Mission Hill (23 page)

“Do you wish to waive these rights and speak with us?” Josh says.

“Sure.” Melvin starts to scratch his head, but the cuffs stop him short. “What do you want to know?”

“First you have to sign the waiver.”

Josh uncuffs him and hands him a pen. Melvin scans the paper briefly and signs on the dotted line.

“I'd be more comfortable if we recorded the conversation,” I say.

Josh ignores me and there's nothing I can do about it. Local prosecutors have the ultimate authority over local homicide investigations but Melvin is in federal custody. I could get up and leave but decide to stay. Nothing illegal is going on, at least not yet.

“Do you know why you're here?” Josh says.

“You tell me.” Melvin is finally showing some brains. “Why am I here?”

“Where were you yesterday?”

“I was at the trial—she knows that,” he says, acknowledging my presence for the first time.

I nod but remain neutral. I don't want Melvin to think I'm here to support his cause.

“I can confirm that you were at the courthouse,” I say.

“What about after? Did you visit your son in the hospital?” Josh says.

“No.”

Josh opens a folder, takes out a photograph, and slides it across the table. It's time-stamped, dated yesterday at 1:00
P.M.,
and it shows a silver Lexus in what looks like a parking garage. Next he displays another picture, a close-up of a Massachusetts license plate.

“Careful not to walk yourself into an obstruction charge. Lying to a federal official is a crime,” Josh says.

“You got me—that's my car. I'm guilty of driving a Lexus.”

“We pulled that off the security video in the Mass General parking garage yesterday afternoon. Do you want to revise your response?”

Josh just revealed that FBI agents have been surreptitiously following Melvin. I wonder who else they've been tailing.

“You asked me if I visited my son. I tried to visit him, but they wouldn't let me.”

Melvin is cagier than I would have expected.

“Who did you talk to at the hospital?” Josh says.

He looks at the ceiling, pretending to rack his brain. “I don't recall talking to anyone.”

Josh takes out another photograph that shows Melvin standing in the lobby of the hospital, talking to a woman who is wearing scrubs.

“Who is she?”

“Rosalee, my wife's cousin. She's a nurse at the hospital.” Caught in a lie, Melvin doesn't miss a beat. “I said hello to Rosie. That's a crime now?”

“It's a crime if you're conspiring to aid and abet in the escape of a prisoner.”

As much as I want to grab paper and a pen from my tote and jot down notes, to get an accurate record of this interview, I don't want to interrupt the flow. I sit still and listen to Melvin inculpate himself.

“Your only evidence against me is a picture of my car in a public parking lot, and two people standing next to each other in a public building. I didn't go to law school, but I can tell the difference between a conspiracy and a conversation.”

Josh stands and reaches across the table as though he's going to smack Melvin in the face. Melvin looks at him but doesn't flinch.

“Don't bullshit me, Melvin. Who else was involved in helping Orlando escape?”

Melvin tries to stand, but his feet are shackled. “You should have been able to control him better.”

Now we're getting somewhere. Melvin has revealed that the feds were working with Orlando.

“What are you talking about?” I say, hoping to explore the subject.

“Get a clue, lady. What do you think?” Melvin says.

Josh cuts us off and zeroes in on his reason for the meeting. “Did Max Lombardo help you arrange Orlando's escape?” he says.

“I want to talk to a lawyer,” Melvin says.

Melvin has uttered the magic word:
lawyer.
He's invoked his right to counsel, which means that I have to leave. I'd rather stay and listen, but I can't be a party to a Miranda violation. I stand and push in my chair. Josh doesn't move a muscle.

Alone in the hallway, I can hear bits of their conversation as they go back and forth. Melvin: “Check … facts … don't try to pin this … me.” Josh: “I'm … playing … you'll … federal time.”

After a few minutes, Josh leaves the room and joins me in the hallway. Marshals come and take Melvin back to the lockup.

“I've charged him with obstruction,” Josh says.

Obstruction of justice is an all-encompassing offense, used when officers are frustrated because they can't get someone on a substantive charge. Like Martha Stewart or Barry Bonds.

“What is the extent of your relationship with the Jones family?” I say.

He looks around to make sure no one is in the area and speaks quietly. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. It seems like you have a history with both Orlando and Melvin.”

“Keep your voice down,” he says. “Melvin has been on our radar for a while.”

Josh sees my surprise and starts to walk away, down the hallway. I follow close behind.

“Why have you been looking at Melvin?”

He leads me into an office and closes the door. We stand face-to-face.

“This is about the Big Dig,” he says.

“But the investigation was closed out last year,” I say.

“Max shut down the local part of the case. The federal investigation is still open.”

“If Tim was working as your informant, and you were trying to squeeze Melvin for information, then who was the ultimate target?”

“Your boss.”

He stops, tries to read my reaction. At this point, I don't want to acknowledge what I'm feeling—shock and skepticism.

“You think that Max was on the take?”

“Melvin was slated to testify in the grand jury.”

“What was he going to say?”

Josh shrugs. “He refused to give a proffer. He said that he'd only talk directly to the grand jurors. We think he was going to testify that he paid off Max.”

I try to picture Max and Melvin in cahoots, meeting up in the back booth of a bar, drinking and exchanging money.

“Melvin bribed Max?”

“Yes—and so did a lot of others.”

This is about more than the Big Dig. “Who else?”

“Dozens of people who wanted to get their cases dismissed. Tommy Glenn and Paul Priestly, to name two.”

I remember both cases. The first was a nasty domestic. The charges were dropped, the defendant was released from jail, and he went home and almost killed his girlfriend—broke her jaw and took out one of her eyes. The other was a drunk-driving case that was broomed. The next day the guy got behind the wheel of a Subaru and plowed over a troop of Cub Scouts in a crosswalk.

“How many were there?”

“A lot. Some people paid to avoid prosecution, others wanted to get their kids jobs. He was running a full-service operation.”

I'm not sure what to believe. The FBI's public corruption unit isn't exactly batting a thousand, the poorly investigated and prosecuted case against Senator Ted Stevens being one of the most glaring examples.

“You feds get it wrong all the time.”

“Not me, not this time.”

Josh and I take the elevator down to the garage. He drives through Chinatown, past Kneeland Seafood
,
where Tim and I used to go after hours for peking duck and “cold tea,” which was code for beer. A couple stumbles out of the restaurant, laughing, holding on to each other. I choke back the memory of late-night dinners with Tim. The flirting and the romance leading up to lust and passion. We drifted apart sexually but never emotionally and never for long, always picking up where we left off. I thought we'd end up with each other, up until the night he died.

“What do you want from me?” I say.

“You asked if you could step in where Tim left off. I want to take you up on your offer.”

“You're asking me to help you take down my boss?”

He nods. “That's what Tim was doing.”

“What if I don't believe he's dirty?”

“Then you can help prove his innocence.”

“I've known Max a long time—he's all about power. He's not in it for money.”

“Maybe he didn't start out that way. They never do. But once they get in office, they change. I've seen it time and time again. They think they're invincible and entitled, a lethal combination.”

“Do you think Max had something to do with Tim's murder?”

“I hope not.”

“What exactly are you asking me to do?”

Josh pulls up in front of my apartment building, and turns off the headlights and cuts the engine.

“I want you to wear a wire. If Max hasn't done anything wrong, then you can walk away and no one has to know. If he's guilty, then he has to be held accountable.”

Tim may have been an informant against Max, but I'm not ready to turn on him.

“Can it wait until I'm done with my trial?”

“We think Max has been talking to Melvin about your case, and there's a good chance that they tried to help Orlando escape. We want you to be prepared, in case he approaches you, asks you about it, or tells you to do something.”

Josh takes out a large circle pin adorned with red stones posing as rubies and hands it to me.

I inspect the cheap-looking jewelry. “This is the listening device?”

“It's both audio and video. I need you to stick it on your lapel whenever you meet with him.”

I hold the pin up so it catches a glint of light from the street. No one will ever believe I'd wear something this tacky. They'll make me in a second.

“Look, I don't think I can do this. I've known Max for a decade. He's got issues, but he's always been a loyal friend and a good boss.”

“Do him a solid—prove his innocence.”

He grabs a file from the backseat and shows me the contents. It's a one-party consent form. After I read it, he hands me a pen. I've asked people to sign all sorts of consent forms over the years. I've persuaded them to allow us to search their cars, their apartments, their body cavities. Now it's my turn to consent—to being a rat against my boss. I hope that Max will prove me right. I don't believe he did what Josh is alleging, but if I'm wrong, he's going to have to face the music.

My hand shakes as I sign the form. “Now what?” I say.

“I'll be in touch. In the meantime, do your job, go on with your trial. Keep up your normal routine.”

“I don't have a normal routine.”

“Don't let anyone know what's going on.”

I unlock the car door. “Don't worry. I'm not going to advertise that I'm spying on my boss.”

Once inside the lobby of my building, I examine the faux-ruby recorder and then slip it in my pocket. I'll do what Josh is asking, I don't really have a choice. I'll just have to hope for the best. I gave my word that I won't tell anyone that Max is a target—and I won't. But I never promised to stay quiet about Melvin. Walking towards the elevator, I take out my phone and call Carl Ostroff.

 

Chapter Forty-one

It's Friday afternoon, and I'm down to my last witness. My trials always start with the most emotionally compelling witnesses and end with the most disturbing visuals. In this case, the medical examiner will give me a chance to display Jasmine Reed's autopsy photos. I want the jurors to spend their weekend with images of Jasmine sprawled out on that cold slab.

“The Commonwealth calls Dr. Lisa Frongello,” I say.

While Sal goes into the hallway to summons the ME, I turn to Winnie and nod. She knows that this is the signal that it's time to escort Jackie, Tiffany, and Adele out of the courtroom. I want to shield them from what is about to happen.

As soon as they're gone, I rip the brown paper wrapping from a twenty-four-by-thirty-six photograph that is mounted onto a foam board. I position the picture on a rickety wooden easel. It's horrific. A full-body shot of Jasmine, eyes open, a piece of her head missing, a portion of her brain exposed. The Y-shaped incision in her naked torso is partially open. Half of the jurors look at the floor, repulsed, and the rest stare at the photo, riveted.

“Objection,” Blum says.

“Overruled,” Judge Volpe says. “We've gone over this in our motions in limine. You know my position.”

After Dr. Frongello is sworn in and introduced, I take out my laser pointer, but before I get a chance to ask my first question, I hear a loud gagging sound coming from the front row of the jury box. Juror number three drops her head, so all I can see is the top of her bouffant hairdo. Then she takes out her pink patent leather purse, unzips it, and vomits. At least she was paying attention.

She looks up and glares at me. “I told you all that this was more than I could take.”

Judge Volpe calls a recess, and the courtroom empties, giving maintenance time to come in to spray air freshener. Luckily, juror number three had good aim, and there's not a lot to clean up. When she comes out of the bathroom, she joins us at sidebar. Judge Volpe thanks her for her service and promptly dismisses her. We're running low on bodies. There's only two alternates remaining, but the trial is winding down, so I think we'll be okay.

Court reconvenes, and Dr. Frongello resumes her testimony. I proceed as though nothing out of the ordinary just transpired, the only notable differences being now there are two vacant seats in the jury box and the autopsy photograph is gone.

“Dr. Frongello, did you conduct Jasmine Reed's autopsy?”

“I did.”

“What did you determine to be the cause of death?”

“She died of a gunshot wound to the head.”

I don't want to risk another medical incident, so I won't show the rest of the pictures.

“Were there any defensive wounds?”