“Bold move, not giving an opening,” I say to Blum as the bus starts up and we pull out into the traffic. “Have you even decided on your defense?”
“I’m leaving my options open. It’s your burden. I think I’ll just sit back and watch the show—let’s see if you can make good on your promises.” He takes out a box of orange Tic Tacs, shakes one out, and pops it in his mouth.
Two police cars lead the bus, guiding us through the streets of the city. When we get to Belmont Street, we park in front of the porch where my victims sat. I look out the window and think about Tim, wishing that he were here.
Chapter Twenty-five
After we resume the trial, I stand at my table and turn to Kevin, who is seated on the aisle of the front row next to Jackie Reed. He nods, giving me the signal that Jemald is waiting outside in the hallway. Predictably, Jemald wouldn’t talk to Nestor when he picked him up and drove him to court this morning.
“Ms. Endicott, call your first witness,” Judge Volpe says.
I take a breath. “The Commonwealth calls Jemald Clements.”
Sal steps out into the hallway and shouts Jemald’s name. After a minute, Jemald shuffles in, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. Sal commands him to take off his baseball hat and spit out his gum.
He scans the packed gallery, sees the North Street Posse in the back row, and tilts his head in recognition. All the players, including the gold-toothed man, echo his gesture.
Sal directs him to the front of the courtroom, staying two paces behind, in case he decides to bolt. After the clerk swears him in, he takes a seat in the witness box. Sal pours him a cup of water and adjusts the microphone.
Jemald settles in, looks at Orlando, and smiles. I plant myself midway between them, blocking their line of vision.
I take a formal, weighty tone. “Good morning, sir. Please introduce yourself by spelling your name and stating your address.”
He guzzles some water, puts the cup down, and sighs. “Lady, you know my name.”
I turn to the judge. “Your Honor, may the witness be instructed to answer the question?”
“What’s your name?” Judge Volpe says.
“Jemald Clements.”
I pick up the ball. “And your address?”
“That’s my own private business.”
I pause and stare at him. “Sir, the way it works in a court of law is I ask questions and you answer them.”
Jemald shrugs.
“Your answers have to be verbal. The court reporter can’t record body language,” I say.
He shifts in his chair. “I live in Mattapan.”
“North Street?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the defendant, Orlando Jones?”
“Yup.”
He’s as warmed up as he’s going to get. Time to cut to the chase.
“On August 8, last year, there was a shooting out on Belmont Street.”
“Okay.”
Jemald pours himself another cup of water, downs it, and then crushes the empty cup in his fist. He doesn’t look at me and doesn’t answer my question, so I ask another one.
“You reported that you witnessed the murder?”
Jemald shrugs. “If you say so.”
“What I say isn’t relevant. It’s what you say.” I pick up his statement and read part of it out loud. “‘I heard four or five shots. I looked up and saw a man in a beige Toyota. I believe this was the shooter.’ Those were your words, correct?”
“I can’t recall.”
“Where were you located when you made these observations?”
He starts to squirm and looks down. “Where was I located?”
“That’s the question, sir.”
“I’m gonna have to take the Fifth on that.”
His taps his foot. His knee bobs up and down. I struck a nerve. He’s not just protecting his friend, he’s protecting himself. I’m finally getting somewhere.
“You were there, weren’t you?”
“Say what?”
“You were in the beige Toyota, in the passenger seat, right next to Orlando Jones when he blasted off those rounds. Isn’t that true?”
“Objection!” Blum says.
Judge Volpe signals us up to sidebar. Jemald looks out into the audience, at the man with the gold teeth. They exchange smirks. I nod at Sal, directing him with my eyes. He moves in front of Jemald.
As we huddle at sidebar, I keep an eye on the North Street Posse.
“Clearly, this witness needs the advice of counsel,” Blum says. “Ms. Endicott has accused him of being an accomplice to murder.”
“I haven’t accused him of anything. I asked where he was when the shots were fired. If he admits he was there, that wouldn’t necessarily implicate him in the murder. Mere presence is not enough to charge him with a crime.” I do my best to sound convincing, although even I don’t fully buy into what I’m saying.
“We’re wandering into a potential minefield. I’m going to appoint him counsel.” Judge Volpe scans the gallery for defense attorneys.
“Ms. Streleski,” Volpe calls out. “Please join us up here.”
Kit Streleski perks up, thrilled that she’s been invited to the party. She tugs at the gap between the front buttons of her purple-and-white floral blouse, maybe wishing she’d chosen to wear something more flattering. Clutching a legal pad, she practically skips to the front of the courtroom.
Judge Volpe calls a recess and meets with Streleski and Jemald in his chambers. He’ll conduct a Martin hearing, where Jemald will have to reveal why he’s entitled to assert the Fifth Amendment, by detailing his incriminating activity. Judge Volpe will determine whether his explanation is legitimate or if it’s a pretense to avoid testifying. I’m kept totally in the dark about everything—before, during, and after the hearing.
As soon as court breaks, Harold waves his cane, eager to catch my ear. We walk out into the hallway together.
“Buck up,” he says in his pseudo British accent.
I picture him wearing a monocle and decide that I like the image. I’ll give him my great-grandfather’s opera glasses after the trial is over.
“Everyone can see Jemald is lying, right?” I say.
“Sure as fate. He looks like a gangster. Observe how he’s come to court—his trousers are torn, his work boots are muddy, and there’s grime under his fingernails.”
Harold doesn’t miss much, especially when it comes to personal hygiene. Jemald does look like he just walked off a construction site. I remember the steel-toed work boots in his apartment. I hope Judge Volpe orders him to testify—I want to ask him about his job.
When Kit and Jemald exit the judge’s chambers, Sal calls order. Judge Volpe takes the bench, and Blum and I join him at sidebar. I look at Melvin, who is leaning forward, trying to make out what we’re saying.
“This witness has a valid claim,” Judge Volpe says. “I’m not going to order him to testify unless you plan to grant him immunity.”
He’s not getting a free ride on my watch. “That’s not going to happen.”
“In that case, Mr. Clements should be excused,” Streleski says.
“I object,” I say. “I have a couple of questions that don’t relate directly to the murder.”
“Let’s go,” Judge Volpe says.
We retake our positions in the courtroom. Streleski stands up front by Jemald’s side and faces out into the gallery. She looks directly into the cameras, savoring her fifteen minutes.
“What do you do for a living?” I say. “Do you work construction?”
Jemald turns to Streleski. She leans in as though she’s going to whisper, but practically shouts at him loud enough for all to hear.
“You have to answer,” she says.
“I install drywall,” he says to her.
“You have to tell the prosecutor,” she says.
“She heard me.” He turns to me. “I install drywall.”
“Who do you work for?” I say.
Jermald, unlike most people in the room, understands the significance of the question and doesn’t respond.
“Do you work for Melvin Jones, Orlando’s father?”
No response.
I point at Melvin. “This man seated in the front row, does he pay you?”
I glance at the jurors, and most of them look back at me, encouraging me to hang in there. Except number two, whose eyes are closed, his head bobbing up and down. He’s dozed off. Seriously? The guy has fallen asleep in the middle of a murder trial. I walk past the jury box and slam a heavy book on the railing. His head shoots up; he opens his eyes and looks around.
I turn back to my witness. “Does Orlando’s father, Melvin Jones, pay you?”
“Say what?” Jemald says.
“Objection,” Blum says. “Asked and answered.”
“It’s been asked, but it hasn’t been answered.”
“Answer the question,” Judge Volpe says.
“He pays me for an honest day’s work. Something wrong with that?”
“Possibly,” I say. “Did he also pay you to create a false suspect? Did he hire you to give police a bogus description of the shooter?”
“Objection.”
This time, rather than wait for a ruling, I push on.
“Is he now paying for your silence?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“How much did he give you to come forward last summer and lie to the police?”
Blum starts to rise, but Judge Volpe cuts him off.
“Mr. Clements, I am instructing you not to answer. Anything else from the Commonwealth?”
Two jurors look at each other and raise their eyebrows.
“Nothing further,” I say.
Chapter Twenty-six
On my way back to the office, I pass Carl Ostroff, who is setting up a live shot in front of the courthouse. When the light flicks on, he looks at the camera and speaks into his microphone, unaware of my presence. He’s also oblivious to the buffoons in the background, photobombing him, waving green foam fingers that proclaim We’re #1.
As Carl delivers his report, I listen and cringe.
“The high-stakes trial did not start out well for the prosecution. The prosecutor was forced to take the unusual tack of impeaching her own witness. She didn’t gain substantive ground from the maneuver, but she managed to score points by sending a signal to the jury that Orlando Jones is a threatening figure, whose reach extends far beyond the prison walls.”
At least he understood what I was trying to accomplish—hopefully the jurors did too.
The cameraman packs up and heads back to the news truck. Carl calls out my name. I ignore him, not breaking stride, but he catches up with me and tags along. We descend the steep concrete steps.
“Who’s on deck for tomorrow?” he says.
“A bunch of experts—blood, medical, DNA.”
“Sounds like you’re tap-dancing. Are you having trouble corralling your witnesses?”
“Sorry if it bores you, but I have to prove the elements of the crime. The identity of the victims, type of weapon, cause of death.”
“You also have to prove that Orlando Jones pulled the trigger. Who’s going to ID him?”
I stop walking, look around, and whisper. “Off the record?”
He leans in, eager. “Absolutely,” he says.
“I don’t have a clue. If you have any thoughts, I’m all ears.”
He tries to keep pace as I continue down the stairs.
“I’m supposed to be objective, but it’s tough. Orlando Jones is one scary dude.” Carl is sincere, but he’s also trying to gain my confidence by using the I feel your pain approach to cultivating a source.
I don’t bite. “Yup, he’s a dangerous guy.”
Knowing that his shtick isn’t working and I’m about to walk away, he steps in front of me and touches my arm.
“Is it true that Orlando killed your best friend?”
I wince. I should have expected this. Someone, probably Blum, tipped him off.
“Those records were sealed.”
“Does that mean it’s true?” He’s excited to have caught me off guard.
“Please don’t make the story about me. It will detract from the trial.”
“You made yourself part of the story when you took it on. You could have assigned it to anyone.”
“Case assignment decisions aren’t news.”
“It’s news when the prosecutor, in a high-profile murder trial, has a personal vendetta against the defendant.”
“Do me a solid. Keep it under wraps for now.”
“We all have a job to do.”
“I’ll owe you one.”
Carl considers the proposition. “Deal, but I plan to collect,” he says.
“I have no doubt.”
We walk along Cambridge Street. The sidewalk is crowded, and the street is jammed with traffic as government workers head home for the night.
Just as I’m about to step into the crosswalk, Carl throws another curveball. “What do you think about the gun?”
“What gun?”
He pauses, keeps me waiting as he checks his phone, and scrolls through his e-mail. He’s messing with me and I want to shake the answer out of him.
Finally he says, “The ATF ran the shell casings from Tim’s murder scene through their system.”
“Did they get a hit?”
“Yes, the murder weapon was used in another shooting.”
My mind races. This could be the break that we’ve been looking for.
“Which shooting did it connect back to?”
“That’s not what’s important.” He pauses and looks at me. “The gun was stolen out of the police evidence locker last month.”
I rush back to the office and go directly to the executive suite. It’s close to seven, and Owen and Max are the only ones still here. They’re in Owen’s office lounging, ties loosened. Every bit of wall space is covered with Boston sports memorabilia. Autographed baseballs from the 2004 and 2013 World Series. A Patriots jersey, signed by Tom Brady. The obligatory Boston sports fan poster of Bobby Orr, flying through the air. There are also a dozen photos of Owen’s three children, dressed in various sports uniforms.
Max is guzzling an Amstel Light. Owen is wrestling with a bag of Doritos. He rips it open, stuffs a handful of chips in his mouth, and then licks the orange dust off his fingers. He gave up alcohol after his oldest, Patricia, was born, and he’s packed on the pounds, which is an accomplishment considering the hours he spends running around baseball diamonds and soccer fields, coaching his kids.
They’re talking about Tim’s pension. Owen managed to find a loophole in the system; he qualified Tim’s family to get benefits that go only to people with twenty years of service. Owen took Tim’s death hard, and—unlike me—he’s been there for Julia.
Max offers me a beer, Owen holds up the bag of chips, and I decline both.
I drop my files on the table and sit in a chair. “Did you hear about the gun trace?”
They shake their heads.
“What do you know?” Max asks.
“Remember the guns that were stolen out of the evidence locker last month? One of them was used to kill Tim.”
“Holy shit.” Max twists the cap off another beer and snaps his fingers, sending the bottle cap spinning across the room.
“I spoke with Dermot this morning and he didn’t mention a word about it,” Owen says.
“I can see why. The murder weapon was stolen from Boston police custody,” I say.
“There’s no way a cop killed Tim,” Owen says, crumpling up the Doritos bag and tossing it basketball-style into the trash can.
“Where are you getting this from?” Max says. “I hope you’re not trading information.”
“Don’t worry.” I stand, gather my things, and move toward the door.
“The commissioner called,” Max says. “BPD found a burner phone in some brush, fifty yards
from where Tim’s body was found.”
Burners are inexpensive prepaid disposable phones. The owners don’t have to sign contracts or give personal information in order to buy one, making them nearly impossible to trace.
“Tim’s prints and DNA are on it,” Owen says.
I sit back down. “Did they do a phone dump?”
Owen nods. “Tim got two incomings, both from the same number. One of the calls came in right before he was killed.”
“Do we know who it was from?”
“It came from another burner and lasted less than a minute,” Owen says.
“It was probably to arrange the meet-up,” Max says. “Bottom line—Tim planned the meeting. He went there voluntarily, which means he probably trusted the guy.”
“On second thought,” I say, “I’ll take one of those beers.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
After a few days of testimony from medical experts, forensic analysts, and first responders, Tiffany Reed takes the stand—her mascara is smudged, her eyes red. Judge Volpe allowed my request to ban the media from filming her—microphones are set up to record her voice, but the cameras are all pointed at me.
The courtroom is quiet as I press the start button on my laptop. Everyone in the gallery leans in to listen.
“Nine-one-one, please state your emergency,” a dispatcher says.
“Oh my God. People have been shot. My sister, she’s bleeding. Please send an ambulance. There’s three of them. Please, hurry. Oh my God.”
Tiffany closes her eyes and stifles a gasp. Her hands tremble as she relives the horror. I usually sit with my witnesses and listen to the 911 recording as part of trial prep, but knowing it would make for more dramatic testimony, I didn’t play the tape for Tiffany ahead of time. She’s lost in the memory of the night her sister died in her arms.
My mind travels back to the night that I saw Tim in the tow lot. I don’t think that I’d ever be able to do what I’m putting Tiffany through—sit on the witness stand and describe what I saw, heard, felt. Looking at Tiffany, I try to convince myself that I’m not a bad person.
Mission Hill Page 11