Crossing into a crime scene without authorization is prohibited, as it could compromise the integrity of the investigation. I pry off the strip of yellow tape, careful not to tear it, and step inside the office. There’s a legitimate reason for breaking the rule: gathering Orlando’s files for my trial. There’s also a personal reason: finding and destroying evidence of our relationship.
I sink into Tim’s worn leather chair, feel the permanent imprint left by the shape of his body. A photo of him with Julia is thumbtacked to a cork board over his desk. It looks like Chatham, where they spent a week two summers ago. Julia either didn’t know or didn’t care that Tim hated the Cape. He would come back from their trips to the beach and complain about the mosquitoes and traffic on the Sagamore Bridge.
The mounds of paper represent a panoply of cases, both active and resolved, a walk down memory lane. A mob hit that went down in a North End pizzeria. A rape-murder solved by cutting-edge DNA but complicated by the fact that the suspect had an identical twin brother. An exhaustive investigation into the Big Dig, a bazillion-dollar construction project. Work on the tunnel was plagued with problems, cost overruns and delays, and it was finally completed seven years ago. Five years later, part of the ceiling broke off and a schoolteacher was killed when a slab of concrete slammed through the roof of his car. Tim investigated allegations of negligence and corporate malfeasance against the contractor.
I pull out anything that has to do with Orlando Jones and place it in an empty banker’s box. There’s a small, fading photograph in the top desk drawer, taken on the night Tim and I first met. We’re standing next to each other, being sworn in as new assistant district attorneys. We were both so excited to start our careers. After the ceremony, he bought me an inaugural martini, and we toasted to a future of guilty verdicts and life sentences. It’s hard to believe that ten years have passed. I slip the picture into my jacket pocket.
Tim and I e-mailed and texted each other often. We never sexted, but a lot of our communication had flirtatious undertones. I log on to his computer and try a few passwords—iterations of Julia and Emma, hitting it on the third try, Emma’s birthday. Tim wouldn’t mind the invasion of his privacy; at the very least, he’d want to protect Julia from scandal.
Tim was undisciplined when it came to official record keeping, and he was reckless when it came to personal communications. There is a jumble of e-mails; none have been sorted, archived, or deleted. I search for anything to or from me, deleting the more personal ones, saving those that relate to cases and investigations.
I find a message that he sent shortly after he and Julia got engaged, one of the many times that he decided we shouldn’t see each other anymore. Please, Abby, you have to stop calling my house. Julia isn’t stupid. She’s going to figure us out. Or the one he sent two months later. I miss you. Let’s meet at your place tonight, after work. My heart races. I move the e-mails to the trash folder and empty it, but it’s a temporary fix. I’ve overseen enough computer searches to know that nothing can ever be fully erased.
A recent message from Josh McNamara catches my eye. Subject: Our Meeting. Josh is a special agent assigned to the FBI’s public corruption unit. He’s one of the young, energetic up-and-comers, dispatched to Boston in the aftermath of the Whitey Bulger fiasco.
The e-mail was sent two nights ago, and it looks like Tim never opened it. He must have received it shortly before he was killed. It’s odd that he never mentioned working an investigation with Josh. Sometimes we work cases with the feds—the FBI, the DEA, the U.S. attorneys’ office—but it’s not a common occurrence. Tim and I talked five times a day about far less interesting matters, and a case with the feds is something we definitely would have talked about, or so I’d thought.
Josh’s message is terse, unrevealing: Tim, I need to postpone. I’ll touch base tomorrow to reschedule.
Most federal investigators and assistant U.S. attorneys look down on us locals. I was one of the few from my law school class who applied to, and received offers from, both the DA’s office and the U.S. attorneys’ office. None of my Harvard classmates had any interest in becoming a local prosecutor, though a handful became feds.
Assistant United States attorneys play in a bigger sandbox. Federal cases have a national interest. A multimillion-dollar bank fraud. An international terrorism ring. A billion-dollar drug cartel. ADAs conduct some proactive, long-term investigations, particularly in organized crime and political corruption, but mostly we’re reactive. Our bread and butter is street crime. Not very glamorous, but unlike the feds, we have a strong connection to the community that we serve.
Tim’s computer files don’t reveal any details about the meeting. Maybe they wanted to keep their communications off-line. It could involve a confidential informant.
At a little past seven, the elevator dings. Footsteps in the hallway grow louder. I take a gulp of cold coffee and start to dump the rest of the liquid into a trash can but remember that investigators will want to sort through every scrap of paper, including what’s in the rubbish. I finish the coffee, put the rest of Orlando’s files in the box, and stick the crime scene tape back across the door.
Balancing my empty mug on top of the box, I head to my office. As I round the corner, Max nearly crashes into me head-on.
“Whoa,” he says.
“Morning,” I say.
“How are you doing?”
The box is heavy. I start to walk. “I’m okay. You?”
“Hard to believe it’s real.” He eyes the bundle that I’m carrying. “What are you doing?”
“Collecting Orlando’s files. I probably shouldn’t have crossed the barricade, but there’s only six days until trial.”
Max follows me down the hallway.
“Make sure you keep an inventory of everything you took, give it to Dermot Michaels,” he says.
“Middlesex assigned it to Michaels?”
“I take it you’re not a fan.”
“He’s got a chip on his shoulder about Suffolk, like he’s jealous that we get more murders than they do. It’s demented.”
“Well, he’s coming by with some troopers this morning to start digging in, so play nice,” Max says.
As we pass the archive stacks, I notice that among the boxes is one marked Jones.
I stop and use my foot to point. “Could you grab that? It’s a long shot, but maybe it has to do with this case.”
He inspects the label and picks up the box. As soon as we reach my office, I plop my box on a table and start to unpack it. Max turns to go, still carrying the Jones file.
“Can you leave that here?”
“Oh, sure.”
He hesitates before putting it down. Something about him is a little off—maybe he’s hungover, or maybe he’s already started drinking.
“Carmen Eggleston called me last night,” he says. “She knows about the incident between Orlando and your friend.”
“It wasn’t an incident. It was a murder.”
“The Public Defenders’ office wants you off the case.”
I study Max’s face, trying to determine whether or not he’s in my corner. He gives a neutral shrug.
“They’re sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong,” I say. “Orlando doesn’t qualify for public counsel—his father hired Blum to represent him.”
“Carmen said she’s speaking on behalf of the entire defense bar, not just the public defenders.”
“They want to conflict me out of the case because they’re worried that I’m going to win.” Accustomed to whiny defense attorneys making idle threats and unreasonable demands, I turn my attention to more pressing matters. I open one of the files. “Tell them to take it up with the BBO.”
“They’ve already filed a complaint,” Max says. “You sure you don’t want me to give the case to Sarsfield?”
“I’m sure,” I say. “If I mess up and Orlando gets acquitted, they can go ahead and disbar me. I won’t want to practice law anymore.”
Ch
apter Fourteen
Kevin texts to let me know he’s out front, and I meet him curbside. He grabs the bundles of folders from my arms and drops them on the backseat of his car.
“You brought along some light reading?”
“They’re from Tim’s office.”
We get in the car, and he pulls onto Cambridge Street.
“What’s your pleasure?”
“Let’s go see Ezekiel Hogan.”
When we reach the traffic light at Park Street, he takes a right up the hill instead of going straight toward the South End.
“Why are you taking this route?”
“I want you to see something.” He pulls in front of the Statehouse and nods, directing me to follow his eyes. The flag is lowered to half-staff. “In honor of Tim,” he says.
Watching the flag flap in the wind takes my breath away. We sit in silence for a minute until my phone vibrates, breaking my trance.
“Don’t expect Ezekiel to roll out the welcome mat,” Nestor says. “I’ve tried calling a few times, but he never picks up.”
“The North Street Posse probably got to him,” I say.
North Street gang members, particularly the man with the gold teeth, have asserted their presence in the courtroom. No doubt, they’re more menacing out on the street.
I get off the phone and take another look at the flag before Kevin pulls back into the flow of traffic.
“Did Ezekiel testify in the grand jury?” he says.
“He blew it off at first and ignored the subpoenas. Tim played hardball and had Nestor haul him to court in the back of the cruiser. Even then, he took the Fifth. Tim had to force immunity down his throat.”
“Did he give it up in the grand jury?”
“He refused to answer questions—until Tim brought him to a judge who threatened to lock him up for contempt.”
“But he came around?”
“Finally, he ID’d Orlando as the shooter. Then he came charging out of the grand jury room and told Tim to go screw himself.”
“I don’t suppose he’s mellowed with time.”
“Can’t blame him. He took a bullet to the chest.”
Traffic on Mass Avenue is at a standstill. We inch our way up to a green light, but it turns red before we can get through the intersection. To my left is the morgue—where Tim’s body will be autopsied later today. The thought of him lying on that slab, having his insides exposed, makes my hands tremble and my eyes well with tears.
A man taps on my window and holds up a sign. Homeless veteran. Please help. My wallet is empty since I haven’t had time to stop at an ATM in days. As I feel around the bottom of my tote for spare change, I find the leftover steak that Ty packed for my lunch. I open my window and pass the foil package to the man.
“You don’t have money?” he says.
“Sorry,” I say.
He inspects the packet, peels back the foil, and takes a bite.
“This is pretty good. Thanks.”
When we reach the Mobil station where Ezekiel works, I grab the murder book and turn to a photo. He’s lying in a hospital bed, eyes half-closed, a tube in his mouth.
“It’s a miracle he survived,” I say.
“He’s had three surgeries and a boatload of physical therapy. He used to be a mechanic, but now he can’t even work the gas pumps.”
A door sensor dings twice as we enter the store. Ezekiel is behind the cash register, walled in by bulletproof glass. Kevin presses his tin up to the grimy, scratched plexiglass and makes the introductions. Ezekiel is not pleased to make our acquaintance.
“You got a warrant?”
“We want to talk about Orlando Jones,” I say.
“Talk all you want, but do it someplace else.” He turns away.
A teenage boy steps up to the counter, holding a bottle of grape soda and a Mounds bar. He puts his cash into the metal tray and slides it under the plexiglass. Ezekiel accepts the bills, and we watch the boy leave.
“You’re going to have to testify. We might as well prepare,” I say.
“Fuck that. I went in the grand jury, the DA told me not to worry, everything was secret. A few days later, I came home from the doctor’s and the grand jury papers were stuck to my front door. Everything I said in the room was typed up, hanging by a nail. Rat was written, in red, all over the papers.”
An elderly man comes in the store and we step aside. He asks for a pack of Newports, and then goes outside and lights up, inches from the gas pumps.
“Grand jury testimony is secret,” I say, “but everything is transcribed.”
“No shit. You gave the papers to Orlando’s boys.”
“Prosecutors have to turn them over to defense attorneys as part of discovery.”
“Then the lawyer gave them to Orlando, same difference.”
“We could prosecute him for intimidation.”
“You don’t get it, lady. Orlando Jones would kill his own sister if she got in his way.” I start to talk, but he cuts me off. “Or he’d get someone else to kill her.” Done with me, he turns to Kevin. “Look, I don’t want Five-O coming around to my place of employment. That’s gonna get me noticed even more.”
I’m not ready to accept defeat. “We can get you safe transportation to and from the courthouse. We can put you up in a hotel,” I say.
Ezekiel turns his back to us and starts to unpack a carton of Camel Lights.
I keep pressing, hoping I’ll hit a nerve. “Someone died, and we need your help. If you don’t do it for us, do it for Jasmine. Her mother is grieving. You know, she had a twin sister.”
He stops what he’s doing and looks at me. “I got family too.”
“If you don’t show up, you’ll be arrested,” Kevin says.
Ezekiel lifts his shirt, exposing a thick, knotty scar that runs the length of his torso. “I’m the victim, and you want to arrest me. Okay, go ahead. Lock me up,” he says.
I take in the wound—it’s healed, but I think about the pain and fear that preceded it.
“I know that Tim talked to you about witness protection,” I say. “It’s not too late. We can help you find a new place to live, a new job.”
“I’m staying right here. You go into witness protection.”
It’s tempting. A one-way ticket to sunny Arizona. A different identity. A new career. I could be a tour guide at the Grand Canyon. Or a psychic healer in Sedona.
A woman enters the shop, grabs a couple of bags of potato chips, and stands behind me as though there’s a line. I turn to her and she smiles.
“Are you next?” she says.
“No, they’re just leaving,” Ezekiel says.
I slide a subpoena under the plexiglass and we return to the car.
I sink into the seat and buckle up. “I don’t know how I’m going to pull this off.”
“He’ll break. Let’s give him time to think about it.”
Kevin drives to the crime scene so we can get a firsthand look. Photographs don’t capture how close everyone was to each other—the houses, the street, the car. Kevin measures distances and jots down notes. I position myself on the front stoop of the double-decker, where Jasmine and Ezekiel drank their beer, laughed, listened to music.
I move to the bottom step, where Denny passed Jasmine the brown paper bag containing egg rolls and pork lo mein. I picture Orlando, holding his shotgun, blasting off rounds. I try to imagine the panic that Jasmine, Ezekiel, and Denny experienced when they saw him. Then I think about Crystal and her terror when Orlando emerged from the bushes, brandishing a blade.
My cell vibrates. I take it out of my pocket and see that it’s the medical examiner.
“I finished Tim’s autopsy,” she says. “Don’t tell Middlesex that I called you first.”
“What’s the cause of death?”
“Single gunshot wound, entered through the front of his skull and lodged in his brain.”
The news isn’t unexpected, but it’s still shocking.
“Sounds like an exe
cution,” I say.
“The size of the hole and stippling on Tim’s forehead indicate that he was shot from close range, two to three feet away.”
“Defensive wounds?”
“None—not a scratch. No bruises or broken fingernails,” she says.
If there’s any good news, this is it: Tim didn’t suffer.
“We’ll have to wait for the crime lab to weigh in on the rest,” she says. “There’s still a shot that they’ll find trace evidence, something that’ll give us DNA.”
I hang up and tell Kevin what I’ve learned.
“Why do you think Tim went over to that tow lot?” I say.
“The doer could have been in the backseat, lying in wait. Shoved a gun in his face, forced him to drive somewhere isolated,” he says.
“Or it could have been a setup.”
“Maybe.”
Kevin and I are silent, but we’re both thinking the same thing: I hope Tim wasn’t involved in something bad with someone shady who lured him to someplace remote and put a bullet in his head.
Chapter Fifteen
Six MBTA buses idle outside my office on New Sudbury Street. I choose the first one and grip the railing as I climb the steps. It’s stifling inside, the rows filled with somber faces, seated in pairs. Lawyers, victim witness advocates, paralegals, and secretaries. I make my way down the aisle and take a seat next to Chris Sarsfield, a prosecutor assigned to the gang unit. As soon as I’m settled, the musky smell of his aftershave makes me wish I’d chosen a different seatmate.
“My wife thinks we’re all gonna get killed,” Chris says. “She’s freaking out. My father said they don’t pay us enough to put our lives on the line. I mean, cops are trained for dangerous situations—we’re just lawyers. Don’t you think?”
“Oh,” I say, looking straight ahead, hoping that he’ll stop yammering.
“I’m thinking about getting a license to carry, maybe go to target practice at the academy. I might abandon ship, throw in an application at City Hall. I heard the corporation counsel is looking to hire.”
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