The Fens Page 10

  “I gave one of those to Ty, for Valentine’s Day.”

  “You’re an ace in the courtroom, but you could use some help in the romance department. Who gives their true love a gadget that counts your steps?”

  “It also tracks your movement. It’s got a built-in GPS.”

  “Is that why you gave it to your boyfriend—to facilitate stalking?”

  “No, but if Tags was wearing the watch when he did the murder, we’ll be able to see where he was that night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The next morning, I drive over to the Roxbury District Court, where Tags is scheduled to be arraigned. Parking is tight, and after circling the block twice, I pull into the police lot, where I squeeze into an illegal space and hope I don’t get towed. There’s a line outside the courthouse door; it reaches out to the sidewalk and snakes around the bend in the road.

  I walk in the street, adjacent to the line, and survey the crowd. There are lots of familiar faces: prosecutors and detectives who are here on other cases; reporters, including Emma Phelps; defense attorneys, including Tags’s lawyer, Tracey Miller; a woman with a black eye and an Ace bandage wrapped around her wrist; and a smattering of gang members, many of whom I’ve dealt with as defendants or victims, or sometimes both.

  I badge my way through security and take the stairs to the second floor. I elbow my way into the courtroom, take a seat at the prosecutor’s table, and text Kevin: Any luck with the Pacer records? He texts back immediately, I got bubkes. Time to work your hocus pocus.

  The court officer calls order, and Judge Ramona Harper takes the bench. She’s a judge who hates to judge, a hack, in it for the job stability, the pension, and the dental plan. I’ve appeared in front of her a dozen times, and I’ve never heard her voice—not once, not even to say good morning. The clerk does Judge Harper’s bidding; the judge scribbles on a legal pad, hands her notes to the clerk, who then announces the decision. That’s fine when the charges are shoplifting or breaking into a car, but it doesn’t work with a murder case.

  “Mr. Tagala, how do you now plead?” the clerk says.

  Tags takes a breath; his hands are clasped in front of him as though he were in church about to take Communion. “Not guilty.”

  “Is there a request for bail?” the clerk says.

  I stand and argue why Tags should be held without bail: the serious nature of the charges, risk of flight, the danger to the community. Tracey makes her case why Tags should be released pending trial: he has no prior criminal record, strong roots in the community, no reason to flee.

  The judge checks some boxes on the bail form, jots down a few words, and hands the paper to her clerk. “Mr. Tagala, you are hereby ordered to be held without bail.”

  It’s expected that a defendant will be held without bail in a murder case, but Tracey puts up a good front by acting surprised. She shakes her head in disappointment, whispers to Tags, and consults with a colleague who is seated behind her.

  “Does either party have anything else on the docket?” the clerk says.

  “Ms. Endicott has sent a subpoena to Pacer, requesting my client’s GPS records. We’re filing a motion to quash the subpoena,” Tracey says.

  I wasn’t expecting Tracey to make a preemptive strike. The judge looks to me for a response.

  “Objection,” I say. “The defendant has no standing. The subpoena was sent to the corporation; we’re not asking for Mr. Tagala’s attorney’s opinion.”

  “We’re offering it,” Tracey says. “Mr. Tagala’s privacy rights will be infringed if the court allows the government to obtain a list of his whereabouts. It’s akin to Big Brother, an ex post facto search warrant.”

  Tracey is the kind of lawyer who thinks that if she throws around a Latin phrase every now and then, she’ll confuse the judge and win her argument.

  I can see her ex post facto and raise her one. “This is a matter of stare decisis, it is not a case of first impression. The law is clear. We subpoena GPS records from cars after a crash, we should be permitted to do the same with a wristwatch after a murder. The intrusion is no more, or no less.”

  The Pacer records are our only hope of finding Rudy. The data is key to both helping me win the case and giving Rudy’s family peace of mind.

  Judge Harper waves us up to sidebar. She clears her throat, preparing to speak, and we lean in, eager to hear her voice.

  “I tend to agree with Ms. Endicott.” She has a thick Boston accent, and a lisp, not a harmonious combination, but her words couldn’t be sweeter. “The defendant’s motion to quash is hereby denied.”

  She bangs her gavel, stands, and retires to her chambers. She’s put in a good twenty minutes of work—time for a coffee break.

  A few hours later, when I’m back at Bulfinch, Pacer emails the information to me. Kevin joins me in my office as I’m trying to make sense of the data.

  “What do you got?” Kevin says.

  “It uses military time, which has always been a challenge for me, and geographic subsections, which are categorized by a series of numbers and letters.”

  “Let’s cut through the malarkey. We already know that he spent the day at Fenway because we got him on video.”

  “According to this printout, he left the ballpark late, after midnight.”

  “Where did he go?” Kevin says.

  “His grandmother’s apartment on Thomas Street, and it looks like he went straight there.”

  I hand Kevin a few pages and he gives them the once-over.

  “So, chances are, he hid the body in, or near, the house,” Kevin says.

  Kevin makes some calls, requests that a warrant and a search team meet us at the Thomas Street apartment. We drive out of the city, onto the Southeast Expressway, past the enormous rainbow-swashed storage tanks, and onto Morrissey Boulevard. When we get near Lambert’s—their bologna sandwiches are not to be missed—I remember to call Stan. I vowed to keep him in the know, and I’ve broken that promise—again.

  He picks up on the first ring.

  “We’re thinking about heading out to Dorchester,” I say with all the deference I can muster. “I wanted to check with you first.”

  “You’re a lousy liar. Look up.”

  “What?”

  “In the sky. Can’t you see them in the air?”

  A helicopter is hovering above.

  “Are we being followed?”

  “Your road trip is being broadcast live on the three major networks.” He slams down the receiver.

  Thomas Street is in Dorchester, or Dot as it’s known to residents; it’s Boston’s largest neighborhood. On a map, Dorchester is divided into sections, such as Savin Hill, Upham’s Corner, and Codman Square. But locals self-identify according to parish, such as St. Gregory’s or St. Brendan’s. When people say that they grew up in Dot, no one asks which neighborhood, or which street; people ask which parish.

  Tags’s grandmother’s apartment is near Carney Hospital, where she works part-time as a nurse’s aide. Reporters have assembled both on the sidewalk outside the Carney and outside the triple-decker. Police officers are directing traffic and working crowd control.

  We stop on Thomas Street, park in front of Ms. Tagala’s driveway. She peers out of the first-floor window, from behind the yellowing lace curtains; our eyes meet. I hold up my badge and wave, and she comes to the door. Cameras snap and reporters shout; Ms. Tagala hesitates before letting us into her apartment.

  The apartment is small, about the same size as mine. She tells us she lives here with her two granddaughters, ages seven and two, and her grandson, Tags. There’s one bedroom, where she and the girls sleep, and a small alcove for Tags—not that he’ll need it anymore. His new home is the Nashua Street Jail.

  Ms. Tagala sits on a folding chair, near the two-year-old, who is on the floor, banging a saucepan with a wooden spoon. Kevin and I squeeze into the small couch, sitting knee to knee, elbow to elbow.

  Ms. Tagala is about fifty, a few years older than Kevin.
Her hair is pulled back into a tight, unflattering ponytail. She doesn’t smell like cigarettes, but the wrinkles around her mouth tell me that at some point she was a hard-core smoker.

  “Where are Tags’s parents?” I say.

  “His father is dead and his mother is in jail.”

  “What happened?”

  “Heroin is what happened. Addiction got the better of them both.”

  “That must be tough on everyone,” I say.

  “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  I don’t argue the point, but I could. I may not know what it’s like to live in a cramped apartment with three grandchildren, but I do know a lot about losing a loved one to addiction.

  “Detective Farnsworth and I are here to collect evidence.”

  “I’m not going to help you send my grandson to prison.”

  “We have a search warrant,” I say, “but it’d be less intrusive if you cooperate.”

  We could play hardball—handcuff her while we slice open the pillows and go through her drawers—but children are involved.

  “How about you take the baby to a neighbor’s house while the officers conduct the search?”

  “I know the routine. The police have been in here before, looking for my daughter and her drugs.”

  Ms. Tagala goes next door; seven police officers come in and look through Tags’s belongings. They bag clothes, shoes, and personal papers as evidence. They walk the search dog through the apartment, down the back stairs, and into the basement. After all that, they come up empty.

  I peek out the window, at the postage stamp–size plot of land behind the house. “Have them take the dog out to the backyard.”

  Kevin rolls his eyes.

  “We have to cross the t’s and dot the i’s,” I say.

  Kevin directs the team out back. We both know they won’t find anything, and they don’t.

  “According to Pacer, he was only in two places,” Kevin says. “He was here and at Fenway.”

  “Maybe Rudy wasn’t with him. Maybe someone else killed him. Or maybe he’s still alive.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Then maybe Rudy was murdered inside Fenway Park,” I say. “Which means his body could still be there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Getting a warrant to search Fenway Park is not a simple endeavor. First, I have to talk to Stan about it and get his assent. I can hide a lot of things from Stan and I can try to skirt the rules, but I’d never get away with this. Then, we have to draw up a warrant, citing sufficient probable cause to prove Rudy’s body might be inside the park. Then, we have to get a judge to sign off. Given the number of Sox fans among the judiciary, this turns out to be the easiest part. Judges want to know what happened to Rudy as much as the rest of us.

  Several hours later, Fenway Park is designated a crime scene—and it looks every bit the part. Uniforms are stationed outside the gates, barring entry. Yellow tape and barricades have been set up to block off the surrounding streets. Clusters of fans, dozens deep, are gathered on Brookline Avenue, hoping to catch a glimpse of the action. News trucks are lined up behind the Van Ness Street barrier, their satellite dishes extended, some broadcasting live.

  Searching a place of this scale is a massive undertaking. The park holds over thirty-seven thousand seats. There are dozens of tunnels, closets, overhangs, and hideaways. Officers fan out; scent dogs and forensic experts are rushed in. This operation could take weeks.

  Kevin and I move past the shuttered concession stands and outside to the field. The head groundskeeper flips on the light towers. It feels as if someone should belt out the national anthem, but tonight there will be no first pitch, no one will call out for popcorn or Cracker Jacks. We’re not root-root-rooting for the home team, we’re rooting for the discovery of a dead body.

  The visitors’ dugout serves as the command post, where a sergeant distributes assignments, along with flashlights and maps. I set up shop here too, fielding phone calls, mostly from Stan and his press secretary, who are back at Bulfinch. Prosecutors aren’t part of search teams; our role is to supervise, authorize, and advise—at least in theory. In reality, police officers ignore us until someone screws up or needs an official signature.

  An hour into the search my phone shows that the team owner is calling. I can barely hear him, which is not a bad thing. The static and echoes of police radios are drowning out his fury.

  “I’m out here, at the gate, and they’re telling me I can’t come in.”

  “I’m sorry, but entry is restricted to essential police personnel.”

  “It’s my ballpark.”

  “You’ll have full access, as soon as we release the property.”

  I don’t tell him everyone is still a potential suspect, including him, the members of his management staff and team—but he seems to get the point. He hangs up without salutation. Two minutes later, Stan calls and I let it go to voice mail.

  The cold night air sets in, and when the temperature drops into the forties, I abandon my post and go inside to warm up. I pass the concession stands, where the smell of popcorn makes my stomach grumble. I scavenge around for a stray candy bar, anything to quell my hunger. A stack of paper cups is near the soft serve machine. I take one, hold it under the spout, and lift the lever, hoping for a swirl of chocolate ice cream. Nothing comes out.

  “You should take off and get some chow.” Kevin surprises me. “I’ll give you a jingle if anything comes up.”

  Sweet Cheeks is within walking distance and Ty probably hasn’t left for his gig yet. We could meet there for ribs and butterscotch pudding, not necessarily in that order. The thought of the creamy caramelly confection makes me want to bolt out the door.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Go ahead, I’ll cover for you.”

  No one will miss me. It’s not as if I were going to climb up to the rafters and look for evidence or dig up the dirt behind home plate. But Kevin would never leave me in the middle of one of my trials, especially not to go to a restaurant. I’m not going to abandon him during a police search.

  He holds up a Snickers bar and smiles. I snatch the bar from his hand, inhale almost half of it in one mouthful. As I’m midway into my second bite, my pocket vibrates. It’s a message from a blocked number: Meet me outside Gate D. I text back, Who is this? The response is nonresponsive: Come alone. And don’t tell anyone.

  “Anything good?” Kevin says.

  “No,” I lie. I certainly don’t owe the mystery texter any allegiance of secrecy, but I don’t want to scare him off by bringing someone with me.

  Kevin knows when I’m holding back and he isn’t buying it. “Fine, have your secrets.”

  I scarf down the rest of the candy. “I’m going for a walk.”

  Kevin brushes his finger across his front teeth. “You’ve got chocolate on your choppers.”

  Venturing out alone is not the smartest move, but as usual, my curiosity trumps my survival instinct. I look over my shoulder, make sure no one is following me, and head over to the home plate concourse and out Gate D.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The perimeter of the park is dark and quiet. The crowds must have lost interest and gone home for the night. Yawkey Way is still blocked off, the souvenir shops are shuttered, Red Sox championship banners flap in the wind. A voice calls out.

  “Abby—over here.”

  Startled, I turn to see who it is. Twenty feet away, there’s a shadowy figure, partially obstructed by a green steel pillar. Stepping into the darkness, I regret my decision to come here alone. At the very least I should have told Kevin where I was going.

  It’s too creepy, even for me. I turn to head back inside the gate, but when I pull on the door handle, I learn that it’s locked. Clutching my purse, I feel around for my canister of pepper spray; my trigger finger is on the nozzle, ready to aim and fire.

  “Where are you going?” It’s a woman and she doesn’t sound like a killer, but neither did my last defendant, Chip A
ldridge.

  I keep my guard up. Fool me once. “Who is that?”

  “It’s me.”

  The woman waves at me; her hands are empty. If she has a weapon, it’s concealed, and it will take her a minute to pull it out. I palm the pepper spray, but my hand is sweaty and I drop it on the pavement. It pings and bounces a few feet away. I bend to pick it up, keeping my eyes trained on her, trying to make out her features.

  When she steps forward, into the light, I’m both relieved and furious that it’s not the homicidal maniac I was expecting. Instead, it’s Emma Phelps.

  “Christ, Emma. I’m busy. You can’t drag me out here in the middle of an investigation.”

  “This is about the investigation.”

  “I’m not going to make a statement.”

  She grabs my arm and whispers, “Come with me.”

  I shake her off. “I’ve got to go.”

  She blocks my path. “I promise, you won’t be disappointed.”

  I follow Emma up Yawkey Way, until we reach an unlit alley. She stops and extends her hand, gesturing me forward.

  “You first,” I say.

  She picks up the pace and I try to keep up, but the pavement is uneven, which makes it difficult. I stumble on a rock, regain my footing.

  “Where are we going?” I’m two parts annoyed, one part fearful.

  She points at a fire escape, grabs on to the steel ladder, and hoists herself up.

  As she navigates the first two rungs, I stand firm. “There are NO TRESPASSING signs all over this building.”

  “I’m fairly positive no one is going to arrest you.” She moves to the third rung.

  I struggle to pull myself up the ladder, promising myself to start a regimen of biceps curls and cardio tomorrow. It’s a four-story building; when we reach the roof, I realize my hands are sweaty and slippery. I pause, worried that I’ll lose my grip. Emma offers her hand to help, but I refuse. I’d rather plunge to my death than act the damsel in distress to Emma Phelps.

  I manage to step onto the roof, which is flat and gravelly. As my adrenaline surge starts to subside, I take in the expansive view of the area around Fenway.