As I pass the Commonwealth Ave. apartment building where Chip Aldridge pretended to live, I take out my phone and call the real estate agent who sold me my condo a few years ago. The chirp in her voice makes me wish I’d called someone less enthusiastic. I’ll miss living there but try to convince myself it’s only a condo; there are more important things in life, like food and heat.
“Would you like to start shopping for a new place?” she says.
“Do you show rentals?” I say.
She pauses. “A penthouse in the Mandarin is on the market for a three-year lease. It’s two thousand square feet and a steal at $35,000 a month. I can arrange a showing.”
“I was thinking more like a one bedroom in Brookline.”
Unsure if I’m kidding, she lets out a nervous laugh.
“I’m on trial, but I’ll leave the key at the front desk,” I say.
My building is a rare commodity, with a doorman, a gym, and spectacular views. Unfortunately, the unit will sell quickly.
When I arrive home, Manny greets me in the lobby. “I saw you on the news tonight. Are you gonna nail that creep?” he says.
“I hope so.”
I’m going to miss my daily chats with Manny, his running commentary on my trials.
“My Realtor may come by this week,” I say. “I’m putting my apartment on the market.”
“You’re selling your place?” He sounds hurt, like my decision to relocate is a form of personal rejection. “How come?”
“Money.” I sound breezier than I feel.
I don’t have the energy to console him. I don’t have the energy to console myself. I pass the mailboxes, not bothering to check on the contents, knowing it will be a stack of bills, mostly second and third notices. When I get into my apartment, I call Valerie. The phone rings, and just as I’m about to hang up, someone picks up. No one speaks, but I can hear sobbing.
“Valerie?” I say.
“Why do you keep calling me?” Valerie says.
“Are you okay?”
“I saw the girl, Nadine, on TV.” She sniffles. “I’m sorry. I let everyone down.”
“The trial isn’t over. There’s still time.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can.”
She sobs, then takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
I fish through my purse and find a pen and paper.
“Where are you? I can send someone to get you.”
“I know you can trace the call, or whatever, but I won’t be here for long.”
“Please, I can help. You’ll be safe.”
“It’s more than that.”
“I know it’s humiliating.”
“You have no idea.”
I could argue with her, tell her I do have a sense of what it’s like to be taken in by Chip Aldridge, but I keep it to myself. I’ve already revealed enough about my personal life.
“You’re a good lawyer,” she says. “The news reporters say you’re the best. You’ll get him.”
The line goes dead. I put in a call to the cell phone company, to find the location, but we won’t find her in time. I open the lid to my washing machine, toss in my new underwear, and pour in detergent. In the bathroom, I pull my hair into a ponytail, wash my face, and brush my teeth. Then I get into bed, curl up, and start to cry.
Chapter Sixty
The next morning, Kevin is waiting for me in front of the courthouse. A couple of reporters, looking for comments, try to intercept us as we make our way past the security gate. What are you going to do if there’s an acquittal? Is Valerie Jackson really dead? Are you worried that he’ll kill again?
We duck into the stairwell.
“Let’s hoof it,” Kevin says. “We could use the exercise.”
By the time we reach the third-floor landing, I’m winded.
“I’m falling apart,” I say. “I found a clump of hair in the shower this morning.”
“I’m no barber, but losing your locks at age thirty-six can’t be good.”
“I’m thirty-five.” I elbow him gently. “It’s nerves. I’ll be okay.”
“That’s not nerves, that’s nutrition. You’ve probably got scurvy.” He pulls a Granny Smith from the accordion folder he’s carrying and offers it to me. I take a couple of bites. When we reach the door to the courtroom, I stop.
“Remind me,” I say, “why don’t I work at one of those law firms where nobody dies, and the most stressful part of the day is tallying up your billable hours?”
“Because you don’t want to sit around on your duff all day, counting money.”
“Right now, that doesn’t sound so bad.” I nibble around the core of the apple.
“You’d go nuts.”
“Give me one reason to back go in that room.”
“There’s a million reasons. To stand up for the little guy. To give a voice to the voiceless. To make the world a safer place.” He smiles. “To lock up the evildoers and give them their due. You tell me.”
Kevin gets a call, talks briefly. He hangs up and turns to me.
“There’s a couple of people downstairs. I gotta go talk to them,” he says.
“You’re not going to miss closings, are you?”
“I’ll be there. Shake a leg.”
“It’s break a leg.”
“Yeah, you fractured your leg during your last trial. This time, just shake it.”
I take a cleansing breath and prepare myself to be infuriated by Chip’s words. I took a meditation course a couple of years ago, but I never quite found my inner peace, and I stopped trying after a bullet almost ripped through my chest.
When I walk into the courtroom, the families are clustered together in the gallery. I want them to remain hopeful, but have also done my best to prepare them for the worst. A camera clicks as Chip is brought in and uncuffed. He’s worn the same suit three days in a row, and there’s a sweat stain around the collar of his shirt. He’s lost his last shred of sex appeal.
The court officer calls out, “All rise.”
The jury enters, and then Judge Swanson walks in, takes a seat.
“Good morning, members of the jury. Have you followed my instructions and avoided news reports and social media about this case?” She looks at each juror, waits for them to nod in response. When she reaches the dermatologist, she lingers for a few extra seconds. “It’s time for closing arguments. Mr. Aldridge, you may proceed,” she says.
Chip stands, moves to the jury box, and plants himself front and center. His life is on the line, and he knows it. He’s amped up, ready to do battle. He seems less concerned with camera angles, opting instead for eye contact and connection with the people who will decide his fate.
“The prosecutor had no evidence, so she did what lawyers do: she made things up. She needs this conviction to bolster her candidacy for DA, and she’ll do anything to get it, including offering perjured testimony. She didn’t have the real killer, so she did the next best thing: blame the man who turned down her advances. She wanted to date me, and I wasn’t interested, so I was as good a target as any.”
“Objection! That’s a complete fabrication, with no basis in the evidence,” I say.
Objecting during closing arguments is risky; it could make me look like I’m afraid of what he’s saying, but I can’t let this go. He’s pushed it too far. The only thing that keeps some lawyers honest is the threat of disbarment. Since Chip isn’t a real lawyer, he has nothing to lose. Judge Swanson isn’t sure what to do, so true to form, she doesn’t speak.
Chip continues. “The real killer is still out there.” He lowers his voice, as though he’s sharing a revelation. “That’s why Valerie Jackson isn’t here. He got to her. And soon he’ll get to someone else. The prosecutor should be out looking for the real murderer, not in here, trying to convict an innocent man.”
Chip sits. When I reach the podium, I put my prepared remarks aside. I look into the audience and notice that Kevin isn’t here. It’s not like him to miss
closings. I try not to let it distract me.
“It’s true, no one saw Chip Aldridge commit these heinous crimes, but you don’t need an eyewitness. You’ve heard from dozens of people, civilians, scientists, and police officers, and the most important witness of all: Nadine Franklin. She was his first victim. She was his test run, to see how far he could take it and how it felt. Judging by the horror that she displayed from the witness stand, he was terrifying, and he enjoyed every minute of it. Then he took it a step further.”
I describe the four attacks, then display photos of my four victims on the screen, starting with Rose and ending with Valerie.
“Make no mistake, we got the right man. These crimes have Chip Aldridge’s signature all over them. Please, convict him.”
Some of the jurors seem to be with me, others not so much. I didn’t have a lot to work with, and I don’t know if I have been able to pull it off. As I take a step back to my table, the door swings open, and Kevin walks in. He signals to a woman, who is behind him. I do a double take. It’s Valerie Jackson.
I stand in the middle of the courtroom; the jurors follow my eyes from Valerie, to the photographs on the screen, and back to Valerie. Since she didn’t testify, the jurors have never seen her in person, but it’s clear they recognize her as the woman in the picture, victim number four.
Valerie’s presence makes the most compelling argument of the day. She sits in the front row, next to Delia Driscoll. There are tears in her eyes, underscoring what I just said: Please, convict him. Kevin looks at me, unveils the hint of a smile.
After Judge Swanson gives her instructions and the jury is sent out to deliberate, I find Valerie in the waiting room.
“I’m glad you came,” I say.
“Thanks for not giving up on me,” she says.
Chapter Sixty-One
Hours turn into days, and there’s no verdict. I think about using the time to sort through bills and call the Realtor, but mostly I pace around the corridors of the courthouse with Kevin, debating whether or not it’s a good sign that the jury is taking so long. He says yes; it’s harder to convict than to acquit. I say no; they want to convict, but there isn’t enough evidence.
“I’m going stir-crazy,” Kevin says. “Let’s get out of this joint.”
We can’t go far—the phone could ring at any time—so we walk in circles around the courthouse.
“Everyone who’s paid any attention to this case knows you gave it your all. And I’ll be standing right next to you, whatever happens,” he says.
He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me in. Even through his suit jacket, I can feel the flawless definition of his biceps and pecs. I stop, sink into his strength, and he wraps his other arm around me. When I look up, we lock eyes for a beat too long, and I start to vibrate. It’s my phone.
“Your cell is blowing up,” Kevin says.
I don’t move to check it. I want the moment to last a little longer. Kevin leans in and kisses me softly, on the cheek.
“You did good,” he says.
“You’re my best friend,” I say. “Sometimes it feels like you’re my only friend.”
“Back at you,” he says.
“Do you ever think about what it would be like if, you know…”
“Yup.” He releases me and takes a step backward. “But I’m married, and you’re with … what’s his name.” He smiles playfully.
“You’re a wise man.” I don’t tell him that Ty and I are through.
“As much as I mess with you, I think Ty is a keeper. You need someone who isn’t in this crazy business. Someone who doesn’t deal with death all day long. Someone who can lighten your load.”
My phone vibrates again, and I take it out of my pocket. My heart is already in overdrive, but it pounds a little faster as I check the screen.
“Do they have a verdict?” Kevin says.
I’m surprised to see the governor’s counsel number come up on the screen. I shake my head, take a breath, and raise my voice an octave, to make it sound like I’m smiling.
“Lennie Potter here.” It’s the man with the polka-dot tie. “We all watched the closing on NECN. You did a helluva job.”
“I didn’t expect to hear from you, at least not until after the jury comes back.” I immediately realize this sounds snarkier than I had intended.
“You haven’t made it easy for us. You’ve got a lot of personal liabilities.”
I shift into autopilot. “My personal life shouldn’t be an issue.” I can’t help it; I argue when I’m nervous. “I’m the most qualified candidate you have.”
“Yes, I know.” Suddenly, he doesn’t sound like someone about to deliver bad news.
“You do?”
“We’re prepared to offer you the position.”
“You are?”
This is going too well; there’s got to be a catch.
“There are a couple of conditions,” he says.
Here it comes.
“Okay, what are they?” I say.
“Your father has to recall the loan to Max.”
“I can arrange that.”
“We understand you’ve broken it off with your fiancé, so that issue has resolved.”
Ty and I may be through, but it’s not going to be because Mr. Polka Dot demanded we break it off. I take a deep breath.
“You’re mistaken. Ty and I are very much together. In fact, we’ve been talking about setting a wedding date.”
The line goes silent for a few seconds.
“Then I’m sorry, that’s a deal breaker,” he says. “I wish you all the best.”
I think for a minute, decide not to argue, and say good-bye. When I hang up, Kevin is a few feet away, reading his texts.
“They’re about to name Max’s replacement,” Kevin says.
“That was fast,” I say. “Please, tell me it’s not Cassandra.”
“It’s not Cassandra. She’s going to be Max’s chief of staff at city hall.”
I’m thrilled, give him a high five. It’s probably misplaced joy, since I don’t have a verdict to celebrate.
“If it’s not me, and it’s not Cassandra, then who got the job?”
“They’re bringing in someone from the outside: Stan Alvarez.”
“An FBI profiler is going to be the new district attorney?”
“Turns out, he’s a shrink and a lawyer.”
The fact that it’s not Cassandra almost makes up for the fact that it’s a fed.
“Yippee. And ugh,” I say.
“Be straight with me. You never really wanted that job. You toyed with the idea, and you’re not one to turn down a challenge, but you love what you do too much to do anything else.”
My phone vibrates. It’s the clerk.
“We need you in the courtroom,” he says. “The jury’s back.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
As soon as we get word there’s a verdict, Kevin and I text the families, most of whom are in the victims’ waiting room, to tell them to meet us outside the courtroom. Kevin senses I’m too distracted to make small talk; he takes over and fields their questions.
“It took a long time. What does that mean?” Delia Driscoll says.
“It’s impossible to know.”
“Will he be sentenced today?” Valerie says.
“If he’s found guilty, yes.”
“Do you think he’s going to be found guilty?” Karen Walker says.
“We’ll know in a couple of minutes.”
Kevin is patient with them, even though they’ve already asked these questions a thousand times before. It’s hard to retain information when you’re waiting, unsure if your child’s murderer is going to be held to answer to his crimes.
When we get in the courtroom, the room is jam-packed, but eerily quiet. No one is moving or talking. Except Nadine, who lets out a series of explosive sneezes.
“All rise, jury entering,” the court officer says.
The jurors look tense and serious, and don’t ma
ke eye contact with either me or Chip. I can’t get a read on anyone. The foreman hands the verdict slip to the court officer and scans the audience. When his eyes search the gallery and stop at Valerie, I let out a sigh of relief.
“How do you find? Is he guilty or not guilty?” Judge Swanson says.
“Guilty.”
A few people applaud, some cry. Valerie and Nadine hug each other. Walter Jackson shouts: We got the bastard!
I stand. “The Commonwealth moves for sentencing.”
The judge turns to Chip. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr. Aldridge?”
For the first time since I met him, Chip isn’t interested in talking. He sits silently, looking down at his papers, probably plotting his next con. The judge imposes four consecutive life sentences, and Chip is hauled off to prison.
We’re all in a bit of shock as we say our good-byes. I’ll likely hear from some of them in the future. A few will check in regularly; others will want nothing to do with me.
On my way home, I think about my own family and decide to stop by my parents’ house. My mother is in her bedroom, on a chaise longue, reading Vogue. She’s alone and, shockingly, she looks sober. Her eyes are clear; her hands are steady. I give her a kiss and don’t pick up the familiar smell of alcohol on her breath. Neither one of us mention my trial.
“Where’s Dad?” I say.
She flips the page, to an article about destination spas, then looks up.
“He’s been staying at the club.”
She nods at his closet; the door is ajar. Half of his clothes are gone. The last time I saw him, he was angry, but I didn’t think was going to move out.
She puts down her magazine. “He filed papers.”
“Divorce papers?”
She nods and sighs. “I won’t do well without him.”
I give her a hug and am surprised when she hugs me back.
“He’ll come home,” I say.
“I hope so,” she says, “but I’ve contacted an attorney, just in case.”
After I leave my mother, I stop by Gary Drug for a bottle of Poland Springs and a tin of Altoids, and as I cross Charles Street, I see Judge Swanson and the dermatologist juror duck into Bin 26 Enoteca. He holds the door for her, she pauses to look at him and smile, and he gestures her inside. They look tentative and awkward, like something fantastic is about to unfold between them.
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