“We won’t,” he says, reminding me of one of the best things about being part of the law enforcement community. “We’re in this together.”
Cops know how to rally and take care of their own. They organize fund-raisers to support the widows of fallen comrades. They shave their heads when a colleague’s child is stricken with cancer. They’re always there for each other. Not because it’s in their job description. Because it’s in their blood.
Chapter Nine
Kevin’s black SUV is parked alongside a dozen other unmarked police cars on the median strip in front of City Hall. Nearby, there are a line of press vans, their satellites extended toward the sky, ready to transmit.
“The vultures got here fast,” I say, relieved that we escaped from the courthouse before the media swarm hit.
“Yesterday, no one cared about Orlando Jones or his victims. It was just another murder in the hood. Now the trial will be live-streamed,” Kevin says.
I prefer the federal system, where cameras are banned and exposure is limited to courtroom sketches and reporters’ articles and tweets. In state courts, judges will occasionally shield a reluctant witness’s identity, but prosecutors are always considered fair game.
“Think of the upside,” Kevin says. “In a short time, you’ll be a household name, like Judge Judy or Lady Gaga.”
“More like Lady Macbeth—when she started to unravel.”
“Maybe you’ll get your own show on Fox like those other lady lawyers. You pretty much fit the bill. You don’t have the blond hair, but you have the blue eyes and the nice figure.”
“I’ll take that.”
“You’re a looker—but you might want to do something about those bags under your eyes.”
Kevin uses the remote to unlock his car. As I buckle my seat belt, he grabs Orlando Jones’s murder book from the back.
“I stopped by HQ on my way here.” He hands me the black three-ring binder bursting with plastic sleeves. “This is going to be a tough one. Big stakes, with the whole case resting on a couple of shaky witnesses.”
Kevin pulls a U-turn into oncoming traffic and smiles as he cuts off a Beemer. The murder book slides off my lap, and a photograph slips out of the front pocket. It’s Orlando Jones’s booking photo. He isn’t looking into the camera, he’s confronting it. A lot of killers have an empty stare, often described as dead eyes. Not Orlando—his eyes are alive, active, brimming with rancor.
“I know that you two have a past,” Kevin says.
“I just disclosed it. How’d you find out so fast?”
“I’ve known about it for years, before I even met you.”
“Who told you?”
“I did your background check when you applied to the office.”
“You investigated me?”
“Yup.”
“You never mentioned that. What did you find out?”
I fiddle with my cell and shift in my seat, knowing that I’ll be uncomfortable with his response.
“You’re loaded. You pay your taxes, or your accountant pays your taxes. You have a clean driving record. You’ve never been arrested.” He pauses. “And your best friend died right in front of you.”
I look out the window, bite my lip, and try not to cry. I’ve always taken Kevin’s steadfast support for granted, never wondered about the genesis.
“My first year on the job, I went through the same thing,” he says.
His voice catches. He stops talking, clears his throat, and coughs. In the ten years that I’ve known him, he’s never brought up the subject of his partner’s death.
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry,” I say.
“Even though there was nothing I could have done to save him, I’ve never forgiven myself.”
“Survivor’s guilt.” A few tears well up in the corner of my eyes, and I wipe them away with the side of my hand.
Kevin weaves in and out of traffic on Cambridge Street and takes a left onto Bowdoin, a steep side street leading up the back of Beacon Hill. We drive past rows of what were once seedy rooming houses and are now multimillion-dollar condos. There’s a line in front of Saint John’s, a church that serves soup to the homeless and communion to the wealthy.
A dozen tourists are gathered at the top of Mount Vernon Street, listening to a guide who is outfitted in a brown colonial-style dress, complete with an apron and puffy white bonnet. She directs their attention to the brick sidewalks, wrought iron fences, and antique gas lanterns.
“Where are we going?”
“We’ll stop by and see Jasmine Reed’s mother, bring her up to speed. But I want to make a quick detour.”
Descending the more fashionable south slope of Beacon Hill, we pass the brick townhouse where my older brother, Charlie, lives with his fiancée.
“Must’ve been nice,” Kevin says, “growing up here with all the muckety-mucks, spending your summers in Nantucket.”
“For your information, we summered on the Vineyard. Besides, you’re one to talk. You belong to the oldest, most impenetrable club of all: the OBN.”
“What’s that?”
“The Old Boys’ Network.”
When we reach the flat of the hill, Kevin parks on Charles Street in front of a Tow Zone—No Parking sign. The street is lined with an assortment of cafés, boutiques, and antique shops. Kevin helps an attractive redhead navigate her double stroller around an elm tree, its gnarled roots protruding through the sidewalk.
We stop at the Paramount, a cafeteria-style diner that caters to Brahmins and blue-collar workers alike. It’s relatively cheap, and the food is good. Kevin opens the door and pulls back the thick red curtain that protects diners from the cold wind.
The room is jammed with tables. The open kitchen emits the permanent smells of breakfast: eggs, bacon, pancakes. We join the line, and I grab a tray, silverware, and paper napkins.
“Just coffee,” I say when it’s my turn to order.
The cashier hands me a white ceramic mug emblazoned with a picture of former mayor Kevin White, and I scope out a table.
“We’re not here for a coffee break—it’s lunchtime.” Kevin unpacks a tray with two burgers and a tower of onion rings. “I’m not leaving until you eat something.”
The burger tastes warm and juicy. Kevin smiles as I scarf down the food.
“You want me to order a brownie sundae for the road?” he says.
I take the brownie, sans ice cream and hot fudge, and devour it on the way out the door.
“I have to run a quick errand,” I say.
I dash across the street to DeLuca’s, a gourmet grocery store, where I find a bouquet of fuchsia gerbera daisies. I don’t want to arrive at Jackie Reed’s house empty-handed. She was in the office last week to meet with Tim, and she seemed like someone who cares about etiquette.
“I thought prosecutors aren’t supposed to give gifts to witnesses,” Kevin says when I meet him at his car with the flowers.
“Screw it. Let the judge sanction me for common courtesy.”
Kevin drives us into the high-crime section of Mattapan, where hardworking families have to contend with the gang warfare that surrounds them.
“That boyfriend of yours, is he taking care of you?” Kevin says as we idle at a traffic light on Blue Hill Avenue.
Like most of the people in my life, Kevin has never met Ty, but he knows about him. Kevin and I have spent hundreds of hours together since I started seeing Ty last year; he’s heard us on the phone, talking, laughing, making plans, arguing.
“Ty doesn’t take care of me. I’m a modern woman,” I say.
“He’s got a criminal record.” He turns to look me in the eye. “But you already know that.”
I tell most people that Ty and I met at a party, which is true, albeit misleading. We were in a club, but not as invited guests—we were both working. Ty, a musician, was there to perform, and I was there to authorize warrants.
There had been a stabbing on the dance floor earlier in the night, and he was a witness.
It was a gruesome scene. The victim had his throat slashed and his gut ripped open. When I arrived, the first responders were slipping and sliding on the sticky, bloody dance floor.
The case took about eight months to resolve, enough time for us to get to know each other pretty well. It’s hard to flirt over crime scene photos, but I always looked forward to our meetings, remembering to put on an extra coat of lipstick and spritz of perfume. Ty swears that he was initially turned on by my intelligence, but he seemed more interested in my butt. I caught him once—checking me out when I leaned over to pick up the bloody knife.
He asked me out for a drink as soon as the trial was over, but while the jury was still deliberating. I complied with the state ethics rules and waited until the guilty verdict came down before accepting the invitation.
Kevin knows that, as a matter of course, prosecutors run the criminal record of every potential witness. If he’s done the math, and I’m sure he has, it’s obvious that I learned about Ty’s criminal past before we got involved.
“How do you know about Ty’s record?” I say.
“I don’t sell shoes for a living.”
“You ran his record without any legitimate investigative purpose—that’s a violation.”
“He has a conviction for D with intent, and it’s not a youthful indiscretion. It’s from 2010.”
“That was before my time.”
“I’m just looking out for you.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Kevin has been my guardian angel for years, starting with my first trial. Two weeks on the job, I had a shoplifting case from Neiman Marcus. I was so nervous that I forgot to introduce the key piece of evidence: a women’s suit. To add insult to injury, the suit was Chanel. Kevin was the arresting officer; he finessed my direct examination by answering a question that I had never asked.
“You spared me the humiliation of a not guilty on my first trial. I almost hope that you’ll screw up one day so I can return the favor.”
“Ain’t gonna happen.”
“I know.”
“Possession with intent to distribute marijuana,” he says. “You can’t sell pot in this state unless you’re a doctor running a licensed medical marijuana dispensary. Is your boyfriend a doctor?”
“No, Detective Farnsworth, he’s not a doctor. And he doesn’t sell drugs anymore.”
“You’re a public servant, subject to public scrutiny. Getting involved with a convicted drug dealer isn’t the best road to career advancement.”
“Duly noted,” I say.
Chapter Ten
Jackie Reed lives in a dilapidated triple-decker on drug-infested Samoset Street. The second- and third-floor porches are slanted forward, like they’re about to break off from the house and topple onto the sidewalk. We climb up the warped front stoop and look at the rusty mailboxes, hoping to learn the occupants, but the ink is faded. Kevin pulls out Jackie’s form twenty-six, takes out his cell, and dials.
“This is Detective Kevin Farnsworth, Boston Police. I’m outside. I was wondering if we could talk for a minute.”
There’s no buzzer or entry system, so Jackie has to come downstairs to open the door and let us in. She greets us wearing a cheerful pink dress and matching hat. When she extends her hand, I’m half expecting to see white gloves like the ones I wore to Miss Pringle’s ballroom dance classes in fourth grade at the Park School.
We follow her up two flights of creaky wooden stairs. The inside of her apartment is as tidy as the outside is messy. I hand her the flowers.
“These are lovely.” She arranges them in a glass vase. “I was getting ready for court. Mr. Mooney said I should be there this afternoon.”
“That’s why we’re here,” I say.
“Where’s Mr. Mooney?”
Worried that my voice will crack, I sit quietly and let Kevin take over.
“There was a shooting last night.”
“Oh, goodness, I hope everyone is okay.”
“Tim, Mr. Mooney, was the one who was shot,” Kevin says. “But we don’t want you to worry—you’re in good hands.”
“Shot? Is he okay?”
“I’m sorry to tell you, he passed away,” Kevin says.
She stops and bows her head. “He was a kind soul.”
I clear my throat. “Yes, he was.”
Jackie crosses herself before looking back up at me. “When is the service? I’d like to pay my respects.”
“We’re not sure yet.”
She gestures to a brown plaid sofa, still wrapped in its protective cover even though she’s probably had it for years. “Please have a seat.”
When Kevin sits, the stiff plastic crinkles and bends. I walk over to a table lined with photographs in a hodgepodge of frames.
“This one is from her first communion.” Jackie picks up a fading black and white in an ornate gold-colored frame. “I was saving the dress for when she had a girl of her own.”
She tears up. I put my hand on hers.
“This was her high school graduation. And this is when she left for her tour of duty in Afghanistan. She had nothing to do with gangs or drugs. She was outside on the porch, talking with her friends.”
Every mother swears that her child was an innocent bystander, but in this case, it happens to be true.
“The jury isn’t going to think Jasmine did anything wrong,” I say.
“I’m not worried about the trial. My baby is gone, the Lord will take care of the rest. Mr. Mooney, he was such a nice man. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Jackie Reed, a woman whose daughter was murdered two days before her twenty-sixth birthday, wraps her arms around me and rubs my back. I let my shoulders drop and accept the warmth of her hug. I want to hold on to this moment, remember it next week when I’m face-to-face with Orlando Jones.
A woman who looks eerily like Jasmine enters the room. “Mom, did you hear what happened to the prosecutor?”
She’s surprised when she sees us. Kevin stands, extends his hand, and introduces us.
“You must be Jasmine’s sister,” he says.
“Tiffany,” she says.
“Twins?”
“Yes.”
Jasmine had a twin sister. My heart breaks a little more.
“I heard about your colleague. I’m sorry,” she says. “We’ve been waiting a long time for this trial. He needs to pay for what he did.”
Tiffany is not as generous as her mother. I don’t blame her, but I want to warn her, tell her not to expect too much from a conviction. The verdict will only start a new phase of grief. She won’t have a trial to focus on anymore. There will only be the emptiness.
Chapter Eleven
Denny Mebane is Orlando’s second casualty. Before he was shot in the head with a sawed-off shotgun, Denny was a sophomore at Bunker Hill Community College, studying computer science. He lived in Mattapan with his girlfriend and their two short-haired cats. Now he lives alone in Healey House, a rehabilitation facility on a quiet residential street in West Roxbury.
My first visit to Healey House was when I was prosecuting drunk-driving cases. The victim, a seven-year-old girl, was in the backseat of her mother’s minivan, en route to Chuck E. Cheese’s. The mother, drunk and stoned, passed out and crashed head-on into a delivery truck. My most recent visit to Healey House was to meet an MIT student who had fallen off the roof of his fraternity during a drunken hazing ritual.
“I don’t know why they call this place a rehab,” I say. “Most patients never get better.”
“Maybe they should call it a place to stay, somewhere between life and death,” Kevin says.
“That’s catchy, but I think they’re probably better off sticking with rehab.”
Kevin pulls into the parking lot behind the building, and we get out of the car. Tim used to talk about Denny Mebane, how painful it was each time he came here to meet with him and his mother. When we get inside, I take a breath and steel myself while Kevin signs us in at the reception desk.
A nurse directs us to Denny’s room, which is on the third floor.
“Let’s hoof it,” Kevin says. “I need to stretch my legs.”
I follow him into the bile-green stairwell, where the stench of cleaning solution makes me gag. The sharp, disorienting symptoms of a migraine start to take hold.
The door to Denny’s room is halfway open. Inside, his mother, Adele, is sitting on a metal folding chair by his bedside, her back to the door. She’s wearing a white cardigan and black wool slacks. Denny is wearing a hospital johnny and a bib. Adele spoon-feeds him something the color and consistency of oatmeal, singing “The World Is Not My Home.” We pause and listen to her soothing voice. And I can’t feel at home in this world anymore.
Adele wipes goop from Denny’s chin. Kevin looks at me to be sure I’m ready and then taps on the door. Adele turns, rises, and greets us each with a hug and a smile. She takes my hand and walks me up to the edge of the bed.
“Denny, this is the new lawyer I was telling you about, and this is the detective.”
She talks to her son as though he were healthy, something I wasn’t expecting and am not sure how to handle. I hesitate, then decide that the polite thing to do, the only thing to do, is to go along with it.
“I’m Abby. Nice to meet you.” I start to extend my hand, but catch myself and pull it back.
Denny seems to have a permanent grin plastered on his face. He lets out some primal grunts, and his eyes shift periodically. Even though his features appear distorted, it’s obvious that he was once a handsome man with big brown eyes complemented by giraffe-like eyelashes.
“What did you say, honey?” Adele pauses and waits, as though he might respond.
She’s so hopeful that I’m almost convinced he’s going to speak.
“Tim spoke highly of you both,” I say.
“We’re praying for him. Did he have a family?”
“A wife and daughter.”
“Then we’ll pray for them too.”
I grew up Episcopalian, attending services at the Church of the Advent on the flat of Beacon Hill. As a child, I loved the formality, the weight of it all—the Victorian Gothic structure, the rhythmic sound of the bells, the somber service, the smoky incense. After Crystal died, I went there to meditate and reflect, finding solace in the music and the predictable rituals. When I joined the DA’s office and my assignments took me deep into the depravity of murder, the heavily perfumed clouds of smoke pouring from the swinging thuribles began to give me a headache. The choral service of evensong became overbearing, claustrophobic.
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