my motion to exempt my vict
ims’ parents from the order. Delia is seated in the gallery, in the middle of the front row. Ed gives her a hug, others in the row stand to give her room to navigate, and she moves toward the front of the courtroom. Her right hand trembles as she holds it in the air and listens to the clerk administer the oath. Her eyes are red and unfocused; she probably hasn’t slept in months.
“Yes, I promise to tell the truth.”
She takes a seat, looks at the jurors, and starts to tear up. Judge Swanson looks down on her and wags her finger.
“Ms. Driscoll, I don’t allow displays of emotion in my courtroom. I am ordering you not to cry.”
Everyone is taken aback. Delia looks at the judge, her eyes and mouth open wide, unsure of how to respond. If by ordering a grieving mother not to cry, the judge’s intention was to remove emotion from the proceedings, it’s having the opposite effect. Two of the jurors remove tissues from their purses and wipe their eyes. Delia blows her nose.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor. I’ll do my best.”
She takes a breath and bows her head. When Delia looks back up at me, I guide her through questions about Rose’s background: what year she started at BU; what she was studying; and when she went missing. I display a photograph on a TV monitor, and Delia identifies Rose as her beautiful, sweet girl. In an attempt to stifle a sob, Delia puts her hands over her mouth, looks down, and snorts. Three of the jurors in the front row glare at Judge Swanson. I don’t mind that they hate her, as long as it doesn’t take any animus away from Chip. There’s no way to control the loathing; juries are fickle.
I leave the photograph of Rose on the screen and sit down.
“Any questions from the defense?” Judge Swanson says.
“No questions. My sympathies for your loss.”
Chip isn’t an experienced lawyer, but he is a master manipulator who knows how to read his audience. Next up is the first responder to Caitlyn’s murder scene. I question him for about an hour and show crime-scene photographs. Once I’ve sufficiently horrified the jury with the grim pictures of trash, vermin, and dead body, I round off the morning with a technician who talks about evidence collection.
When we recess for lunch, Kevin texts me. Valerie is not a happy camper. I go to the waiting room, where Valerie is seated next to her father, Walter; they both have their arms crossed, backs to Kevin.
Walter gives me a tentative hello. Valerie gives me nothing.
“You’re up next, after the lunch break,” I say.
“Uh-huh.” She avoids eye contact.
“Can I get you something for lunch?”
“No, thanks.” She looks up. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d rather be alone.”
I look at Walter.
“We’ll be fine,” he says.
I move toward the door. “Text me if you need anything.”
Kevin and I settle into an empty office. He takes out a sandwich, wrapped in a Subway bag. As he’s about to take a bite, he notices I’m not eating.
“Is your boyfriend on strike?” he says.
“He’s out of town.”
I’m not ready to tell him that Ty moved out and he’ll probably never make me lunch, or anything else, again.
“I got a tuna sub. Take it.” He slides the sandwich across the table. “I can get another one when you’re in court.”
I take half of the sandwich and pass the other half back to Kevin.
“How are the families holding up?” I say.
“Britney’s sister is a Monday-morning quarterback, with lots to say about everything. She hates juror number seven, thinks you should call the ME next, and she loves your shoes. The rest of them are pretty quiet.”
“Valerie seems jittery.”
“She’s having second thoughts about testifying. We have to get her in and out, pronto.”
I finish the sandwich, find a tin of Altoids in my tote, and pop one in my mouth. I walk toward the visitors’ room, to offer Valerie some words of encouragement, but as I round the corner, I’m summoned into the courtroom.
I turn to Kevin. “Swanson is ten minutes early.”
“It’s that dermatologist? The judge can’t get enough of him. Do you see the way she’s always making goo-goo eyes at him?” he says.
“Better him than the defendant.”
When we get in the courtroom, Judge Swanson is already on the bench, drumming her fingers. It looks like she gave herself a manicure during the recess; her nails are bright red, and the room smells of acetone.
As soon as the jury is seated, the judge says, “Ms. Endicott, call your next witness.”
“The Commonwealth calls Valerie Jackson.”
The court officer goes into the hallway. We hear him shout. Valerie Jackson. He waits a few seconds. Ms. Jackson. The door swings open. We all turn, expecting to see Valerie. It’s Kevin. He looks at me and shakes his head.
“Your Honor, may I have a moment?”
“Quickly.”
Everyone watches as I walk over to Kevin; my heart is pounding. I cup my hand over my mouth.
“Where is she?” I say.
“She’s gone, and so is her old man,” Kevin says.
“Like to the bathroom or the coffee shop?”
Kevin takes a silent breath. There’s no need for him to respond because I can tell by the look on his face. Valerie Jackson is gone.
Chapter Fifty-Three
When we adjourn for the weekend, I go back to the office and waste a few hours, trying to figure out where Valerie could be. There’s a pile of papers on my desk, a backlog of other cases that need attention, but I can’t concentrate, and I don’t want to go home to an empty apartment. I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and doze off.
At 3:00 A.M., the blare of sirens from the police station next door wakes me. I call Town Taxi and wait in the lobby of Bulfinch. Uber would be faster, but climbing into the backseat of a strange man’s Toyota, in the middle of the night, doesn’t seem like the best mode of travel right now.
I arrive home, exhausted and defeated, but adhere to my new routine; I check the rooms and closets for any sign that Ty has been here. Unfortunately, everything is exactly as it was when I left, about twenty-two hours ago. I fall into bed and get a couple of hours of restless sleep.
In the morning, after I shower, I dial Valerie’s phone. The call goes to voice mail, and I leave a message. In the kitchen, I make coffee, and remove a bagel from a plastic bag in the freezer. The hole in the center is filled with ice; I poke out some of the crystals and pop it in the toaster.
When I’m into my second cup of coffee, my cell phone buzzes.
“We’ve been out all night,” Kevin says.
“Any luck?”
“Nope. We sat on the house until Valerie’s father came out.”
“Did he give you anything?” I say.
The acid from my coffee starts to churn in my gut.
“He wouldn’t tell me if my coat was on fire,” Kevin says.
Victims take off during trial all the time, but they usually don’t go far. I should have kept a closer watch. I was too focused on Nadine and didn’t pay enough attention to Valerie.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Kevin says, “but this isn’t your fault. You’re juggling a zillion things. If this is on anyone, it’s me.”
Homicide detectives are responsible for finding witnesses and keeping them safe, but they’re not babysitters. My victims’ advocate has had her hands full with my families, arranging for transportation and hotel rooms, fielding questions, explaining the proceedings, and sitting with them in court. Valerie fell through the cracks.
“We’re screwed,” I say.
If don’t we find Valerie and get her on the stand, my case will fall apart. She’s my only living victim. Without her, I won’t be able to make her case or tie Chip to the other women. I can prove that one man committed all of the crimes, that there was a modus operandi, but I need Valerie to identify Chip as the perpetrator.
“There are two oth
er people who can get us over the rail,” Kevin says.
“I see where this is going,” I say. “No way.”
“They’re our best shot at getting to guilty.”
“You seriously want me to cut a deal with the Greenoughs?”
Calling Josh and offering his clients a plea is repulsive. They don’t deserve a break, especially after all the hoops I had to jump through to get them locked up in the first place.
“Take your personal feelings and your ego out of the equation. Think of them as a regular, run-of-the-mill mopes. We make deals with bad guys all the time.”
I hang up and pace around my apartment. Anything is better than an acquittal; I don’t have a lot of alternatives. I can let the trial play out and hope we find Valerie, or that something else breaks, but that’s too risky. Kevin is right; working with the Greenoughs, getting Tommy to flip and testify against Chip, is my best option. And, if I’m successful, it’ll be Chip’s own fault for demanding two separate trials.
I phone Josh. He picks up on the fifth ring.
“Abigail?” He sounds groggy.
“It’s after ten. Did I wake you?” I say.
“Yes.”
Good—I caught him off guard. I hope he’s hungover.
“Meet me for lunch?” I say.
I can hear the rustle of sheets. Someone next to him stirs, a woman’s voice. “Josh, who are you talking to?”
“It’s work,” he says to his bunkmate.
“Bartley’s at noon?” I say.
When we were dating, Mr. Bartley’s Burger Cottage was our go-to place. It’s exactly as billed, a burger joint, with an open grill and a lunch counter. Except this greasy spoon is in the middle of Harvard Square; in addition to locals and tourists, it also draws Nobel laureates and heads of state.
“Bartley’s? That means you’re looking to butter me up for something. What do you want?” Josh is pompous and annoying, but he’s no fool.
“Let’s conference the case, see if we can resolve it.”
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