Mission Hill

by Pamela Wechsler

  “I say we take the plea,” Kevin says.

  “I think we should turn it down. He’s a scary guy, and I don’t ever want to see him back out on the street.”

  “God forbid we lose, but if we do, people will think you rejected the plea because you’ve got an axe to grind.”

  “This isn’t about protecting my image.”

  “What did Max say when you told him?”

  I take a sip of coffee and then another. “I didn’t tell him.”

  “I’m no expert in office politics, but I know something about chain of command. You don’t have the authority to make a binding decision on a murder plea.”

  “I don’t think Max can be objective.”

  “You have to ask someone. Or, at the very least, tell them that he approached you with an offer.”

  “I’m going to run it by Owen, but I want to get your blessing first.”

  I finish my pastry. Kevin scoops up a spoonful of eggs.

  “I’d feel better about it if we knew who their alibi witness is,” he says.

  “I’m not sure Blum even has an alibi witness.”

  “You think he’s bluffing?”

  “Ever since Volpe ordered him to disclose the name and address of his so-called witness, he’s been dragging his feet and avoiding me.”

  Kevin calls Nestor and asks him to go by Blum’s office to lean on him and see what he can find out. Kevin picks up the tab, and we head over to Bulfinch, where Sandra is waiting. They’ve become quite a tag team.

  After a few minutes of trying to figure out who the alibi witness could be, I come up empty. My phone rings, and I’m surprised to see that it’s Owen calling from an inside line. It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon, a time when he is usually running around a field with his kids.

  He says he has an update on Tim’s murder and asks me to come down to his office. Perfect timing—he’s saved me the trouble of hunting him down to talk about the plea offer. I hope he’s in a good mood, but in case he’s not, I reach into my bottom desk drawer and dig under some papers, where I find Patsy’s bracelet. Hopefully, it’ll remind him of our friendship and grease the skids. I hook the bracelet around my wrist and push the sleeves of my sweater up to my elbows.

  Owen is at his desk, sipping from a handmade “My Dad Rocks” coffee mug. The cup is misshapen and chipped, but he carries it around like a trophy. Owen’s devotion to his kids and the pleasure that he derives from being a parent almost makes me want to have a couple of my own. Almost.

  “How’s the trial going?” he says.

  “Blum is pulling some last-minute stunts.”

  He looks at the bracelet and smiles.

  “Middlesex is no longer running Tim’s murder investigation,” he says.

  I take a seat in an armchair with the Suffolk Law School seal laser-engraved on its crown.

  “Who’s handling it?” I say.

  “The FBI is doing the investigation, and the U.S. attorney’s office is taking over the prosecution.”

  Josh is sneaky, but I would have expected him to let me know that there’s been an official shift in the handling of the case.

  “Why would Middlesex hand it off so easily? It’s the most significant trial they’ll ever have.”

  “The feds are looking to impose the death penalty. You can’t argue with lethal injection.”

  The U.S. attorney takes a case away from locals only when it’s a guaranteed slam dunk, especially when it’s this high profile.

  “They must have a target,” I say.

  “They’re holding it close to the vest, but I hear they’re closing in on Orlando and Darrius.”

  Owen looks over my shoulder, and I turn to follow his gaze. Max is in the doorway, arm raised, waving a piece of paper.

  “What the fuck is this?” He jams the paper in my face. “Someone came by the house this morning and left it with my wife.”

  I read the document—it’s a subpoena. “You’re Blum’s alibi witness?”

  “Apparently.”

  “How could you possibly help their case?”

  “I have no idea.”

  His face is sweaty, his breathing heavy. It’s hard to determine if he’s angry, frightened, or intoxicated, but he’s making me anxious.

  “Did you see Orlando the night that Tim was killed?” I try to tread lightly.

  “Don’t be a moron—I would have told you if I’d seen him.”

  “Let’s relax. Now’s not the time to turn on each other,” Owen says. “Can you give Abby anything that might help her prepare?”

  “You know what I know. Melvin is a donor. I’ve been to his house. None of that is a secret.” Max retreats slightly and takes out his iPhone. “I’ll triple-check my schedule to be sure that I wasn’t with Melvin at the same political event that night, but I’m positive I wasn’t with Orlando.”

  “Let’s circle back later,” Owen says. “Abby, I can help you prepare a motion for an offer of proof and a motion to quash the subpoena. Let’s do our best to keep Max off the stand.”

  Max leaves. I start to follow but remember that I have to tell Owen about Blum’s offer.

  “Orlando offered to plea to a second.”

  “That’s fantastic.” He’s more enthusiastic than I had hoped.

  “We have him on the ropes. This alibi bullshit is posturing. He’s trying to get me to fold.”

  “This isn’t Texas Hold ’em. Take the plea. It’s a win-win. We get a guaranteed conviction of life.”

  “A second-degree murder conviction will make him parole eligible when he’s thirty-six. He’d still be young enough to pick up where he left off. He could do a lot of damage.”

  “We’ll petition the board when he’s up for parole. They won’t release him.”

  “That’s fifteen years away—who knows if any of us will still be here. Hooking him on a first is the only way to guarantee that he stays in for life.”

  Our voices are raised. I close the door so Max, or anyone else who might be in the office, can’t hear.

  “A piece of him is better than nothing.”

  “I don’t want to give up because they’re throwing out this bogus alibi defense.”

  “Look, Abby, I respect you, and I consider you a good friend.”

  He stops talking, I look at him. “Are you about to pull rank?”

  He nods. “Take the plea. It’s not a suggestion, it’s a directive,” he says. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d question your motives.”

  Before this gets uglier and Owen outright accuses me of misconduct, I turn toward the door. “I’ll check in with you later,” I say.

  “Take the plea. It’s a gift.” Owen looks down at the bracelet on my wrist. “See? Patsy was right—your luck is changing.”

  I step into the elevator and then it occurs to me. I can’t believe I missed it. The bracelet.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Sandra drives me to the Equal Exchange Café, a hippie-dippie coffee shop on the outskirts of Boston’s North End. Inside, there are a few sleepy-looking tourists and a homeless woman who hits me up for money. I find a couple of bucks in my wallet and hand them to her. She inspects the bills, turns, and directs my attention to the price list on the chalkboard. I reach back into my wallet and give her a five. Organic fair-trade coffee doesn’t come cheap.

  Josh is sitting at one of the few tables, drinking tea. I walk past the counter, craving an espresso and a scone, but this isn’t a social call, and I don’t plan to be here long.

  I unbutton my coat but don’t take it off, and launch into him.

  “You tell me to record Max, and then you tell Owen to plant a listening device on me. Am I a double agent or something?”

  “We don’t have double agents,” he says. “That’s CIA.”

  He tears open a packet of honey, and it squirts all over the cuff of his shirt.

  “You feds are all the same.”

  I remove the charm bracelet from my coat pocket and slam it down on the table. He p
icks it up, looks around to be sure no one is watching, and slips it in his briefcase.

  “I told them in D.C. that you’d figure it out,” he says. “They thought it was worth a try.”

  “Main Justice is involved?”

  He dabs water on his sticky shirt cuff and then gives up and sips his tea.

  “This is a big one. They want to swoop in and take credit when it’s done.”

  “Who else did you stick a bug on? My doorman? My boyfriend? My hair stylist?”

  “If you don’t have anything to hide, then what’s the problem?”

  “It’s an abuse of power.”

  “Don’t take it personally. We’re looking at anyone with possible motive.”

  “Enlighten me. What’s my motive? Why would I want to kill Tim?”

  “One could argue that you were fighting to keep the relationship going. And he turned you down.”

  I laugh in disbelief. “So you’re saying that Julia talked to you, and she thinks I killed Tim? Come on.”

  I wonder if Julia was wired up when I spoke with her at Doyle’s. I try to remember if she was wearing anything that could have been doubling as a camera, but all I can picture is her prissy lace-collared blouse.

  “Unrequited love is a powerful motivator,” he says, smirking.

  He’s hit a nerve, and I try not to react but can’t help myself.

  “It was requited,” I say. “More than you or Julia know.”

  He puts down his tea. “You had some pretty hefty withdrawals from your savings last month.”

  “So that makes you think I hired a hit man? Even you can’t actually believe that.”

  “I’d be negligent if I didn’t look into it.”

  Talking about money with anyone, never mind an FBI agent, is crass, and it makes me uncomfortable, but now is not the time to be discreet about my spending habits.

  “I had a lot of expenses in December. My brother got married, and I commissioned a painting for his gift. I think it cost like fifty grand.”

  “What about the other $15K?”

  “The new spring collection came out.”

  “You spent $15,000 on clothes?”

  “Suits, shoes, scarves. Oh, I also got a handbag.”

  He looks at me, incredulous.

  “The bag was a Birkin.” I throw this in to bolster my credibility, as if he knows the difference between Birkin and Birkenstock. I write down a name on a napkin. “This is my personal shopper. She’s at Barneys—not the one in Boston, the one in New York. She’ll vouch for me.”

  Josh gives me the once-over, trying to price my outfit, stopping to assess my maroon Balenciaga coat. Only the most discerning shopper would recognize the exquisite design and hand stitching. It cost about $4,500. Now that I’m cash poor and my condo fee is overdue, I wonder how much I can get for it if I take it to the high-end consignment shop on Charles Street.

  “Our forensic accountant also checked into your November withdrawals.”

  “I bought some early Christmas gifts.”

  He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a clear plastic evidence bag. My missing Mason Pearson hairbrush is inside.

  “You did the B and E on my apartment?”

  “We did a DNA comparison with the hair and fibers found in Tim’s car. You were all over the front seat and the dash.”

  “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been inside that car?”

  “You intentionally blew the sit-down with Max,” he says.

  Josh couldn’t possibly believe that I was involved in Tim’s murder. He thinks that I know something and I’m holding back to protect Max. He’s trying to strong-arm me, get me to flip, so he can work his way up the office food chain. The problem for him is, I don’t have information and I’m not holding back.

  “I did everything I could to get him to talk. Has it occurred to you that he’s not implicating himself because he didn’t take bribes, that he’s not involved in Tim’s murder?”

  “Don’t go down with the ship, Abby.”

  “I get it—everyone is a suspect until proven otherwise. I’m telling you the truth, but if you don’t believe me, there’s nothing I can do about it. But don’t try to play me and treat me like some mope. Find someone else to carry out your ridiculous fishing expedition.”

  “We already have.”

  I grab my tote and hold it up to taunt him. “See this bag? It’s Bottega Veneta, and it cost about $3,000. You’ll find it in next month’s charges.”

  Sandra is waiting for me in the car. I’m obsessively private about my personal life, and having a permanent bodyguard, someone who knows my every move, is unsettling, but there’s an upside. I never have to drive around in search of a parking space, worry about getting mugged, or worse. And Sandra never asks questions about who I’m meeting or what I’m doing. She waits patiently and quietly, off to the side, allowing me room to conduct my business in private. If only her eye shadow and lip gloss were as subtle as her surveillance techniques.

  I slam my door and wrestle with the seat belt, telegraphing that I’m in a foul mood. At this point, Kevin would lecture me about how I should take up cycling or kickboxing to blow off steam. As much as I like working with him, he would want to know every detail of my meeting with Josh, and he’d have plenty to say about it. Sandra lets me stew in silence.

  When we return home, there are papers taped to my apartment door. I think about Ezekiel, when he came home to find grand jury minutes stuck to his front door and the fear he must have experienced. Sandra untapes and unfolds the pages and inspects them. She hands them to me, raising her eyebrows.

  “Notice to Vacate.”

  I hope Manny doesn’t find out that I forgot to make good on my promise to settle my account. I guess the condo association takes this whole monthly maintenance fee thing pretty seriously.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Ty is a night owl who, until recently, never got up with me in the morning. Lately he’s been waking up before me, cooking breakfast, and making sure that I’m ready to face the day. When I get out of the shower, he’s in the kitchen, music is playing, and he’s singing along with Bob Marley. Don’t worry about a thing, ’cause every little thing gonna be all right.

  “What are you making?” I say.

  “Quinoa-and-coconut pancakes. I’m thinking about going vegan. You in?”

  “Sure,” I say, thinking about the tubes of beef jerky in my tote.

  I have a couple of bites of the pancake, which isn’t bad considering it’s a disk of protein with a few stray shreds of coconut. I gulp down some freshly squeezed orange juice and grab my tote. Ty hands me the lunch that he prepared—chickpea quiche and chia seed cookies—and accompanies me downstairs, where Sandra is waiting.

  She drops me off at the courthouse and goes to park the car. The security line is longer than usual, even for a Monday. It snakes out the door and twists around the corner. I wait at the elevator bank, keeping my eyes trained on the floor, and listen for the ding of an arriving car. I tend to avoid eye contact with people in the courthouse, especially when I’m on trial. The rules dictate that we’re not supposed to have any communication with jurors, verbal or nonverbal.

  A pair of black Nike Air sneakers are pointing in my direction, and I sense that their owner is staring at me. Not being able to resist, I look up quickly. My neck stiffens, and my stomach drops. There he is in the courthouse, Rodney Quirk. I haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks, since I confronted him out on Cambridge Street. I was hoping that Sandra’s presence had scared him off.

  I consider calling out for a court officer, asking him to remove Rodney, but it’s a public building, and he’s not doing anything illegal. I don’t want to have to explain our history. It’s too convoluted to get into right now.

  The courtroom is standing room only. Those without seats will be asked to leave since, contrary to To Kill a Mockingbird, fire regulations require that all aisles be kept clear. Even without Darrius, the North Street gang has grown
; they’re occupying their usual places in the back plus a few seats in the next row. I walk past the bar and take a seat at my table. I can feel their eyes drilling a hole in the back of my head. Carl Ostroff quietly directs the cameraman to capture the image. If I were Carl, I’d watch my back. These guys tend to be camera shy.

  I’ve rested my case in chief, and now it’s Blum’s turn to present a defense. I’m eager to learn whether or not Judge Volpe is going to allow him to put Max on the witness stand.

  Sal announces that court is back in session.

  Blum stands. “The defense calls Maxwell Lombardo.”

  People turn and whisper to each other. The press corps is ecstatic. Even the jurors seem to recognize Max’s name and the significance of what is happening.

  I’m on my feet. “May we be heard?”

  Judge Volpe signals us forward, and we huddle at sidebar.

  “This is highly unusual and without precedent. I’m filing a motion to quash.” I pass Blum and Judge Volpe the motion that Owen had helped prepare. “There’s no compelling reason—in fact, there’s no reason at all—to call the sitting district attorney to testify. I ask that he be excluded.”

  “Were you given notice of alibi as I had ordered on Friday?”

  “We learned about the subpoena this weekend,” I say, “but as far as I know, there isn’t anything relevant that he could possibly offer. We haven’t been provided any discovery.”

  “I don’t have anything to give,” Blum says. “There are no reports or images. I just plan to ask him some questions.”

  “I’ve warned you that I’m not going to allow this courtroom to be turned into a circus. I want an offer of proof. What’s the purpose of his testimony?”

  “I expect DA Lombardo to provide an alibi for my client.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “I expect him to say that he saw Orlando Jones on the night of the murder, around the time of the murder, many miles away from where Jasmine Reed and her friends were located.”

  “Ms. Endicott, what do you say?”