Providence Rag: A Liam Mulligan Novel (33 page)

“I have nothing to say to you.” Her voice was so cold and bitter that it made Gloria shiver.

“Did you watch the confession?”

Esther Diggs was silent for a moment. Then she hung up.

66

WTOP’s mobile broadcasting van claimed a spot on Benefit Street across from the Superior Court building shortly before eight thirty
A.M.
Minutes later, police chased it off.

At nine, an hour before Judge Needham was expected to take the bench, protesters began to gather again on the courthouse steps. Outside his courtroom’s swinging double doors, sheriffs ordered spectators to drop their cell phones into a cardboard box. The authorities were not about to let Iggy Rock stir up trouble again today.

It was ten forty-five before Needham emerged from his chambers and climbed onto his booster seat behind the bench.

“I have made a decision in this case,” he said. “I shall not read it in full at this time; but immediately after we adjourn, the attorneys and representatives of the press may obtain copies in the clerk’s office. Afterwards, I suggest you all again exit the building by the side door.”

He paused and looked directly into the pool camera.

“The State has failed to offer convincing evidence that Kwame Diggs poses an immediate threat to himself and others,” he said. “Therefore, the petition that he be involuntarily committed to a psychiatric facility upon completion of his sentence is regrettably denied.”

Howls rose from the spectator benches.

From his seat in the jury box, Mulligan saw Attorney General Roberts slump at the prosecution table, his head in his hands. Needham climbed down from the bench, scurried out of the courtroom, and, Mulligan figured, headed right out of town.

*   *   *

The crowd outside the courthouse was the largest one yet, but today it was oddly subdued. Perhaps because the judge’s ruling had broken its spirit. Perhaps because the Providence police were out in force, at least forty officers bunched on the courthouse steps and a dozen mounted officers patrolling the perimeter.

Mulligan walked among the protesters, collecting a few bitter quotes for his story. As he was about to leave, someone shouted, “Impeach Needham!”

The crowed picked up the chant.

67

“You’ve been busy,” Mason said.

“I have.”

It was a balmy evening, so they’d taken a sidewalk table at Andino’s Italian Ristorante on Atwells Avenue, the main thoroughfare through the city’s Italian neighborhood of Federal Hill.

Felicia tossed Mason an inviting smile and offered him a bite of her lobster ravioli. He nibbled the creamy pasta from her fork, closed his eyes, and sighed. Then he dipped his fork into his plate of veal saltimbocca and raised it to her lips.

“I take it you were served,” she said. Mason didn’t want to talk about Diggs, but his specter was at the table with them.

“I was,” he said.

“And?”

“The paper’s attorney will fight the subpoena for my notes,” he said. “No way we’re ever going to give them up.”

“But will you testify?”

“Only to what’s in the story,” Mason said. “Nothing more.”

“What about the video?”

“Did you subpoena the Corrections Department for it?”

“I did, but I’m afraid they might claim it’s been discarded. The bastards could be erasing it as we speak.”

“If you can’t get the tape from another source,” Mason said, “we’ll surrender our copy.”

“With your testimony, that should be enough.”

“The hearing is still scheduled for Wednesday?”

“It is. Judge Needham will be presiding again.”

“Think he’ll rule in your favor?”

“It’s a slam dunk.”

“When will Diggs be released?”

“That depends on whether Roberts appeals the decision—and on how long the state Supreme Court drags its feet before admitting there are no grounds to overturn it.”

“So it’s almost over,” Mason said.

There was a life waiting on the other side of the ugliness they’d been surrounded by for so long. Looking at Felicia, her hair glistening in the candlelight, he decided it was time to cross the line.

“How’s October in Paris sound?” he asked, and then immediately regretted it. He hadn’t just crossed a line. He’d hurdled the Atlantic.

She laughed as if she thought he was kidding.

“Don’t be so fast to spoil me. I’m thinking October in Rhode Island. The crisp air will smell of dead leaves, decaying shellfish, and a hint of petroleum. And there’ll be carved pumpkins on every stoop. It’s a great time to cuddle up in front of a fire. Let’s see how that works out and then take it from there, okay?”

*   *   *

The robe with the yellow lightning bolts was not in evidence on Wednesday. Judge Needham had reverted to classic black for the occasion.

The hearing on Freyer’s petition—including Mason’s testimony and a viewing of surveillance video reluctantly provided by the Corrections Department—took less than an hour.

“Do you have anything further, Mr. Roberts?” the judge asked.

“No, Your Honor,” the attorney general said.

“And you, Miss Freyer?”

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

“Sit tight,” the judge said. “You’ll have my ruling in a half hour.”

“All rise,” the bailiff boomed as the judge slid down from his booster seat and scurried to his chambers.

“A half hour? Really?” said Nancy Grace, the CNN court analyst, who was seated beside Mulligan in the crowded jury box.

“I think the judge is in a hurry to get out of town,” Mulligan said.

As they waited, Grace and reporters for
The New York Times, The Boston Globe,
and the Associated Press peppered Mulligan with questions: Why did the
Dispatch
run Mason’s story? Did the decision cause internal dissension in the newsroom? How many readers had canceled their subscriptions?

Ten thousand and counting, Mulligan knew, but he kept it to himself.

“If I’ve learned anything in my twenty years in the news business, it’s this,” he told Grace. “
Never
talk to a reporter.”

“All rise,” the bailiff shouted.

The judge hustled back into the courtroom, scrambled onto his booster seat, and turned to face the pool TV camera. He’d been gone less than twenty minutes.

“Kwame Diggs is a cold-blooded killer,” Needham said. “There is nothing to suggest that he has been rehabilitated in prison, and I shudder to think what he might do upon his release. If it were in my power, he would remain locked up until the day he dies. However, the law and the facts in this case are clear.

“Because of a loophole in Rhode Island’s criminal statutes, Diggs’s original sentence was nowhere near severe enough to fit his crimes. He long ago served out that sentence. Since then, he has been held against his will for offenses allegedly committed during his incarceration. He is currently serving a sentence for assaulting a prison guard. Evidence presented here today proves conclusively that this charge was fabricated by the alleged victim, Joseph R. Galloway, and his fellow guard, Edward A. Quinn. It is clear to the court that they did so under the direction of Warden Alphonse J. Matos. We have also heard compelling evidence that Diggs’s prior conviction for assaulting another guard was obtained with perjured testimony.

“These convictions are hereby vacated, and I order the State to release Mr. Diggs forthwith.”

Howls rose from the packed spectator seats.

“Fuck, no!”

“Goddamn you!”

“How can you do this?”

“Criminal-loving prick!”

“Order!” Needham shouted, slamming his gavel on the bench. “Bailiff, clear the courtroom.”

It was ten minutes before the bailiff and three sheriffs were able to herd the snarling spectators through the swinging courtroom doors, leaving only the lawyers and members of the press inside.

“Let’s proceed,” the judge said. “I am directing the attorney general to order the arrests of Mr. Galloway and Mr. Quinn on charges of perjury and conspiracy to obstruct justice and Warden Matos on charges of conspiracy and subornation of perjury. I further direct the attorney general to commence an investigation to determine whether others, including prosecutors in his department, were complicit in this affair.

“When those sworn to uphold the law conspire to subvert it, no matter how justified they believe their cause may be, they undermine the very fabric of our justice system. Such police state actions reek of despotism and cannot be tolerated in a democratic society.

“Court is dismissed.”

Reporters raced from the courtroom to file their reports. Mulligan watched them go and then sidled up to Roberts, who was gathering his papers at the prosecution table.

“Will you appeal?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“What are your chances?”

“About the same as my chances of getting reelected—slim and none.”

“Do you have reason to believe that any of your prosecutors were involved in obstruction of justice?”

“Off the record?” Roberts asked.

“No,” Mulligan said.

The attorney general stuffed his papers in his briefcase and trudged toward the door.

*   *   *

Outside the courthouse, it was chaos. Some protesters chanted. Others screamed epithets. A few threw eggs. Several wept. An effigy of Judge Needham—a pink balloon for a head and a straw-stuffed black raincoat for a body—was set ablaze. Mounted police tried vainly to disperse the crowd, which Mulligan estimated at nearly a thousand.

When the first rock was thrown, he grabbed Gloria by the arm and dragged her inside the courthouse.

“Hey!” she said. “Knock it off.”

“You knock it off,” he said. “You’ve got enough pictures.”

*   *   *

On her way home from work that evening, Gloria stopped off at the CVS on Post Road and went directly to the hair care aisle. She ran a pink nail along the row of hair-coloring products and selected a box of Clairol Nice ’n Easy.

Ten minutes later she pulled into her driveway, raced inside, stripped off her clothes, and stepped into the shower. After thoroughly soaking her blond hair, she stepped out, squeezed it dry, and rubbed it roughly with a terrycloth towel. Then she tore open the Clairol package, removed the plastic gloves, and pulled them on.

She twisted the tops off the activator cream and hair-coloring containers and mixed them in the applicator bottle, shaking vigorously as directed. After parting her hair into small sections with a rat-tail comb, she applied the mixture, starting at the roots and working her way to the tips.

When she was done, she wrapped a towel around her head and walked naked into the living room. There she picked up her iPod, stuck the earbuds in her ears, and spent ten minutes listening to Adele. Then she returned to the bathroom, stepped back into the shower, and rinsed the excess dye from her hair.

After toweling off, she stood over the sink, squeezed out a nickel-size dot of Clairol color-conditioning treatment, and worked it into her hair with her fingers. Then she returned to the living room and listened to one more Adele song, “Take It All.” It was her favorite.

When it ended, she got back into the shower and rinsed out the conditioner. Then she stood in front of the mirror and blow-dried her dark brown hair.

Mulligan used to tell her she looked like a young Sharon Stone. She wondered what he’d think now.

68

“Maybe you should go see her.”

“She probably won’t let me in,” Gloria said.

“Just ring her bell and say you need her to return the videotape,” Mulligan said. “That might get her to open the door.”

“And then what?”

“Once you get your foot inside, try to get her talking.”

Which was when Larry Bird changed the subject by shrieking, “Theeeee Yankees win!”

“You’re so right, Larry,” Gloria said. “If you’ve been reading the sports section before you poop on it, you know they’ve been kicking our ass all summer.”

She turned back to Mulligan and said, “I guess maybe it’s worth a try.”

“When are you going?”

“Soon as I finish my beer.”

“Shouldn’t you phone first to make sure she’s home?”

“She’s not answering my calls.”

“Want me to come along?”

“No thanks. It will probably go better if it’s just us girls.”

Gloria drained the beer and headed for the door.

“Hey, Gloria?”

“Yeah?”

“The new look is seriously hot.”

*   *   *

The light was draining from the sky as Gloria’s Ford Focus coasted to a stop in front of the white, one-story cottage on Ruth Road in Brockton. She climbed out and scurried up the concrete front walk past the bed of pansies and petunias. As she stepped under the green awning that covered the front stoop, a soft rain began to fall. Resisting the urge to bolt for her car, she rang the bell.

She heard footfalls, then sensed someone staring at her through the peephole.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s Gloria … Gloria Costa … from the
Dispatch
.”

“You’re not Gloria.”

“Yes, I am, Mrs. Diggs. You can see my eye patch, can’t you? I changed my hair is all.”

“Oh … I didn’t recognize you at first.”

“Are you going to let me in?”

“No, I don’t think I will. Not after what you made me do. Besides, I’m not dressed for company.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t believe we have anything to say to each other.”

There was not a trace of light in her voice.

“Can you at least give me back the videotape I left here? I need to return it to the person I borrowed it from.”

“Well, all right,” she said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

In less than that, she cracked open the door and handed Gloria the tape, which she had placed in a small brown paper bag. Gloria saw that she was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe and pale blue slippers. She’d been beautiful once, Gloria thought, but time and heartbreak had withered her.

Mrs. Diggs began to push the door closed.

“I didn’t see you at the courthouse Wednesday,” Gloria said.

“I decided not to go. Too many people. All those cameras.”