Mission Hill (6 page)

“This was her high school graduation. And this is when she left for her tour of duty in Afghanistan. She had nothing to do with gangs or drugs. She was outside on the porch, talking with her friends.”

Every mother swears that her child was an innocent bystander, but in this case, it happens to be true.

“The jury isn't going to think Jasmine did anything wrong,” I say.

“I'm not worried about the trial. My baby is gone, the Lord will take care of the rest. Mr. Mooney, he was such a nice man. I'm sorry for your loss.”

Jackie Reed, a woman whose daughter was murdered two days before her twenty-sixth birthday, wraps her arms around me and rubs my back. I let my shoulders drop and accept the warmth of her hug. I want to hold on to this moment, remember it next week when I'm face-to-face with Orlando Jones.

A woman who looks eerily like Jasmine enters the room. “Mom, did you hear what happened to the prosecutor?”

She's surprised when she sees us. Kevin stands, extends his hand, and introduces us.

“You must be Jasmine's sister,” he says.

“Tiffany,” she says.

“Twins?”

“Yes.”

Jasmine had a twin sister. My heart breaks a little more.

“I heard about your colleague. I'm sorry,” she says. “We've been waiting a long time for this trial. He needs to pay for what he did.”

Tiffany is not as generous as her mother. I don't blame her, but I want to warn her, tell her not to expect too much from a conviction. The verdict will only start a new phase of grief. She won't have a trial to focus on anymore. There will only be the emptiness.

 

Chapter Eleven

Denny Mebane is Orlando's second casualty. Before he was shot in the head with a sawed-off shotgun, Denny was a sophomore at Bunker Hill Community College, studying computer science. He lived in Mattapan with his girlfriend and their two short-haired cats. Now he lives alone in Healey House, a rehabilitation facility on a quiet residential street in West Roxbury.

My first visit to Healey House was when I was prosecuting drunk-driving cases. The victim, a seven-year-old girl, was in the backseat of her mother's minivan, en route to Chuck E. Cheese's. The mother, drunk and stoned, passed out and crashed head-on into a delivery truck. My most recent visit to Healey House was to meet an MIT student who had fallen off the roof of his fraternity during a drunken hazing ritual.

“I don't know why they call this place a rehab,” I say. “Most patients never get better.”

“Maybe they should call it
a place to stay, somewhere between life and death,
” Kevin says.

“That's catchy, but I think they're probably better off sticking with rehab.”

Kevin pulls into the parking lot behind the building, and we get out of the car. Tim used to talk about Denny Mebane, how painful it was each time he came here to meet with him and his mother. When we get inside, I take a breath and steel myself while Kevin signs us in at the reception desk.

A nurse directs us to Denny's room, which is on the third floor.

“Let's hoof it,” Kevin says. “I need to stretch my legs.”

I follow him into the bile-green stairwell, where the stench of cleaning solution makes me gag. The sharp, disorienting symptoms of a migraine start to take hold.

The door to Denny's room is halfway open. Inside, his mother, Adele, is sitting on a metal folding chair by his bedside, her back to the door. She's wearing a white cardigan and black wool slacks. Denny is wearing a hospital johnny and a bib. Adele spoon-feeds him something the color and consistency of oatmeal, singing “The World Is Not My Home.” We pause and listen to her soothing voice.
And I can't feel at home in this world anymore.

Adele wipes goop from Denny's chin. Kevin looks at me to be sure I'm ready and then taps on the door. Adele turns, rises, and greets us each with a hug and a smile. She takes my hand and walks me up to the edge of the bed.

“Denny, this is the new lawyer I was telling you about, and this is the detective.”

She talks to her son as though he were healthy, something I wasn't expecting and am not sure how to handle. I hesitate, then decide that the polite thing to do, the only thing to do, is to go along with it.

“I'm Abby. Nice to meet you.” I start to extend my hand, but catch myself and pull it back.

Denny seems to have a permanent grin plastered on his face. He lets out some primal grunts, and his eyes shift periodically. Even though his features appear distorted, it's obvious that he was once a handsome man with big brown eyes complemented by giraffe-like eyelashes.

“What did you say, honey?” Adele pauses and waits, as though he might respond.

She's so hopeful that I'm almost convinced he's going to speak.

“Tim spoke highly of you both,” I say.

“We're praying for him. Did he have a family?”

“A wife and daughter.”

“Then we'll pray for them too.”

I grew up Episcopalian, attending services at the Church of the Advent on the flat of Beacon Hill. As a child, I loved the formality, the weight of it all—the Victorian Gothic structure, the rhythmic sound of the bells, the somber service, the smoky incense. After Crystal died, I went there to meditate and reflect, finding solace in the music and the predictable rituals. When I joined the DA's office and my assignments took me deep into the depravity of murder, the heavily perfumed clouds of smoke pouring from the swinging thuribles began to give me a headache. The choral service of evensong became overbearing, claustrophobic.

Now the only appeal for me at the Advent, or at any church, is the passing of the peace. I enjoy looking at my neighbor, shaking hands, turning clockwise, and repeating the process.
Peace be with you. And also with you.

“Do you still need me to testify?” Adele says.

“Yes, I'd like to call you as a witness. I know you've gone over everything with Tim. I'll ask you to tell the jury about Denny. What he is … was … like. I mean before the shooting.”

“Denny never gave me a minute of trouble when he was coming up.”

“Does he have siblings?” I say, hoping that Adele has other children to care for and love, and vice versa.

“No, it's just the two of us.”

“The trial will be graphic at times, painful to watch. It's good to have support.”

“My pastor is coming. And some people from my choir.”

A young nurse wearing tie-dyed scrubs comes in. She has a long, thick braid that falls down the length of her back, reminding me of Rodney Quirk's tattoo.

“I see he ate some of his dinner.” The nurse picks up his tray and sets it on a side table.

“He's trying to get his strength back,” Adele says.

The nurse changes his catheter bag and checks his vitals. “How are you doing today, Denny?” she says with a smile.

I take out my iPhone. “If it's okay, I'd like to film him.”

“Tim took some pictures. He said he was going to show them on a screen in the courtroom.”

“Yes, but I'd like to have a video too, if you don't mind.”

“Whatever you think is best,” Adele says.

“Let's make him look nice.” The nurse props up his pillows and starts to untie his bib.

“I'd prefer that he not look posed.”

The jury needs to get the full picture, oatmeal-spattered bib and all. I film Denny amid an assortment of machines and medical devices. He shifts in his bed and grunts. Vomit percolates up the back of my throat and my migraine throbs.

Kevin sees me struggling. “How about you and I go over your statement, Ms. Mebane?” he says.

“Excuse me,” I say on my way out the door.

I creep down the hallway, willing myself forward until I find a bathroom.
Staff Only.
I step inside and lock myself in. The glare of the fluorescent overhead causes the pain behind my eyes to intensify. I search for the light switch, flick it off, stand in total darkness, and try to get my bearings.

Once inside the bathroom stall, I break out in a heavy, cold sweat. I throw up, regretting the greasy onion rings I ate for lunch. I flush the toilet, flip down the lid, and sit for a minute, head in hands, waiting for the sweating to subside. My shirt is soaked through. I start to hyperventilate. Someone knocks on the door and tries to open it.

I take a deep breath. “Just a minute,” I say.

Turning on the light, I move to the sink and splash cold water on my clammy face. I unbutton my sweater and pull my blouse under the hand dryer. Watching the circles of sweat slowly begin to disappear, a blanket of loneliness envelops me.

I take out my cell and dial the only person who would understand what I'm going through. After five rings, Tim's voice mail picks up. I hold the phone tightly to my ear and listen to the sweet sound of his voice.
You have reached Tim Mooney. Sorry I can't take your call right now. If you leave your name and number, I'll get right back to you.
The message ends, the beep sounds. I hang up and call again.

When I return to Denny's room, Kevin is asking questions that he already knows the answers to, allowing Adele to share pleasant memories of her son.

“Where did he go to high school?”

“Concord-Carlisle. He was a METCO student.” Adele is referring to the state-funded program that gives Boston kids from low-income families the opportunity to go to public schools in more affluent suburbs.

“That bus must've come pretty early.”

“He got up at five every morning. Those teachers gave him hours of homework every night, and it never seemed to bother him. He wants to invent computer games.”

“He sounds like a good son, a special man,” I say.

“He is,” Adele says. “I hope he can still have his dreams.”

I'm not sure if she means this literally or figuratively, but either way, I hope so too.

“He also had a part-time job?” Kevin says.

“Delivering Chinese food. I told him he should work inside the restaurant, waiting tables or filling orders. But he said he liked to meet new people. The lady, Jasmine, the one who got killed, she called for takeout. When she was out on her porch paying her bill, that man, Orlando Jones, started shooting at them. For no reason.”

“I'm sorry this happened, Adele,” I say.

“How is Jackie?” she says.

“You know Jasmine's mother?”

“I met her in court last year, at the bail hearing. That's who I feel for. I don't have it half as bad as she does. She had to bury her daughter. I still can still visit my son—he's here with me.”

Yes, Adele can still visit Denny. But more than that, I'm not so sure.

 

Chapter Twelve

It's sleeting when we leave the rehab, and there's a coat of heavy slush on the pavement. With no choice, I slog through it. Icy water seeps into my shoes, causing a sharp pain to surge up my legs. Once inside the car, I leave the door open long enough to tip my shoes and pour the liquid out. My socks are drenched.

“You look like you've been through the wringer.” Kevin turns on the headlights and cranks the heat. “Let's call it a night.”

“I should go back to the office. I have a ton of things to do.”

The windshield wipers move slightly and then get stuck in a mound of wet snow. Kevin blasts the defrost.

“Is your boyfriend gonna be at your place?”

I shake my head. “He has a gig tonight at Wally's.”

“You shouldn't spend so much time alone. Get yourself a guy with a regular job, like in a bank.”

Ty is a brilliant tenor sax player. He performs mostly locally, but he travels every other month or so to New York or San Francisco and four or five times a year to Europe. He won me over last summer at the Newport Jazz Festival with his sublimely seductive rendition of “Body and Soul.” His hours are as unconventional as mine, which is one of the reasons we're compatible. Tonight, however, I agree with Kevin. I don't want to go home to an empty apartment.

“I have to look through the motions in limine and jury instructions. How about you drop me off at Bulfinch.”

“It's after ten. I'm taking you home. If you want to make yourself sick, you're on your own.”

We veer onto the Jamaica Way, and Kevin takes a call from his wife. As they talk, we pass the Winsor School and the spot where Crystal's body landed on the side of the road. The heat of my breath fogs the side window.

By the time we reach the Back Bay, the wet snow turns into softer, fluffier flakes. A lone cross-country skier glides down the snow-covered mall in the center of Commonwealth Avenue. He moves his arms and legs rhythmically, forward and back, leaving a narrow trail in his wake.

I remember being ten years old, bounding through knee-high snow with my brothers, Charlie and George. Wearing down parkas and L.L. Bean boots, we'd race each other up and down the mall. When we were fully exhausted, we'd fall onto our backs, moving our arms and legs in semicircles to form snow angels.

What started out as a joyful frolic in the snow would inevitably evolve into a heated competition over who could run faster or form the most perfectly symmetrical figure. Our nanny, Magdalena, was the self-appointed judge. She awarded the winner our most coveted prize—selecting that night's dessert. Charlie, her favorite, was almost always crowned the victor, whether the competition involved snow angels, swan dives, or sand castles. Even though the games were rigged, I always held out hope and gave it my all.

Kevin pulls up to my front door. I get out and climb over a pile of snow amassed between two cars. When I start to lose my footing, I lean on the hood of an Escalade, causing the alarm to blare. Gabe, a maintenance worker from my building, is nearby, holding a bucket full of green salt and sprinkling it onto the sidewalk. He hears the commotion, comes to my aid, and helps me inside.