We zoom down Cambridge Street and reach the emergency room in about three minutes. News crews, already assembled in front of the hospital, film the ambulance as we pull up. Guards are at the front door, ready to whisk Ty inside.
Cecil Gaultier, head of security, stops me at the door to the operating room and tells me that I’m not allowed in. Cecil, a retired Boston police officer, escorts me down the hall to an empty waiting room.
I’ve always thought of Cecil as the cheerful, extra tall, red-haired guy, the one with enormous hands, the one who’s always in-your-face boisterous. Today he sits quietly and unobtrusively on a gray plastic chair while I try to gather my thoughts.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I say.
“They’ve got the best of the best in there.”
“I feel like I should call people, but I left my cell phone in my office.”
“I’ll get someone to pick it up,” he says. “We’re all here for you. You’ve been there for us all these years.”
I think about who I should contact and what I’ll say.
“I don’t want Ty’s parents to hear about it on the news.”
“The public information officer got the media to agree to hold off releasing names for the time being,” Cecil says.
Kevin comes in and nods to Cecil, who goes out into the hallway, giving us some privacy. He puts his arm around me. I let my head fall into the crook between his neck and his shoulder.
“How is Ty? Have you heard anything?” I say.
“The bullet cracked a rib and nicked his lung, but the docs don’t think it did permanent damage to his vitals. They’re removing the slug now. He should be out of the OR in a couple of hours.”
“Did Melvin survive?”
“He’s gone.”
“And Owen?”
“He was pronounced at the scene.”
Someone knocks on the door. Kevin gets up to see who it is. I can hear Cecil’s voice from the hallway.
“Abby has a visitor.”
“Who is it?” Kevin says.
“Says he’s her father.”
Kevin looks back at me, and I nod and start to cry. He steps aside, and my father comes in the room, gives me a hug, and sits down next to me.
Kevin and Cecil disappear.
“I’m sorry, muffin,” he says. “Are you okay?”
“Do you know how Ty is?”
“I spoke with the chief of the ER. He says that you’ll be able to see him soon.”
“Can we get him a private room?”
“Already taken care of. I pulled some strings, got him into the Phillips House.”
The Phillips House is like a five-star hotel, only better, with private rooms, pull-out sofa beds for overnight guests, and panoramic views. It also has state-of-the-art medical equipment and top-rate nursing care. Even though insurance doesn’t cover the extra nightly fee of $500, getting into the Phillips House can be tougher than getting into the Gardner Club.
“I don’t always understand your choices, but if Ty is important to you, then he’s important to me.”
When Cecil returns, he’s accompanied by Ty’s surgeon. She is a lanky woman in her fifties, with mousy gray hair and the weathered look of a long-distance runner.
“He’s sedated,” she says. “You can go up and see him in a little while. But first, I want to take a look at that wound on your leg.”
My stockings are shredded, and there’s a gash in my shin. She touches it, and I wince.
“I want to get an x-ray.”
I sit on the table while a technician takes pictures of my leg. A few minutes later, the doctor comes in and tells me that my shin is okay but my ankle has a small fracture. She puts me in a walking cast.
I refuse the wheelchair and use a cane to make my way down the hallway to the elevator. My father rides up with me. We stop outside the locked entrance to the Phillips House, and I ring the buzzer.
“Charlie and Missy have cut their honeymoon short,” my father says. “They’re catching the next flight back from Saint Barths.”
“I wish they hadn’t. I’m not in the mood for their disapproval.”
“I’ll let you in on a family secret. Charlie has been lobbying me since the day we decided to stop giving you money.”
“I thought he hated my job and Ty.”
“He doesn’t hate either. He says he doesn’t agree with your decisions, but he doesn’t think you should be punished for, well, being who you are. I think Missy put him up to it, but regardless, he’s been championing your cause.”
“So why are you punishing me? Are you that afraid to stand up to Mom?”
“It’s not punishment, and don’t assume that it’s your mother’s doing. It’s about safety—I’m your father and, even though you’re a grown woman, I still believe that my role is to protect you.”
A security guard unlocks the door to the Phillips House, my father gives me a hug good-bye, and I hobble down the corridor. Ty is lying in his hospital bed, hooked up to all sorts of tubes and monitors. I sit by his bedside, take hold of his right hand, listen to the beeps and whooshing sounds coming from the machines, and watch him sleep.
When the anesthesia starts to wear off, he strains to open his eyes. He looks at me, groggy, using all his energy to focus.
“You’re in the hospital.” I squeeze his hand.
“Are you okay, baby?”
He musters up a smile and closes his eyes. I wipe his forehead with a cool cloth.
“Yes, I’m fine. We’re both going to be fine.”
Chapter Fifty-two
The trial is delayed for a week, and I spend the time working from home. I want to be close to Ty now that he’s been released from the hospital. I’m happy and relieved that he’s accepted my invitation to convalesce in my apartment.
The shooting, the corruption scandal, and the tie-in to Tim’s murder are splashed across every media outlet from The New York Times to Inside Edition. Since the moment Ty got out of surgery, I’ve made numerous attempts to reach his parents and let them know what happened before they hear about it or see it on the news.
Ty’s mother, Melody, is not easy to track down. I spend hours googling and calling various friends and relatives, trying to reach her, but I keep hitting dead ends. Finally I locate her at a sweat lodge in Taos. I dial the phone number for the better part of a day, using my phone’s redial button, until someone finally picks up.
“I’d like to help you, but she’s at a smudging ceremony,” the lodge leader says as though that’s a valid excuse. “It’s a sacred rite, and I can’t interrupt.”
“Her son was shot. He almost died.” I find it impossible to believe he heard me correctly the first time.
“I’ll be sure to give her the message.”
Ty’s father is easier to find. He has two recent speeding tickets and one arrest for driving unregistered and uninsured out of Tampa, where he now lives with his twenty-three-year-old girlfriend. He returns my call immediately and tells me he’s extremely concerned, but he doesn’t offer to come up to Boston to see his son.
“Abby, honey, while I have you on the phone, do you think you could spare a couple of thou for my lawyer’s fee? I’m a little short right now,” he says. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I get my tax refund. I swear.”
“Let me talk to Ty about it,” I say, knowing that I’ll never mention a word about this phone call.
Charlie and Missy come directly to my apartment from the airport, with sun-kissed skin and an exquisite turquoise Hermès blanket. While Missy goes in to visit with Ty, Charlie sits with me on the sofa.
“Thanks for the blanket,” I say.
“Missy thought Ty might want something soft.”
“Should I take that as a dig?”
“Accept the gesture, don’t analyze it,” he says.
Missy comes out of the bedroom and makes a pot of ginger tea for everyone.
“Sorry we interrupted your honeymoon,” I say as she hands me a
cup.
“We’ve been to Saint Barths before.” She sits across from me. “We’ll have plenty of opportunities to go again.”
“We’re here for you,” Charlie says.
“You always have been,” I say.
“Do you need money?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m going to have to figure out how to make my own way.”
“I wish you didn’t always suffer in silence,” Missy says.
“It’s the Endicott way—we don’t talk about money or feelings, and we don’t complain. Welcome to the family.”
When Missy smiles, I see that her bottom front teeth are slightly crooked, one of the few visible remnants of her impoverished past. She reaches into the pocket of her sweater and hands me a string of lavender glass beads.
“Worry beads. I got them from one of the nuns when I was a child. I take them out when I’m anxious, to pass the time.”
“I’ll keep them in my briefcase, for when I’m waiting for my jury verdict.”
After Charlie and Missy leave, I find a roll of seven crisp hundred-dollar bills on my kitchen counter.
My mother calls every day to check on Ty’s status. She sends vases from Winston Flowers, delicate anemones with papery white petals and bold black centers. She has platters of cold lobster salad and hearty beef bourguignonne delivered from Savenor’s Market. She even stops by once, in the flesh, with my father.
She walks into my living room in a silk Valentino suit, looking like she has had her hair shellacked. She cases the joint with suspicion, examines the books on my coffee table. Matisse, a retrospective of his bright, cheerful cutouts. The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death, a macabre collection of dollhouses designed to re-create gory murder scenes.
She picks up the silver perpetual calendar on the mantelpiece, and as she puts it down, it looks like she’s going to don a white glove and run her finger along the marble ledge, inspecting for dust.
“This is such a charming apartment,” she says.
“I’ll miss living here.”
“You have options.”
“I’m not quitting my job.”
The door to my bedroom is closed, and I tell my mother that Ty is asleep, sparing us all what would surely be an awkward encounter.
She stays for about fifteen minutes and then begs off, claiming that she has to go to an event. She says she can’t miss it; she’s being honored by the Boston Ballet for her fund-raising accomplishments. After she leaves, I riffle through my desk and find my invitation to the party. The gala was last night.
Chapter Fifty-three
Court reassembles, and the jury is sent out to deliberate. In less than an hour, we hear a knock coming from inside the jury room. Sal pokes his head in and comes out with a piece of paper. I try to catch his eye, hoping he’ll give me a clue about what’s in the note. He goes directly to Judge Volpe’s chambers, without glancing in my direction. A few minutes later, Judge Volpe calls us in to his chambers.
“The jurors have a question,” he says, showing us a handwritten note signed by the foreman.
“What could they possibly want to know?” I say, worried that we have one lunatic who is going to hang the jury.
Volpe shows us the paper. Which box do we check if we think he is guilty under both theories of murder in the first degree? Premeditation, Cruel and Atrocious, or both?
“I plan to send this back to them in response,” he says, jotting down his answer. Both.
The jurors file in, some taking note of the cast on my leg. The foreman announces the verdict.
“Guilty of the first degree murder of Jasmine Reed. Guilty of the attempted murders of Ezekiel Hogan and Denny Mebane.”
As soon as the verdicts are recorded by the clerk, a mob of deputies swarm, cuff, and shackle Orlando. As they whisk him to the lockup, he turns and looks into the audience. No one is there for him—not his family, not his fellow gangsters.
Nestor walks up to the table and congratulates me. I give him a hug.
“You’re a champ,” he says.
“Thanks for putting up with me.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kevin in the back row of the gallery. He smiles, gives me a wink, and disappears. Jackie and Adele are seated in the front row. Behind them is Harold, along with a bunch of reporters, ADAs, defense attorneys, and people I don’t recognize.
Out in the hallway, Jackie approaches with a basket of homemade gingersnaps.
“I saw what happened to your boyfriend. I hope he’s okay,” she says.
“He’s going to be fine.” I accept the basket and give her a hug.
“I can’t wait to get back and tell Denny about the verdict,” Adele says.
Winnie comes in the courtroom and hands me her phone. “Someone wants to talk to you.”
“I wanted to thank you,” Ezekiel says. “I’m sorry for giving you a hard time.”
“Thanks for hanging in there with me,” I say.
Max follows me into the elevator.
“I can’t begin to express my appreciation.”
“I wish it had turned out differently, for everyone.”
“Me too.”
“You and Owen had a long history.”
“Thirty years. We were altar boys together at Holy Name. He was best man at my wedding. I’m Patsy’s godfather. I should have seen it. Maybe I could have done something.”
“We all missed it.”
Kevin told me that Owen was deep in debt. When he gave up drinking, he replaced it with another addiction—gambling. He was betting on everything, dogs, horses, scratch tickets, college football, even his kids’ Little League games.
“Take some time off—you deserve it,” Max says.
“I plan to.”
“If I throw my hat in the ring for mayor, you should run for DA. You’d win by a landslide.”
When we get out to the street, the media has assembled. They’re holding cameras and microphones, waiting for an official statement about the verdict. Max walks toward the podium, but turns when he notices that I’m not following him.
“You should be up there with me. This is your win.”
“I’ve had enough of the spotlight.”
He puts his hand over his mouth. “Want to join me for a drink later?”
“I’ve got to get home to Ty.”
I consider hailing a taxi but decide to walk. It’s got to be at least forty degrees outside, warm for this time of year, and I need the fresh air. I’m not going to let a fractured ankle slow me down.
I head up Cambridge Street, toward the Boston Common, put my Bluetooth in my ear, and make a phone call.
“I wanted to be sure you heard the news,” I say when Crystal’s mother picks up
“I saw it on TV. Justice has been served, and Crystal can finally rest in peace. I hope you can find your peace too,” she says.
I hang up and continue toward Park Street. I see a familiar figure standing at an ATM, collecting cash. I’m in no mood for Rodney Quirk tonight. I want this to end. I’m done living in fear. I reach into my bag, feel around for my Mace, and approach him.
“Why are you following me, Rodney?”
“Excuse me?”
“You beat your murder case—isn’t that enough?”
“I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“I see you every morning at the coffee shop. Now you’re out here following me. I should have reported you a long time ago.”
“Following you? I work here. My public defender got me a job, I work at Legal Aid. The office is in Center Plaza.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m assigned to the Innocence Project.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls something out. I flinch and think about yelling or running or spraying him with Mace. He opens up his wallet and holds up his employee ID. Rodney Quirk, Staff Assistant, Innocence Project. I’m not sure what to do. Apparently, Rodney has a right to be in the area. He’s a killer, but he’s not a stalker, which
at this point is as good as it gets.
When I get home, Ty is in bed, dozing. The curtains are drawn back, and I look out the window. I’ll miss being in this apartment in the springtime, when the cherry blossom trees form a bright-pink umbrella over the Esplanade.
“You’re late,” he says. “Everything okay?”
“I ran into an old friend on my way home from work.”
“Anyone I know?”
“No.”
I kick off my shoes, sit down on the bed, and give him a kiss.
“Congratulations on your verdict,” he says. “I’m glad it’s finally over.”
“I’m sorry you were one of the casualties.”
“I’ll heal.”
“I’m going to take some time off, figure out where to go from here.”
I kiss him again, careful not to bump or rub against his bandages.
“A real estate agent stopped by today. Are you sure you want to sell this place?”
“I don’t have a choice. I can’t afford this life anymore.”
He shifts his weight and struggles to face me.
“I pay rent in Somerville. I could just as easily pay it here,” he says.
“I can’t charge you rent.”
“I’m not looking to be your tenant. I know it’s a new concept for you, but how about we work as a team, like a real couple.”
“You’re saying that you want to give up your apartment and move in?”
“I want to live with you, here—or anyplace else.”
“You’re on some pretty heavy-duty painkillers, I’m sure it’s the meds talking. But you’ve tendered the offer, and I accept. That means we have a valid, binding contract.”
“Okay, Counselor. But I have one condition.”
“Name it.”
“We have to be more open with each other. You have to let me know what’s on your mind. Otherwise, this will never work.”
“Deal.”
Ty dozes off. I can hear his deep breathing and see his chest rising and falling. I lie down and nestle in next to him.
After a few minutes, he turns toward me, his eyes still closed. “Open, honest, full disclosure.”
“I swear.”
“No more secrets?”
“No more secrets.”
“You have to tell me when you’re afraid of something or someone.”
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