Mission Hill (21 page)

I turn to the jurors, who are frozen in place—still seated in their assigned chairs, clutching their notebooks. They're staring at me, stunned, looking for guidance. They've now experienced, firsthand, Orlando Jones's propensity for violence and the lengths to which he'll go in order to get what he wants.

I take a breath, trying not to throw up or pass out. Looking around the courtroom, I take it all in. I want to savor the moment. This is unequivocally the best thing that has ever happened to me.

 

Chapter Thirty-eight

The court takes a recess, giving everyone a chance to decompress and check for broken bones. Sal directs the jurors to stay together in their deliberations room, behind locked doors. He orders lunch, a couple of platters of turkey sandwiches and chocolate-chip cookies from a nearby deli, and tries to keep them calm by cracking jokes, telling them that the lunch is their combat pay. What he doesn't tell them is that the free lunch was intended to address Judge Volpe's concern that they might walk out of the courthouse and never return.

Kevin insists that I see the court doctor and has him paged. I don't put up a fight, knowing that Dr. Finn will give me a clean bill of health. He routinely examines defendants and witnesses who claim that they're too sick to testify. Nine times out of ten, Dr. Finn concludes that they're malingering and sends them back to the judge. He's a hard-ass, a doctor after my own heart. I'd make him my primary-care physician if he took private patients.

Kevin and I take the elevator to the seventh floor and wait for him to arrive. When Dr. Lantigua, the court psychiatrist, shows up instead, I try to make for the elevator, but Kevin grabs my tote and holds it hostage.

“I'm feeling fine,” I say.

Dr. Lantigua is about sixty, easily identifiable by her standard female shrink uniform: elastic-waist slacks and a shapeless tunic, both in neutral colors, and a bold, chunky necklace. She's insightful, curious, and thorough, which puts her at the bottom of the list of people I want to talk to right now.

“Where's Dr. Finn?” I ask.

“He's on a personal day,” she says. “Can I help you?”

I turn to Kevin, who is hovering. “A lady needs her privacy,” I say.

He parks himself on a bench and keeps my tote with him. “No problem—I'll wait here.”

We go into the office. I hear Kevin outside the door, clearing his throat. He's not going to let me out of here without the doctor's approval.

“I came in contact with a flying table,” I say. “My detective wants to be sure that I don't have a brain hemorrhage.”

“It's been a while since I've done a physical, but I can check your blood pressure.”

She pulls a cuff out of her medical bag. Reluctantly, I extend my left arm. Dr. Lantigua senses my misgivings about the checkup.

“We don't have to do this,” she says.

“No, go ahead.”

“‘No, go ahead.' That sends kind of a mixed signal. I'm detecting some misplaced anger.”

“Sorry, I don't mean to be rude.”

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

Yes, there are a million things I want to talk about: Tim, Crystal, Ty, my family, my career choice, my anxiety, my migraines, my list.

“No, thanks. I'm fine.”

She wraps the cuff tightly around my arm, and we both watch it inflate.

“Your pulse is high. You may want to cut down on the caffeine. I can write you a script for Ativan,” she says, ripping apart the Velcro.

“Maybe another time.”

“You're probably going to feel worse tomorrow. You might have a concussion. I strongly recommend that you go over to Mass General and get a CT scan.”

“I'll call my physician as soon as I get out of here and schedule an appointment.”

I thank Dr. Lantigua and dash out of her office before she changes her mind and decides that I'm not healthy enough to return to court. Outside her office, Kevin is waiting for me on the bench in the hallway, exactly where I left him.

“Everything copacetic?” he says.

“All good,” I say. “She told me I have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

We go back down to the courtroom, and Judge Volpe calls me and Blum in for a lobby conference. Dotty is by his side, her face buried in the black cone.

“Judge, I move for a mistrial,” Blum says.

“You've got to be kidding,” I say.

“Careful, Ms. Endicott,” Judge Volpe says. “I know you've been through a lot, but let's try to remain professional.”

My attention shifts to a partially eaten chocolate-chip cookie on top of his desk. Feeling like I could use a sugar boost, I'm tempted to ask for a bite. He notices me eyeing his dessert and pulls the cookie closer.
Don't even think about it.

“My client can't possibly receive a fair trial. The jury has been irreparably prejudiced. I'd like to be heard on my motion,” Blum says.

“Where is he now?” Judge Volpe says.

“He was taken by ambulance to Mass General,” Blum says, adding, “on a stretcher,” as though that will garner sympathy.

“For the record, I find that you have zealously represented your client and argued forcefully and articulately on his behalf, which is admirable given the circumstances. Your motion for a mistrial has been heard and duly considered. It is denied,” Judge Volpe says. “Mr. Blum, go to the hospital and talk to your client. Tell him that if he can't behave, I'll rule that he's waived his right to be present in the courtroom and he can watch the remainder of the trial on a closed-circuit screen in his jail cell. Got it?”

Blum nods. “I'll pass it on. For the record, I don't endorse his actions.”

“I'm going to explain what's happening to the jury, and I'll see you all back here tomorrow morning,” Judge Volpe says.

Kevin catches me coming out of the courtroom. Without saying a word, he puts his hand on my back and whisks me down a side staircase.

“What's up?” I say.

He starts to speak and then stops and looks at me. This can't be good.

“He escaped.”

“What? Who?”

“Orlando, he got out.”

“When? How?”

“The deputies had to uncuff him for an MRI. He broke a glass tube, made it into a weapon, and took a nurse hostage.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, there was a brief standoff. The guards subdued him, but he got a burst of energy, knocked out a deputy, and injured two others.”

“And he got out of the room?”

“And out of the building. He's one tough bastard.”

“Orlando is on the street. There's no telling what he'll do.”

My head throbs and I feel dizzy. I grip the banister to prevent myself from falling, but my palm is sweaty and I start to lose my footing. Kevin holds on to my elbow.

“Can you take me over to Mass General?” I say.

“With pleasure. Give me your doc's number, and I'll call ahead and let him know we're on the way.”

“No, not
my
doctor. I want to talk to Orlando's doctors and the technicians and EMTs who treated him. We have to retrace his steps, see if he said anything, and find out how bad his injuries were.”

“Let's leave that to the sheriffs and the fugitive squad. Right now, I'm worried about you. We're arranging security for your apartment and an officer to watch out for you 24-7 until we find him.”

I start to protest but Kevin cuts me off.

“Don't even think about fighting me on this.”

He walks me back to Bulfinch, and while he arranges for my bodyguard, I sit at my desk and scan the Internet. Word about Orlando is all over the news: his outburst in the courtroom, his escape, his potential involvement in Tim's murder. And there's speculation that I could be his next target.

There are a ton of missed calls on my cell.

From Max:
“Abby, I want you to know that you have my full support. Whatever you need, you let me know. I'll check in on you later.”

From my father:
“Enough is enough. I've spoken with the mayor and the governor. I want you off this case. Let someone else risk their life. I want you to call me as soon as you get this message. I mean it, muffin.”

From my brother:
“Everyone is freaking out. Are you okay? Can you at least call us and let us know what's going on?”

From Crystal's mother:
“Abby, honey, I saw you on the TV. I'm so proud of you. But, please, take care of yourself. This man has caused enough heartache.”

From Owen:
“Hang in there, buddy. We have your back. You need anything, a hotel room, a safe house, let me know. Oh, I left a picture for you, on your shelf.”

I look over at the bookcase and see a framed photograph of me, Tim, and Owen. The photo was taken at the Kinsale a couple of years ago, after I won a conviction against a serial rapist. We're smiling, beer mugs hoisted in the air. The three of us made some good memories.

There are about a dozen more messages from an assortment of people—my high school Latin coach, my college suite mate, my law school torts professor. Everyone has lodged a call. Except Ty.

Less than an hour later, Kevin comes in and introduces me to my security detail, Detective Sandra Holmes, who drives me home in her unmarked Taurus. She's the girliest cop on the force, chock-full of extensions—hair, nails, eyelashes. If cops were allowed to wear stilettos, she'd be chasing down felons in four-inch spikes. Still, I wouldn't want to mess with her. She's got a reputation for being a kick-ass cop.

“Awesome earrings,” she says as we get off the elevator. “Are they real or cubic?”

“Cubic,” I say. “An old boyfriend gave them to me. He got them at Old Navy.” Adding a couple of specific details to a story always makes it sound more believable.

“Old Navy doesn't sell earrings,” she says.

I unlock the door to my apartment. Sandra goes inside to do a security check. From where I'm standing, I can see that the living room is lit by the glare of the TV set.

“Down, asshole!” she says.

I rush into the apartment and see Sandra holding Ty at gunpoint. He has a Rolling Rock in his right hand, his left raised in the air.

“No, Sandra,” I say. “Stop. That's my boyfriend.”

She returns her gun back to her waistband. “Sorry about that,” she says.

Ty sits on the couch. “I'm glad you got security, but I didn't think it would be at my expense.”

Sandra looks around the apartment, makes sure it's secure, and then takes in the leather chairs and the wide-screen plasma.

“Those earrings are definitely real. What I don't get is why you'd lie about it.” She doesn't wait for a response. “I'll be right outside the door if you need anything.”

“Don't you want something to sit on?”

She grabs one of my glossy white Eero Saarinen tulip chairs from the dining table and drags it to the door.

“Someone will relieve me in an hour. They'll be outside all night if you need anything. I'll be back in the morning to take you to court.”

Sandra steps out into the hallway and closes the door.

“One of these days, my luck is going to run out, and someone will actually pull the trigger.” Ty kills off his beer, goes into the kitchen, and returns with another bottle for himself and a glass of wine for me.

“I'm really sorry. Are you okay?” I say.

“I'm fine. How are you doing?”

“Not great. Thanks for coming over.”

I sit on the sofa, and Ty sits across from me.

“Does this mean you're not mad anymore?” I say.

“No, I'm still pretty pissed off.”

I take a sip of wine and relax my neck and shoulders. “I don't get it. Why are you so angry?”

“I'm done with all the head games.”

“We were both wrong. I wasn't honest with you about Tim, but you weren't straight with me, either. For all I know, you and that Vera chick have been sleeping together since last summer.”

“Abby, I'm not sleeping with Vera. I never was. She wrote an article about me and that's it. And there were no other women.”

My phone rings. I ignore it. “So you lied to me?”

“Yup, I lied.”

Ty puts down his beer, leans in, and looks at me for a minute. Nervous about what he's going to say, I put my wineglass down.

“I'm tired of being taken for granted,” he says.

“Then why are you here?”

“I care about you. But you need to decide what you want. Either you're all in or we need to stop seeing each other.”

My phone rings again, and I silence it.

“This is a bad time to issue an ultimatum,” I say.

“There's never a good time with you.”

We look over at the TV—Orlando Jones's mug shot flashes on the screen. Carl Ostroff is standing in front of Mass General. Ty ups the volume.

“There is a statewide manhunt on for accused killer Orlando Jones. In a maneuver that would impress Houdini, Jones escaped custody at Mass General. Police are warning residents that he has a history of violence and is presumed to be armed and dangerous. He's facing a mandatory life sentence for the murder of Jasmine Reed, and sources are saying he could face additional charges in connection with the death of ADA Tim Mooney. At this point, he has little to lose.”

Ty gets out of his chair and sits next to me on the sofa. As he wraps me in his arms, I tremble.

“I'm scared.” My voice cracks.

He kisses me softly on the cheek, tilts his head back, and looks at the cut on the side of my neck.

“What happened here?” he says. “It looks like a cut.”

My phone vibrates, and I see it's Chris Sarsfield. The other two missed calls are from him too.

“This is the head of the gang unit,” I say to Ty. “It could be about Orlando.”

I answer the phone and listen to Chris.