Mission Hill (3 page)

We continued our relationship after they married. If it had been up to me, I would have let our affair go on forever. Tim broke it off six months ago, after his daughter was born, but we remained close. I held out hope that he would come to regret his decision, searching for signs of affection and desire every time he smiled or touched my arm.

My head throbs. My mind races. “Who killed him?”

“I don't know,” Kevin says. “We'll have to rip into every case he's ever touched.”

“Maybe the guy didn't know who Tim was. It could have been a robbery gone bad.”

“So far, it looks like a hit. His credit cards and cash are still in his wallet, keys in the ignition.” He lowers his voice and leans in. “What do you know about his personal life? You knew him better than most.”

I wonder if Kevin is signaling knowledge of our relationship. It never occurred to me that he might know, but it makes sense that he would. He's seen us together umpteen times, and he's a master at deciphering body language—maybe he picked up on our unspoken intimacy.

Embarrassed, I avert his eyes. “I don't know anything that would make him a target.”

“I heard he was about to start a trial.”

“He impaneled a jury yesterday and was planning to give his opening tomorrow.”

“Which case?”

My mouth is dry. I guzzle some water. “Orlando Jones.”

“From the North Street Posse?”

Boston doesn't have the large centralized gangs that inhabit L.A. or New York. Most of our street gangs are disorganized, scattered, with new ones popping up every few months. North Street is one of the more established neighborhood gangs. They've been around for decades and continue to have a strong criminal presence in the city.

Tim and I discussed the murder when it first came in. Over the past year, we strategized and analyzed holes in the case. Yesterday, the last time I saw him, I helped him craft his opening, the one he'll never deliver.
Orlando Jones sprayed bullets into a crowd of people
sitting on a porch, drinking beer, enjoying a summer night. He shot three people: the first is dead; the second might as well be dead; and the third is living in fear.

“Your boss is here,” Kevin says, looking over at Max, who is still huddled with the mayor.

Max is my boss, but he's also my friend. He helped me learn the ropes when I began my career in Boston Municipal Court, and he mentored me after I was promoted to the homicide unit. In the courtroom, he was a prosecutor's prosecutor—sharp, steady, and fearless. Since he was elected DA three years ago, he's become more political, reluctant to make the tough calls. Some say he panders to the media and special interests. I think he's just finding his sea legs.

He lumbers toward us, looking slightly disheveled. He missed a button on his trench coat, making one side higher than the other. Clumps of black hair stick out from under his scally cap. He takes pains to ensure that he is positioned with his back to the cameras, aware that reporters are filming, capturing his every move.

“Christ, this is unfucking believable.”

Max, a former basketball player at Providence College, is a foot taller than I am. Even at this distance, I can smell the booze on his breath. I wonder whether he'd been drinking before he got word of the murder or had a quick shot after he heard the news. Knowing Max, it's both.

“I've got to get out to Roslindale and talk to his wife, Julie,” he says.

“Julia,” I say.

“Julia. Julia.” He repeats the name, attempting to improve the likelihood that he'll remember it. “Tell me, what the fuck am I going to say to Julia?”

“She doesn't know yet?”

“She knows. Owen drove over to the house when the call came in. He's staying with her until I get there.”

Owen Guilfoyle is Max's chief of staff, his loyal apostle. He's a policy wonk and a numbers cruncher, but he's also got political savvy, and if you dig past a few layers of machismo, you'll find compassion. Max gets to play good cop; he dispenses the promotions and salary bumps, announces arrests and guilty verdicts. Owen is stuck playing bad cop; he doles out the discipline and pink slips, and apparently, he's the guy who has to go to your house in the middle of the night to tell you that your husband is dead.

“I never thought I'd see the day when one of my own would be killed. On my watch,” Max says.

“Do you know who he was with at Doyle's?”

“Chris Sarsfield and Owen were there. They said that they saw Tim with a detective, Nestor Gomes.”

“Nestor and Tim were working the Orlando Jones case together.”

“Have you thought about who you want to run lead on the investigation?” Kevin says. “We should start papering potential witnesses with subpoenas and get the canvass going.”

Kevin is clearheaded, two steps ahead of the rest of us. This isn't the first time he's been through this kind of crisis. Unfortunately, in the past couple decades, four Boston police officers have died in the line duty. None, however, was gunned down by an assassin.

“There's a clear conflict. As much as I hate it, I'm going to have to bring in outsiders,” Max says. “I've called Middlesex.”

Mayor Harris comes over and interrupts. “Sorry, Max, but we should get this presser going. We have to keep the calm. The news is leaking out, and people are going to start to panic.”

The mayor leaves us to take his place, front and center, at the podium.

Max takes a deep breath and exhales. “I've got to get this over with.”

I take a tin of Altoids from my pocket and offer it to him. His hands tremble as he struggles to grasp one of the tiny white mints and pop it in his mouth.

“You may want to fix your coat,” I say.

He rebuttons his trench, pushes his shoulders back, and moves toward the scrum.

 

Chapter Six

Max usually loves to stand behind the microphone and hold court with the press, but not tonight. He joins Mayor Harris and Commissioner Paula Davies, who are already at the podium. Reporters jockey for position. Camera lights flick on. The mayor squints and leans into a tangle of microphones.

“At approximately two o'clock this morning, Timothy Francis Mooney, head of organized crime in the district attorney's office, a beloved and respected member of the law enforcement community, was gunned down. He was on his way home to his wife and child in the very city that he was sworn to serve and protect. Like the rest of you, I'm in a deep state of shock. This is a sad day for all of us.”

As soon as he pauses to catch his breath, a dozen reporters hurl the same question. “Do you have any suspects?”

Commissioner Davies steps up. “Not yet. We're following every lead and asking for the public's help. If anyone saw anything, has information that could assist us, please contact our TIPS line. All calls will be strictly confidential.”

“Is there any reason to believe that this was a random attack? Should residents be concerned? Does this mean it's open season on prosecutors?”
Boston Tribune
reporter Teresa Lynch calls out.

Teresa is sporting a dowdy brown suit and shiny platinum hair, kind of like a human mullet. She's always searching for the most sensational angle to a story. Max adjusts the microphone and glares at her.

“No, this is not open season on prosecutors. And it never will be. Make no mistake about that. And you're an insensitive moron for suggesting the possibility.”

Max's face reddens and beads of sweat form on his forehead. He never loses control like this in public. If Owen had been here, he'd do something to reel him in. The mayor sees it as an opportunity to make Max look unstable during a time of crisis. He takes over, looks into the cameras, keeping his tone measured.

“Everyone should use their common sense. I'd urge residents to take precautions, but we don't believe this was a random incident,” he says.

Carl Ostroff raises his hand but doesn't wait to be called on. “Since Mr. Mooney was assigned to prosecute organized crime, do you think this could have been a mob hit?”

Max moves back to the microphone and regains control. “We're not going to speculate—that would be irresponsible. We're obviously at a very early stage of the investigation.” He pauses and looks out into the audience. “Tim Mooney's family, his friends, and the entire law enforcement community have suffered an immeasurable loss tonight. We are all grieving. I promise you that we will find the bastard who is responsible for this atrocity and hold him accountable.”

Reporters shout out a few more questions, but the officials walk away from the cameras. The press conference is over.

Max returns to finish our conversation. “Tim started the trial—he's already sworn in the jury. Whether we like it or not, the clock is ticking, and we need to think about who's going to take over.”

Once a jury has been sworn, the trial has officially commenced, which means jeopardy has attached. There's no do-over. The Constitution mandates that the case continue to its conclusion—otherwise, it's double jeopardy and the bad guy walks. We all know that's not an option.

“Chris Sarsfield has impressed me lately,” Max says. “I'm going to tap him to finish the trial.”

“Chris is good,” I say, “but he's still pretty green when it comes to murder.”

“We'll assign him a second chair, someone from appeals to help out with the motions and jury instructions.”

“Orlando Jones was my case. I want it back. Please, let me—”

I look at Max and choke up, unable to get any more words out. He fills the silence.

“Abby, we've already been down this path.”

When Orlando Jones emerged as a suspect last year, I grabbed the case, but Max took it away and reassigned it to Tim. Orlando and I have a history that few people know about. I revealed the details to Max's predecessor when I applied for my job, and I told Max last year when the case came in.

Orlando gave me my first taste of the criminal justice system. Our paths crossed seventeen years ago, when I was in high school and he was in middle school. My senior year at Winsor, I was a Latin scholar, preparing to compete in the Junior Classical League, a national geek-fest for high school students. My best friend, Crystal Park, and I were at school one afternoon, practicing our declensions. Crystal was a scholarship student, and she had to go to her babysitting job. I stayed behind to get in some more studying.

When Crystal left school, it was starting to turn dark, but there was still a lot of traffic on the Jamaica Way. She took the shortcut to the trolley, through a wooded area. Orlando jumped out of the bushes, shoved a knife in her face, and demanded her backpack. Crystal panicked, tried to flee, and ran into the busy street. A couple of motorists saw her fall in front of an oncoming car. Orlando said she stumbled and tripped, but I think he pushed her.

Orlando went to a youth detention center. Crystal went to the morgue. He was released from custody on his eighteenth birthday. Over the past decade, he's been doing life on the installment plan—he's been locked up and released seven times for shootings, robberies, assaults, threats, and witness intimidation. Most of the cases never go anywhere because his victims recant, relocate, or die. I've been ordered to stay away from him and his cases, and I've complied—not because I yielded to authority but because I was worried that my involvement would jeopardize the cases. Now all bets are off.

“I want to finish the trial. I owe it to Tim and the three victims, and to Crystal and her family.”

Max shakes his head. “I have to think about what's best for the office.”

“Winning is what's best for the office. All these years, we did it your way. Let's do it my way.”

“You can't be objective. Think about what you'd be risking—sanctions or disbarment for overzealous prosecution. There's too much public scrutiny, too many variables.”

Daylight has landed, making everything feel permanent. I face the glare of the sun and squint as I take in the scene—detectives, technicians, reporters. Max turns and we stand in silence, watching, as Tim is zipped into a body bag, hoisted onto a gurney, and slid into the back of the medical examiner's van.

“This case is more important than my bar card,” I say.

“People will think you're using the office to settle a score.”

“He's a cold-blooded killer with a history of violence. He needs to be locked up for good.”

“It's a tough case. If you lose, you'll never forgive yourself.”

“Then I won't lose.”

 

Chapter Seven

Suffolk Superior Court is an art deco–style tower, built in the 1930s. The building has undergone extensive renovations, but it's still an eyesore—especially compared to its neoclassical granite neighbor, where the state's more august Supreme Judicial Court and Court of Appeals are housed.

I trudge across the plaza toward the courthouse, past clusters of lawyers, clerks, probation officers, stenographers. Word has already spread throughout the legal community. Some people are crying and others gossiping, but everyone is stunned.

Rodney Quirk is seated in his usual spot, the window of the coffee shop. He blends in, wearing a blue-and-white-striped shirt, the collar just high enough to cover the
Roscoe Street Boyz
tattoo that runs down the length of his spine. When our eyes meet, I take pains to avoid breaking stride. There are two things in life that I can always count on: death and Rodney Quirk.

I'm startled when John Blum, the defense attorney who represents Orlando Jones, steps in front of me and blocks my path. Blum looks even more bedraggled than usual. His mop of salt-and-pepper hair is about three weeks past due for a trim. A stain on his tie looks like he accidentally spilled coffee on himself, but it's an intentional part of his game-day uniform. He presents as sloppy and forgetful, fooling young prosecutors into thinking he's just another ill-prepared ham-and-egger. They let down their guard, and once the trial commences, he runs circles around them in the courtroom.