The Murder List

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  The rest of the staff seemed to be out for lunch, too.

  My shoulders dropped. Food. I should have picked up something on the way here. For all its history and atmosphere, the statehouse had no cafeteria, only an assortment of bleak vending machines. But, hungry as I was, I refused to make another lunch out of a prefab cello-wrapped chicken sandwich and a weary apple.

  “Rachel?” Dani Zander appeared in my open doorway, carrying a tablet and a white paper bag.

  She’d been hired for a lower-level job, at some point, and got promoted when I did. Good for her. Last night, she’d seated herself by Tom. Or someone had. At least today she was not flaunting that stupid ribbon. I hoped she had a hangover. Serve her right.

  “Sorry to bother—” she began.

  “Hi, Dani. No bother. Perfect timing,” I lied, forcing a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “Wasn’t it so fun last night?”

  I kept smiling. “So fun.”

  She took the three steps to my desk. Dressed for winter, in a black turtleneck, black tights, flat boots. Tiny black leather skirt, I couldn’t help but notice. With that pixie hair, she was the blond Audrey Hepburn of Beacon Hill. Dani, smiling, offered me the white bag.

  “Ham, swiss, dijon,” she said. “In case you forgot to get lunch again. Whole wheat. And an iced tea. The senator told me this was your usual. My treat.”

  “Oh, well, no I—” I started to demur. But then, I was starving. And who was I to turn down lunch? “Fabulous,” I said. I could smell the smoky ham fragrance through the bag as I accepted it, and a sharp tang of dill pickle. The senator told her? Why were they discussing me? When? “Next time I’ll buy. Okay if I eat this now? And have a seat. Tell me how things are going.”

  I gestured Dani to the green damask two-person couch I’d persuaded admin to move up here from the basement storage room. It was ugly, stubby-legged, and threadbare, but it was taxpayer-thrifty and serviceable. I thought about Roni Wollaskay, the furniture juror. She’d probably have some ideas for replacing it.

  “I had lunch an hour ago,” Dani said. “So. I talked to Tom—”

  “The senator?” I corrected her. “You mean?”

  “The senator, sorry, this morning. He was so pleased with the party last night, and my pleasure to arrange it—while you were at jury duty. So scary. The defendant’s criminal record, you know? Deacon Davis? I saw all about that on TV this morning. But I know you can’t talk about it.”

  I unwrapped the package of folded waxed paper, the thin-sliced ham spilling out of the fresh bread. “Uh-huh,” I said, and licked a dab of mustard off a forefinger. Criminal record? TV? Jurors can’t watch TV news. “Right. Anyway. The senator?”

  “He needs to handle the water situation in Oxford.” She swiped a screen on her tablet. “And they want him for a Chamber of Commerce speech, a dinner event, in Springfield. He says to tell you he wants to, it’s good for the budget talks. It’s an overnight, he says, tomorrow—yeah, short notice—but he says I can make the arrangements. If you agree, he says.”

  He says, does he? When? But then, I wasn’t here half the time, so who knew what was going on. That’s why I was so eager for this trial to be over. So I could regain my territory. I popped open the calendar on my computer. “Give him a meeting, half an hour, with the commissioner in Oxford. And then on to Springfield. Back whenever he decides. But let me know. What else?”

  “That’s it from me.” She swiped a few more screens. “For now.”

  “You’re doing okay?” I crumpled a mustardy napkin and thought about tackling the other half of the sandwich. “You were promoted right before I got snagged for jury duty, so even though I’d planned to be more available for you—”

  “Sure.” Dani clicked her screen to dark. Stood. “So—”

  “Listen,” I said, “remind me. How did you wind up here?”

  “It must be in the files, Rachel. Did you lose them somehow? Should I email you another résumé?” Dani, seemingly accommodating, answered but didn’t answer. “And Logan Concannon hired me. Before she, you know.”

  I didn’t, which was also annoying. I’d asked the senator where Logan went and what happened, once, maybe twice, but he’d brushed me off. Clearly avoided the discussion, making it seem off-limits. I’d thought back to that final encounter, when Logan seemed to be baiting me about the night Rafferty brought me the … I felt my memories darkening my vision. It was three weeks ago, and I continued to be upset by it, even fragile. The humiliation. The narrow escape. My own raging emotions. I made myself remember my mirror-image woman and how she had calmed me. I was fine. Fine.

  But. Logan had told me we needed to “discuss Friday night.” Something like that. And then she was gone. Were those things connected?

  “Yeah. I know.” I smiled back at Dani, trying to look like I was telling the truth. I watched her leave the office, politely closing the door behind her, and wondered what happened to the woman who used to sit at this desk. I had to find out. Somehow.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JACK KIRKLAND

  “The jurors will think what I want them to think.” Jack clicked open the two brass snaps on his briefcase, extracted two manila folders, placed them on the holding-room conference table between them. “Look. Here’s your criminal record.” He opened one folder, spun it so Deacon could read the printed-out black-and-white pages. Pointed with one forefinger. “Attempted robbery. Larceny under. Breaking and entering.”

  “But—” Deacon Davis, hollow-cheeked and swimming in a long-sleeved shirt that had fit him three weeks ago, had the look Jack had seen on so many defendants. Confused. Defeated. The perplexed demeanor of someone watching the last train pull away from the station. A train that left them in a courthouse, seated in a folding metal chair at a pitted conference table at nine on a bleak Wednesday morning. Destination possibly life in prison.

  “But nothing,” Jack interrupted. “You say these were screwups. Unfair. Mistakes. Miscarriages of justice. Whatever you want to call them. But there they are, buddy. And the jury will think, oh, he was a bad guy before, so it’s more likely he’s a bad guy now. Even when it’s not true.”

  “But—”

  “If the jury ever finds out about these convictions,” Jack talked over his client, had to, “you’re toast. However. If you do not give Martha Gardiner the opportunity to open the door to your criminal history, the jury will never hear about it.”

  Jack assessed his client’s stubborn expression, then held up both palms in pretend retreat. “You wanna do it, Deke? Testify? Your call. Gardiner’s been properly notified that you might take the stand. But look…” Jack softened his voice, a wise coach counseling his newest player. “Don’t turn that victory into a defeat because you think you can convince this jury. Let me do that.”

  “Ten minutes, sir.” The conference room door had opened so quickly, the sound of the sharp knock on the wood had not quite faded. A uniformed court officer, rectangular name tag embossed SUDDETH pinned to the buttoned pocket of a too-small navy shirt, then held up ten pudgy fingers. As if to prove Suddeth knew his numbers. “Anything you need?”

  “Nope. Thanks.” Jack waited until the door closed again. Then waited two beats after that. Court officers were the source of all gossip, for better or worse. If Gardiner had a crew of snitches in the courthouse, this guy Suddeth might be on his way to spill Jack’s strategy. Jack looked up into each corner of the room, checking for mics. Told himself he was being an idiot. Sometimes Gardiner knew things that were impossible to know.

  Jack turned his attention back to his client, lowered his voice. “Juror Five likes you, the furniture-store woman. The knitting grandmother likes you. All you need is one of them to hold out. One ‘not guilty.’ One holdout.”

  The door opened again, this time without a knock. “Judge Saunders would like to see you,” Suddeth said. “Both of you. In her chambers.”

  Jack stood. Tried to read Suddeth’s doughy face. “Why?”

&nb
sp; “Why?” Deacon Davis echoed.

  “I just work here,” the officer said.

  When they arrived, Judge Saunders was in civilian clothes. Her velvet-collared black robe hung on a coat tree, arranged on a padded pink hanger. Shelves lined with green leather volumes, the Massachusetts General Laws, covered every wall. The judge sat behind her ornate desk, wearing a purple blouse with some kind of bow at the collar, her face drawn hard in the sun piercing unforgivingly through the inch-open blinds. Jack sniffed for vodka. It was only 9:15, so maybe too early for her. He could almost smell his client’s fear, but there was nothing he could say to comfort him. Jack was not the happiest camper himself right now.

  Martha Gardiner stood, posture perfect, next to the white-and-blue Massachusetts flag. As if posing for a damn campaign photo, Jack thought. Her deferential associate, who’d introduced herself the first day only as “Lizann,” stood a step behind her boss, carrying a stack of file folders like it was precious cargo. So Saunders had called Gardiner in first. Women. Wonder what the judge had told the sisterhood before Jack arrived. Wonder what they’d done as a result. Ex parte communications were outrageous. Improper. But how could Jack prove these people had even exchanged a word?

  If he complained, they’d probably make it into some woman thing, like he was accusing them of forming some females-first cabal. Which they probably were, but no way to touch that hot potato.

  “Good morning, all.” Saunders spoke as if Gardiner hadn’t been there already. “We have a situation with the jury.”

  RACHEL NORTH

  “Anybody?” I asked the jury room in general. “Know about Momo?” Juror Anne Peretz, or Momo, she’d told them to call her, “like my grandkids do,” was absent. All I got were head shakes and shrugs. I took my usual swivel chair next to Roni Wollaskay. I definitely could not afford any delays. The senator was on his way to the western part of the state, so I was relying on this afternoon to catch up. Even, I dared imagine, get ahead.

  The court officers took our cell phones hostage every morning and didn’t give them back until we left. All hell could be breaking loose in state government. Or in my office. I’d have no idea. “Roni? It’s after nine. Strange that she’s not here.”

  “Yeah, strange.” Roni, today in pale-gray cashmere and navy suede pumps, ripped a pack of sugar into her coffee, stirred, stuck the red plastic stick into her mouth, grimaced, pulled it out dry. “But if she’s not gonna be here, maybe we can all go home. Randi has some sort of nursery school crud, so she’s home with the nanny. Poor baby.” She took a wary sip of coffee. “Randi, I mean. Nothing more pitiful than a sick three-year-old.”

  “Yeah, poor baby,” I said, supposing so. I always worried when someone talked about kids. Made me feel like they were curious about why I didn’t have any, for which there was no answer other than I didn’t. But I was only thirty. There was time for my life to work. “You have three children?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Roni said. “Rhonda, Ruthie, and Randi.” She stopped. Rolled her eyes. “I know. But it was my husband’s idea. His name is—” She leaned a few inches closer to me. “Ron. What can I tell you?”

  I had to laugh, couldn’t help it, and somehow that incongruous sound made me realize the magnitude of what we were doing. I’d probably never cross paths with these people otherwise, but now we were all tasked, as we said on Beacon Hill, to decide whether to send someone to prison for life. I guessed for life. Were any of us equipped to do that?

  Roni was laughing, too, at her family’s R names. Dabbed under her eyes with a white paper napkin. “Don’t even ask me about the dog’s name. And hey, you’re an R, too. Maybe we’re long-lost sisters.”

  The door to the jury room swung open.

  “Did you all miss me?” Anne Peretz’s voice entered before she did. She lugged a crewel-decorated knitting bag and pink leather tote, and wore a white knit cloche jammed over her gray curls. “Thank you, Grace, dear.” She dismissed the court officer who’d been escorting her, then draped her coat over the last hanger in the rack as the door closed. “I’m fine now. Hello, all. Hello, Rachel.”

  “Are you all right?” Now we’d finally get this show on the road.

  “And in all the excitement, I forgot my pills.” Momo sat down, still wearing her hat. “Before they took my phone, they let me call my son to bring them here, so all’s well that ends well. I hope I haven’t ruined everything.”

  “It’s not that late,” I reassured her.

  The jury room door opened. We all looked at court officer Kurt Suddeth, Grace O’Brien’s self-important partner.

  “Mrs. Wollaskay?” Suddeth stood outside the door. The randomly burned-out lightbulbs lining the narrow hallway stippled his face and his too-tight navy uniform with unnatural darkness. “I’m afraid we need to talk with you.”

  “Afraid? Me?” Roni stood, gripping my arm with her hand. “Is there an emergency? Are my kids okay?”

  “Can you come with me, please?” Suddeth’s request sounded more like a demand. “And please bring your belongings.”

  Roni went pale, it seemed to me, and let go of my arm to gather her handbag and retrieve her coat. Maybe there was something wrong with her family. She’d said little—Rhoda?—was sick.

  “Rachel?” Roni’s chest rose and fell, her eyes tensed with worry as she searched my face.

  “It’ll be okay.” That’s all I could think of to say, even though I had no idea. “Let me know.”

  As Roni turned to go, the other jurors stood as well, in solidarity or kindness or support. Her mostly empty foam coffee cup, the only thing that marked her existence, tipped over as I moved aside, leaving a tiny trickle of brown on the glossy conference table. I righted it and put a napkin on top of the spill.

  Suddeth gestured Roni into the hallway, where she stood behind him, almost a head taller than the pudgy officer. I could read the fear in her eyes. The cell phone clipped to a holder on Suddeth’s wide black belt vibrated, rattling so loudly against its metal clamp that I could hear it. The court officer flipped the phone up somehow and, squinting, apparently read a message. Flipped the phone back into place.

  “Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen.” His face betrayed no emotion, no expression, no judgment. “The court session will begin in approximately twenty minutes. Mrs. Wollaskay will likely not be rejoining you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JACK KIRKLAND

  Sitting side by side at the defense counsel table, Jack and Deke were two of only three people in the courtroom this Thursday morning. Wednesday’s session had been cut short by some judge’s meeting. Making everyone but the judge unhappy.

  Now the rackety heaters struggled to do their job, and the heavy blue velvet curtains, draped from frescoed ceiling to hardwood floor, fluttered out wisps of dust as the heated air pushed from behind them, trying to escape. Someone had doused their wooden table with lemon-scented wax. The place smelled like Jack’s grandmother’s house.

  The third person in the room, court officer Kurt Suddeth, legs planted and hockey-player arms crossed over his chest, guarded the door to the hallway. In five minutes, the bailiff would undo the chains, push open the door, and let in the audience. And the press. Jack knew his client hoped to see his sister Latrelle this morning, maybe even talk to her.

  Jack hadn’t the heart to tell him that was unlikely, but maybe one of these days they’d get lucky with a softhearted bailiff who’d ignore the rules. Three weeks of trial had passed, with Latrelle cutting her classes at Boston College, showing up every day. The two had never been allowed a word to each other. If Deke went away for life, the chances of his seeing Latrelle again diminished with every day he stayed behind bars. Families, the free ones, simply forgot. Let go. Moved on.

  The DA’s table was vacant, two blocky chairs pushed all the way in, a glass pitcher of ice water and two stubby glasses waiting at one corner on a white cardboard tray. God knows where Gardiner is, Jack thought. Probably signing today’s deal with the devil. O
r the devil signing with her.

  Deke was using a failing ballpoint to scrawl a series of interlinked circles on a yellow pad. Not tough to diagnose that psychology, Jack thought. Going around in circles. Or endless waiting. Or handcuffs. Jack pretended to be going over his notes for his closing argument, which, if all went as planned, would take place in about half an hour. But things were already not going as planned. Instead of fine-tuning his logic, Jack was trying to parse whether losing Roni Wollaskay as a juror yesterday would matter.

  “Think it’ll matter?” Deke’s whisper echoed his thoughts in the quiet courtroom. He looked up from his circles, held Jack’s eyes. “That juror? You said she was on our side. And now she’s gone.”

  “I said I thought she was on our side. She might be. Every one of them might be.” Jack tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. And “it’s a frigging crap shoot” was not an acceptable phrase to say to a client. But it was the truth.

  “Listen, Deke.” Jack needed to make his client understand. “Give yourself a break. It won’t help to worry. Let me worry.”

  “I should testify,” Deke said again. “Why won’t you let me?”

  “It’s not that I won’t let you,” Jack repeated. For the ten thousandth time. It would screw up his case royally if his client testified. He couldn’t say that, either.

  Problem was, figuring it was a done deal, Jack hadn’t decently prepped for Deacon Davis to testify. Martha Gardiner had legions of lackeys to assist in the case, and Jack was fine if they chased their tails planning for testimony that was never going to happen. But strategically, there was no doubt. The best thing for the defendant was to keep quiet. “If you want to, Deke, you can. I can’t stop you. I can only give you the benefit of my experience and—”

  Kurt Suddeth cleared his throat, interrupting. “Gentlemen?”

  Without waiting for them to respond, Suddeth clanked open the door to the courtroom, letting in a rush of hallway commotion. They both turned to look. The chatter and buzz, muted but constant, expanded to the dark walls as the spectators jockeyed for seats on the rows of wooden pews. Clea? What was she doing here? Her plaid-shirted photographer had barely plopped down his tripod behind the defense table when Clea pointed him to move his equipment to the right, positioned behind the DA’s table. That’d be, Jack knew, to get the best shot of Deke. Frigging Clea. She’d said she was working on a story. He gave her a look, like What the hell? But she turned away.