Mission Hill (4 page)

“First and foremost, let me offer my deepest condolences. I know I don't have to tell you, but Tim was a good man. He was fair, reasonable, a real gentleman,” Blum says.

“Yes” is all I can say.

“I called your office, and they told me you inherited Orlando. I hate to bring it up, but jeopardy has attached.”

“I know.” My voice cracks.

“Judge Volpe is waiting for us in his chambers.”

To avoid further conversation, I fall a few steps behind Blum as we walk to the courthouse. An assortment of defendants, jurors, victims, and witnesses are assembled on the front steps, waiting to pass through security. Blum stops to confer with another lawyer while I cut the line and skirt the x-ray machine. Skipping the security check is a perk of being a prosecutor. A court officer nods to me, an expression of solidarity. I'm grateful for the gesture, even more so when he doesn't ask about Tim's murder.

Blum catches up with me in the lobby. There are eight elevators, but only five are in service. I jostle my way onto a crowded car. A man, probably a defendant, clearly strung out on heroin, squints and gives me a full-body scan. He inches a little closer, brushing up against me. I sharpen my elbow and jerk it into his chest, causing him to fall backward into Blum.

“Keep your fucking hands to yourself,” I say, surprising myself and everyone else in the car.

On the ninth floor, Blum goes inside the courtroom, and I stay out in the hallway. The lead detective on the case, Nestor Gomes, is seated on a bench, dressed in a blue blazer and necktie. Nestor played football at Cornell, and last year he graduated from New England Law's night program. Since police officers can outearn prosecutors by threefold, Nestor didn't give up his shield. In a few years, once he's vested in the police pension system, he'll probably retire from the force and hang out a shingle.

“I can't believe it,” Nestor says. “I left Tim at eight o'clock last night. We finished an interview and had some beers at Doyle's. He was all psyched up, ready to start the trial.”

“Was he worried about anyone? Did he say anything?”

“Nothing like that. We talked about the case, Chris Sarsfield came over to say hi, and Tim bought us all a round.”

I try to exude more confidence than I feel. “I'm going to file an appearance and ask the judge for a continuance.”

“I admire your fortitude, Abby. You're tougher than most—” Nestor catches himself before he finishes his sentence.

“Were you about to say tougher than most
women
?” I say.

“She's tougher than most anyone—man, woman, or pit bull.” Kevin rounds the corner, holding up a familiar green-and-white cup. “I figured you'd be running on fumes.”

“Wow, Starbucks. You wandered outside your comfort zone.”

“I was embarrassed to order it—grande latte.” He hands me the coffee. “Only for you. Gotta keep your beautiful blues open and alert.”

Judge Volpe's chief court officer, Sal Gambino, pokes his head out the door to the courtroom. Sal is bald, lean, and hypervigilant. His eyes are always moving, searching for danger.

“The judge wants to see you,” Sal says.

Kevin and Nestor follow me inside the dimly lit gallery and cram into the wooden pews. The heaters hiss and clang.

The back row is lined with a half-dozen gang members. They sit shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed, baseball caps in their laps, heads leaning back against the wall. One man looks at me and smiles broadly, exposing two gold front teeth. We lock eyes for a second, and I shiver in spite of the tropical temperature in the room.

The next couple of rows of the gallery contain mostly prosecutors and defense attorneys who have no business of their own to conduct. Scattered among the suits are five or six court watchers, men who spend their days alternating between trials in the always-busy courthouse. Court watchers have their favorite prosecutors, and we have our favorite court watchers. Harold is mine. His brown head is shaved bald, and he carries a silver-tipped walking stick and speaks with a British accent even though he grew up in nearby blue-collar Revere.

The front row is reserved for family. Relatives of the victim sit on the prosecutor's side, relatives of the defendant on the defendant's side. Like a wedding.

The Jones family is huddled together; Blum is leaning over, whispering to them. The last time I saw the Joneses was in Boston Juvenile Court seventeen years ago, when Orlando was sentenced for robbing Crystal. They glance at me briefly without registering any hint of recognition. They may not remember me, but I'll never forget them.

Orlando's mother, Marie, digs through her purse, pulls out a handkerchief, and dabs at her nose. She's wearing a stylish aubergine suit and her hair looks freshly coiffed, but her face is world-weary. Orlando's father, Melvin, puts his arm around her; his forearms are bigger than my thighs. Melvin has expensive loafers on his feet and thick calluses on his hands. Orlando's younger sister, June, seems well dressed and well mannered.

I pass the bar, drop my tote on the prosecutor's table, and wait outside the door to the judge's chambers. Blum joins me.

“I thought Orlando's father was a preacher,” I say. “It looks like he made some dough.”

“He gave up the pulpit about five years ago,” Blum says.

“Construction?”

“He landed a couple of big-city contracts.”

I look over at Mrs. Jones's designer suit. “I hope the taxpayers aren't footing your bill.”

He shakes his head and smiles. “I've been privately retained.”

“Does the family still live in Mattapan?”

“They bought a huge estate in Weston. Orlando was there for a little while, after he got out of juvie,” Blum says.

In the gallery, Kevin and Nestor keep a close watch on the gang members in the back row. Mr. Jones keeps his arm wrapped around his wife, who is looking down at her lap, praying. Orlando is not just another poor kid from a bad neighborhood who joined a gang because he didn't have love and support at home. He had options, and he chose gang life.

Sal is seated at his desk on the side of the courtroom. The red light on his phone flashes. He picks up the receiver and has a brief conversation.

“The judge is all set,” he says. “You ready?”

I glance into the audience. Kevin gives me a
go get 'em
nod. Nestor gives me a thumbs-up. The gold-toothed man catches my eye, tilts his head back, and smirks.

“Ready,” I say.

 

Chapter Eight

Sal opens the door to the judge's chambers, stands aside, and gestures us in. Judge Thomas Volpe, compact in both stature and temperament, is seated behind a warped desk. His cramped office is decorated with a few lawbooks and a banker's lamp. A black robe dangles from a metal hook on the back of the door.

Judge Volpe is no-nonsense, calls them like he sees them. He's obsessed with ensuring that his verdicts are unassailable. All murder cases are automatically reviewed by appellate courts for errors of law and Judge Volpe's cases are rarely overturned.

Dotty Davidson, the judge's stenographer, sits by his side. She talks softly into a black cone, repeating everything we say. Judge Volpe can't see from where he sits, high up on the bench, but sometimes Dotty falls asleep in the middle of her transcriptions. Sal usually wakes her up before she misses more than a question or two by discreetly tapping her on the shoulder and offering her a peppermint candy.

The judge extends his arm, directing Blum and me to sit in the worn green vinyl chairs in front of his desk.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Endicott. You have what appears to be a herculean task ahead of you.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. I ask the court for some leave to prepare,” I say, “and to attend the funeral services.”

“Yes, of course. We all want to pay our respects. I can excuse the jury for a week so you can get your ducks in order.”

“It was a triple shooting—I was hoping for at least three weeks.”

When I was in fifth grade, my family spent a rainy week in Bermuda, and to pass the time, my father taught me and my brothers how to play poker. We spent hours perfecting the art of the bluff, which has come in handy, whether negotiating a plea, cross-examining a witness, or asking for a continuance. I don't expect Judge Volpe to grant me a long adjournment, but I figure if I ask for three weeks, he'll give me two.

“Sorry, I can only give you a week. I conferred with my colleagues this morning,” Judge Volpe says. “The consensus is, given the extraordinary circumstances, anything longer will expose us to prejudice.”

I mask my disappointment and shift into default mode. “Please note my objection for the record.”

“Let's bring in the jury. I'll introduce you to them and inform them that they'll have the rest of the week off.”

Judge Volpe unfurls his shirtsleeves, puts on his black robe, and zips up the front.

“Your Honor, out of an abundance of caution, I am disclosing that, years ago, Mr. Jones committed a crime against one of my friends.” I act as though this is a run-of-the-mill potential conflict that hardly merits mentioning—like the time a pickpocketing victim happened to be my mother's vintner.

The judge turns back around. “What type of crime was it?”

“It was a robbery.”

“Were you a victim, as well?”

We were all victims—Crystal, her parents, her siblings, me.
“No,” I say. “I wasn't a victim.”

“Were you a percipient witness?”

“No, I didn't see it happen.”

“What kind of time frame are we talking about?”

I try to maintain my casual, matter-of-fact tone. “It happened almost twenty years ago.”

“Wait, I know that case,” Blum says. “Orlando was convicted of armed robbery, but the initial charge was manslaughter.”

Judge Volpe looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “The case involved a death?”

“Yes.” The back of my neck tenses.

“I move to disqualify Ms. Endicott. If her friend was a victim, she has a stake in the outcome—a clear violation of the rules of professional conduct,” Blum says.

“My only interest in this, or any case, is protecting the safety of the public.” I sound indignant, but I'm concerned about what Judge Volpe might do.

He pauses before speaking. “Ms. Endicott, I'll give you some leeway, but if I see a hint of misconduct on your part, I'll declare a mistrial and report you to the Board of Bar Overseers. Capeesh?”

“Got it.”

“You could lose your license to practice law.”

“That won't happen.”

Judge Volpe moves toward the door. “Anything else we need to cover before I bring in the jury?”

I consider my next request and decide to go for it. The worst that can happen is I'll get slapped down.

“I've been up all night, and I'm not properly dressed for court. I'd ask Your Honor's indulgence in allowing me to sit in the gallery. I don't want to make a bad first impression.”

“You don't want me to introduce you to the panel?”

“I'd rather wait until next week.”

Blum looks at me and shakes his head. “This is an attempt to manipulate the jury and elicit sympathy.”

“How's that?” Judge Volpe says.

“Ms. Endicott wants to leave an empty chair at the prosecution table. She's trying to send a message to the jurors.”

“What's the message?”

“Yesterday, Mr. Mooney was seated at the prosecution table, today, his seat is empty. She wants to create a visual and drive home the point that there is a void.”

“There is a void,” I say. “Contrary to popular belief, we're not fungible.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Your objection is noted and denied, Mr. Blum,” Judge Volpe says.

Judge Volpe puts his hand on the doorknob, but stops and looks at Blum.

“Sal tells me that Mr. Jones has a propensity for extreme violence. I'm going to increase security in the courtroom.”

“That's not necessary,” Blum says. “He's had a few minor scrapes with the law, but nothing that requires an extra show of force.”

“I'm told that he's among the top ten most dangerous felons in the state, which is an accomplishment, given the competition. We're going to have six court officers for the duration of the trial.”

He opens the door and we follow him into the courtroom. Blum takes his place at the defense table, and I sit next to Kevin in the gallery. Orlando is ushered in by four burly court officers, who walk him to the defense table and unshackle his wrists and feet. Over the years, I've snuck into various courtrooms to catch quick glimpses of Orlando. I've watched him grow from a gangly teenager into brawny man. Today he has a shaved head and a trim beard, and it looks like he's made use of his year in lockup, bulking up, bench-pressing massive amounts of weight.

Orlando smiles and waves to his family. He looks at the back row and nods—his gold-toothed compatriot echoes the greeting. Blum whispers in his ear. I can make out a few of the words.
Remember … Robbery … Jamaica Way … Endicott.
Orlando twists his body around to look at me. His face drops and his expression sours.
Right back at you, Orlando.

The jurors file in. Judge Volpe lets them know what's going on and sends them home for the week. After the hearing, Nestor, Kevin, and I reconvene in the hallway to debrief and come up with a game plan.

“Volpe kind of screwed you with the continuance, don't you think?” Nestor says.

“There's nothing else he could have done.”

“You should file an interlocutory appeal.”

Like any recent law school graduate, Nestor knows just enough about the law to be annoying but not enough to be helpful.

“Nestor, you round up the exhibits,” Kevin says. “I'll take Abby out in the field.”