Mission Hill

by Pamela Wechsler

  “Thanks for the heads-up on Melvin,” Carl says. “I was the only reporter in the federal courthouse when he was arraigned.”

  “I make good on my promises. That makes us square.”

  I start to walk toward the stairs, Carl in tow, Sandra only a few steps behind.

  “Why is Melvin charged with obstruction?”

  I shrug and keep going. “You’ll have to ask Josh McNamara.”

  Carl persists. “If Melvin was part of Orlando’s escape plan, he should have been charged with aiding and abetting or harboring a fugitive.”

  “Take it up with the feds.”

  “I think the FBI is after something else, a bigger fish. Or a wider tunnel, as the case may be.”

  Carl has shown his cards; he knows that Max is under investigation. He needs two sources in order to report on it, and I’m not going to be one of them. I roll my eyes, feigning disbelief, trying to downplay the significance of the disclosure.

  Unsure of what to say, I echo what Josh said to me when I asked him about it. “The Big Dig investigation was closed out a long time ago.”

  “Max never explained his decision to end the inquest. He hid behind the curtain of grand jury secrecy.”

  “That’s not true. He issued a statement.”

  “His flack sent out a halfhearted one-paragraph press release. ‘We followed the facts and applied the law and found there wasn’t ample proof to issue indictments, blah, blah, blah,’” Carl says. “Max didn’t hold a press conference or make himself available for interviews. Ducking out on reporters is definitely not Max’s MO.”

  I don’t want to let Carl accuse my boss of impropriety without speaking up on his behalf, but I’m not going to put my reputation on the line by lying for him.

  “Legal analysts were divided on what the office should have done, but everyone agreed that it was a close call. I didn’t hear you complaining at the time,” I say.

  “I thought he was being overly cautious, political. But in retrospect, it seems like there was more to it.”

  “I wasn’t involved in the investigation. I don’t know the specifics.”

  We stand on the sidewalk. Sandra is nearby. I look at Carl but remain silent.

  “Don’t play Mickey the Dunce with me,” he says.

  I’m growing uncomfortable, but my curiosity hasn’t dissipated. Not wanting Carl to read my apprehension, I smile and wave at a colleague who is walking by.

  Carl lowers his voice. “Melvin owned Zelco. I hear that he was a target—they considered charging him with manslaughter. And, coincidentally, around the same time, he donated big to Max’s campaign.”

  We cross Cambridge Street, dodging a car that is making an illegal U-turn, and I stop at the sidewalk near my office.

  “Every businessman in the city maxed out and ponied up the $500. The savvy ones hedged their bets and gave to all three candidates.”

  “Melvin went above and beyond, hosted a bunch of fund-raisers, raked in a couple of hundred grand, and gave it Max.”

  “You’ll have to take it up with his campaign manager. All I know is that Max doesn’t accept money from employees. And he chose Tim and me to investigate and prosecute the Jones family. He could have tanked their cases outright or assigned them to newbies, but he didn’t. He gave them to his most experienced incorruptible lawyers.”

  I look at Sandra, signaling that I’m done with Carl, and we head inside Bulfinch. I’m surprised to find Owen and his daughter in my office, sitting in front of my desk, waiting for me. Sandra takes up her post in the hallway.

  “You remember Patsy,” Owen says.

  “Sure! Hi, sweetie.” I take off my coat and give her a hug. “Happy belated birthday.”

  “We had a skating party. You were invited,” she says, “but Daddy said you had to work.”

  “Patsy heard you’re having a hard time and wanted to give you something,” Owens says.

  Patsy reaches into her pocket and pulls out a clunky red, white, and blue charm bracelet.

  “It’s a good-luck charm. It helped me win the school spelling bee last month,” she says.

  “Impressive,” I say. “Thank you.”

  I hold out my arm, and Patsy clasps the bracelet around my wrist.

  “We want you to know that we’re in your corner,” Owen says. “We’ve only loaned it outside the family once before.”

  “To Uncle Tim, when he got married,” Patsy says.

  I had forgotten that Patsy was a flower girl at Tim and Julia’s wedding. She was adorable, tripping on her dress as she walked down the aisle tossing clumps of rose petals.

  “Honey, why don’t you go back down and say hi to Uncle Max,” Owen says.

  She steps out into the hallway. Owen stays behind.

  “I saw you outside, talking to Carl Ostroff. He looked like he was pumping you for information.”

  “You know Carl,” I say. “He loves to stir the pot.”

  “He’s been running around, spreading rumors about Max.”

  “I heard.”

  “Max has been good to you, to all of us. I hope you have his back.”

  Owen puts up a good front, but he must have doubts too. I fiddle with the bracelet, a symbol of Owen’s friendship and an exemplar of the type of jewelry I’ll be able to afford from now on, since my father cut off my cash supply.

  “Actually, while we’re on the subject of loyalty,” I say, “I’d like to talk about my salary.”

  “Let’s schedule a meeting after your trial is over.”

  He stands, hoping to make a quick exit. I’m not going to let him off the hook this easily.

  “I haven’t had a raise in years. I make less than all the guys on my team, even though I’m their supervisor. Men in this office are making more than their female superiors.”

  Owen opens the door.

  “A record of gender inequality won’t bode well for Max, come election time,” I say.

  He closes the door and sits back down. “How much are you asking for?”

  I hesitate, unsure what to say.

  “You don’t even know how much you make, do you?” Owen says.

  “I make sixty thousand-ish.”

  “You make seventy-two-five.”

  “You probably make twice that.”

  “Aren’t you like a billionaire?”

  “My financial status isn’t relevant. Need-based salaries went out in the 1950s. Earnings are supposed to be value based, merit based, both of which qualify me for a bump.”

  “You have no idea what I have to contend with. The legislature doesn’t give us half of what we need to run this office.”

  “When Patsy grows up, do you want her to make less than her male colleagues?”

  “I’ll take a look at the financials,” he says, regretting that he came in to talk with me.

  Chapter Forty-three

  In my office, I prepare for cross-examination on the off chance that Orlando takes the stand. After a couple hours, I take a break and go downstairs to see if I can catch Max before he heads home for the weekend. That way, I won’t have to spend the next two days stressing about how to approach him. I stick on my fake ruby pin, pick up the phone, and call Josh.

  “I’m ready to talk to Max. What exactly do you want me to say?”

  “Wing it—see if you can get him to talk about Melvin.”

  “Max isn’t stupid. He’ll figure out that something is up.”

  “Be casual, don’t push too hard. Try to introduce the topic. Talk about Orlando, your trial, see where it goes.”

  I start toward the stairs but remember that the stairwell locks from the inside and my badge won’t work on Max’s floor. I take the elevator and get off on the executive floor. Owen buzzes me in and follows me into Max’s office, where we find him behind his desk, finishing a beer.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” Max says. “Let’s all head over to the Red Hat. It’ll be like old times.”

  Back in the day, Max, Tim, Owen, and
I would go out after work on Friday nights. Various others would join us, but we were the constants, and we all enjoyed the ritual. Tim was still single, Owen was still drinking, and Max’s alcoholism hadn’t yet fully blossomed. We’d walk across the street to the Kinsale and trade war stories from the past week. These days, going to bars with Max is a chore. His drinking got worse after he was elected into office, and it has been escalating in the past year.

  “Stevie’s got a hockey tournament,” Owen says, putting on his coat and grabbing his briefcase. “He made bantam. Can’t miss it. Call if you need anything.”

  “I’ve still got a lot of work to do on my closing,” I say after Owen is gone.

  “Come on—I’m buying. Your old man told me you’re a little short on cash these days.”

  It’s not like my father to talk about family business, least of all money, with an outsider.

  “My father called you?”

  “Actually, I called him. I’m thinking about running for mayor, and I formed an exploratory committee. I asked if he’d be my finance chair.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that he’d love to help, but only under one condition.”

  “You switch to Republican?”

  He laughs. “I’d never survive as a Republican in this city. Besides, it’s not my party affiliation that concerns him.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “He wants me to fire you.”

  I knew my father wouldn’t give up on his mission to get me out of this office, but I didn’t think he’d recruit Max.

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him you’re my strongest player and I’m not letting you go. But if I’m elected mayor, I’ll get you out of here by taking you with me to City Hall.”

  “Clever. That’ll light a fire under him.”

  “It did. He agreed to host a fund-raiser at the Liberty Hotel next month,” he says, putting on his coat. “Come on—one drink.”

  “Just one,” I say.

  When we get outside Bulfinch, Carl is doing a live shot. We stand in the background and eavesdrop.

  “A spokesman for the district attorney declined comment, but insiders have confirmed that Melvin Jones has close ties to this administration, both financially and politically. Jones has been a loyal donor and field organizer for the past three years. Also, reliable sources informed us that there is a link between Melvin Jones and his son’s escape from the hospital. Some speculate that this will tie back to the district attorney.”

  Max looks at me. “This is bad.”

  I nod.

  “Where did he get that bullshit?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe Josh McNamara.”

  “Fuck those feebs.”

  I glance over at Carl, trying to hide my discomfort. Max knows a lot of people, and it wouldn’t surprise me if someone told him they saw me with Josh over at the federal courthouse last night. I decide to say something about it in the bar.

  It takes us about an hour to walk the few blocks to the Red Hat. Max stops every few feet to shake hands, answer questions about Tim’s murder, and accept condolences. Both Sandra and Max’s police detail, Detective Mark Jackson, walk a short distance behind us.

  When we finally arrive, we take seats in a back booth. Sandra and Mark sit at the bar, where they can keep an eye on us as well as the front door. They’re both armed and ready to pounce—they’d make a cute couple. It looks like Sandra thinks so too. She’s flipping back her ombré hair extensions in between sips of Diet Coke, laughing enthusiastically at whatever Mark says.

  Max orders a bourbon, and I ask for a Rolling Rock. The red wine here is always either sour or watered down.

  Max waits until we’re alone before speaking. “This isn’t the first time a reporter has gone after me, but it’s always been case related. This time it feels personal. Carl Ostroff is out for blood,” he says.

  “He cornered me out on the street tonight.” I get this out up front to cover my bases in case Owen has already told him that he saw us talking. “He asked about a connection between you and Melvin Jones.”

  I lean in to be sure my fake ruby camera captures his response. Max downs his drink and signals the waitress for another round. I’ve barely had a sip from my beer bottle.

  “Ostroff created those rumors just so he could have something to report,” Max says. “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Here’s everything you need to know—there’s absolutely nothing to his bullshit.”

  I shift in my seat and watch beads of sweat drip down the beer bottle and pool on the table.

  “Does that mean what he’s saying isn’t true?”

  “How can you even ask me that?”

  I look away, ashamed of myself, but when I look back at Max, for a second, it seems like he’s talking directly into the microphone on my jacket. The waitress brings over his second drink, and he downs it like medicine, in three quick gulps.

  “Abby, we’ve known each other for over a decade. I’ve trusted you with the most sensitive cases in the office. Why the hell are you talking to the FBI behind my back?”

  “That’s the reason I stopped down to see you.” I try not to seem too eager. “Josh had Melvin in custody. He brought me over to the courthouse to talk to him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He invoked.”

  Max tries to catch the waitress’s eye.

  “What’s the thinking? What’s Melvin hiding?” he says.

  “Money.”

  “That’s not a secret. Melvin gives big every election cycle, that’s his game: the mayor, the council, the reps.”

  “And to you.”

  I nurse my beer. Max starts in on his third drink.

  “They focused on what Melvin expects in return for his donation.” I say.

  “He wants access, and that’s what he gets. I take his calls and listen to his opinion on high-profile cases, but that’s as far as it goes.”

  “He didn’t call you when Orlando was charged with murder?”

  “No, I had no idea.”

  Feeling jittery, I clasp my hands in my lap and cut to the chase. “What about the Big Dig?”

  “He never approached me about that, either.”

  “I think they’ve impaneled a federal grand jury to look into your dealings with him.”

  Max puts down his drink and looks at me. “Did they subpoena you to testify?”

  “Not yet, but they might.”

  “Do you think I’m on the take?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what to think.” I take a breath and exhale. “Did you have something to do with Tim’s murder?”

  I know this will upset him. I don’t expect him to confess, but I want to send a message. The idea of Max involved in bribery or extortion is no longer out of the realm of possibility, at least not to me.

  “Jesus, I would never, ever orchestrate the murder of one of my own.” He puts his head in his hands and looks like he’s about to cry. “You know how things work. If word starts to get out that I’m under suspicion, I’ll never recover. My reputation will be destroyed, my career will be over.”

  My phone vibrates, and I’m happy for the interruption. I check the screen.

  “It’s Blum, probably calling about the alibi witness. I have to take it.”

  I move to the back of the bar. Sandra swivels her bar stool so she can keep an eye on me.

  “Orlando knows his back is up against the wall,” Blum says.

  “Meaning what?” I say.

  “He wants to plead guilty.”

  I feel like I should pinch myself—this sounds too good to be real. It’s noisy in the bar—maybe I didn’t hear right.

  “Orlando is agreeing to plea to murder and take a life sentence?”

  “He won’t plea to murder one, but he’ll agree to a murder two.”

>   If Orlando pleads guilty to second-degree murder, he’ll get a life sentence, but he’ll be parole eligible in fifteen years. That’d be a good resolution, but not a great one. The only way to guarantee life without any possibility of parole is with a first-degree murder conviction. Still, I don’t want to dismiss it out of hand.

  I look over at Max, who is focused on his next bourbon, swishing it around in his glass.

  “I need a little time,” I say.

  “I figured you’d have to run it up the flagpole.”

  “I’m not sure where Max is right now. It’ll probably take me a while to find him. I’ll call you as soon as I do.”

  I hang up and return to our booth.

  “Anything important?” Max says.

  “No,” I say.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Sandra double-parks in front of the Metropolis, a diner in the South End, a high-rent, high-crime Boston neighborhood. Kevin is visible through the window, seated in a booth, scanning his phone and drinking coffee.

  “Kevin will give me a ride back to the office. I’ll see you there in about an hour,” I say, jumping out of the car.

  Sandra watches me go inside and waits until I reach the booth and Kevin gives her the nod before pulling away.

  I take off my coat and sit. “Orlando wants to plea to second.”

  “Wow, that’s out of left field. What do you think?”

  Our multipierced, magenta-haired waitress pours me a cup of coffee and refills Kevin’s. I ask for a chocolate croissant. Kevin orders scrambled eggs and turkey bacon.

  “I want him to rot in prison,” I say.

  “That’s not nice,” the waitress says before moving on to the next table.

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to turn down an offer on a murder plea,” Kevin says.

  “Second degree isn’t enough. I want to hook him on a first.”

  “It’s a crapshoot. You never know what a jury is going to do.”

  “I think they’re going to do the right thing—convict his ass for first-degree murder and put him away for life.”

  “You know how it goes—there could be one nutcase who hangs the jury and makes us do it all over again. Or worse, they could acquit. There’s something to be said for having that bird in the hand.”

  When the waitress delivers our food, we both dig in. I bite into the croissant, and powdered sugar snows all over my new black cardigan. Wiping at it with a paper napkin only makes it worse.