The Fens Read online

  I wasn’t expecting this so I have to wing it. “You’re defying a legitimate court order and refusing to cooperate with this investigation?”

  “I’m a reporter and the video is my work product.”

  “You’re refusing to comply?”

  “I’m invoking my constitutional protection: freedom of the press.”

  I imagine Kevin’s reprimand: She double-crossed you. She got what she wanted, an exclusive, and you get bubkes. Told ya that would happen.

  Emma didn’t bring the tape to court, so it’s not worth arguing about. Besides, I’d lose. The constitution trumps our side agreement. I can’t force her to pony up the tape, but I can try to get the information that was on the tape. There’s no rule barring me from asking what she observed.

  “Did you see Paul Tagala the night Rudy Maddox disappeared?”

  “No, not directly.”

  “You filmed him leaving the ballpark. You were on the roof, weren’t you?”

  She remains silent for a minute, then smiles so smugly that I want to have her arrested.

  “I decline to answer.”

  “On what basis?”

  “I’m asserting my rights under the Fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution.”

  I’m not sure I heard her correctly. “You’re taking the Fifth? That means you think you’d be incriminating yourself by answering my question.”

  She nods. “I understand.”

  She understands, but I don’t. “You’re saying you committed a crime that night, and that by responding to my question, you will implicate yourself in that crime.”

  We go back and forth for a few minutes, until it’s clear she’s not going to retreat. The problem is she doesn’t have to reveal what she’d be incriminating herself about because that would defeat the purpose of the Fifth Amendment. I can’t imagine she has a legitimate issue, but she’s adamant.

  I think back to the night I was standing on the roof with her. I picture the alley, the fire escape. Then I remember the sign: NO TRESPASSING. Emma’s claim is that she broke the law when she took the video—and she’s right, she did. Even though trespassing is a misdemeanor, and no one will ever prosecute her for it, under the rules, it’s a legitimate reason to take the Fifth.

  She got me.

  “You are excused,” I say, “for now.”

  I have to push forward. I had planned to ask for a vote today, and there’s no turning back. I excuse myself for a minute and grab Kevin, who is pacing around the hallway, talking on his cell.

  “I need you to testify to what you saw on the tape,” I say.

  “You’re the one with the fancy-schmancy law degree, but isn’t that total hearsay?”

  “It’s frowned upon, but it’s allowed in the grand jury, and it’s all we got.”

  “But that’ll never get us to guilty at trial.”

  “One step at a time. First, let’s get an indictment.”

  Kevin and I have reversed roles. A few days ago, he was eager to roll the dice and get an indictment with barely any evidence; now I’m the one taking chances.

  Kevin follows me into the grand jury room. He takes the stand and tells the grand jurors about the tissue with Tags’s DNA that was recovered near Wayne’s body; Emma’s tape of Tags wheeling a laundry bin to the parking lot; Tags’s car and license plate; and the Pacer data about Tags’s movements the night Rudy went missing. Then he describes the discovery of Rudy’s body. It sounds like a lot, but it’s not. The evidence is all circumstantial. We don’t have an eyewitness who can place Tags at either crime scene, we don’t have a confession, and we don’t have a motive.

  I ask the grand jurors to vote, then leave the room. It takes them almost an hour to decide on two indictments, which is fifty-nine minutes longer than most cases.

  The foreman comes out and smiles weakly. “It’s a true bill, but it was a close call. How are you going to prove it at trial?”

  “Trial is months away. By then, I’ll have more evidence,” I say.

  I hope I’m right.

  Chapter Thirty

  As soon as I’m done with the grand jury, I give a full confession to Kevin. He’s not surprised to learn Emma pulled a fast one on us, but he spares me an I told you so. Kevin, not one to waste time, goes out to hit the street again and look for new witnesses. I tuck my tail between my legs and skulk across Pemberton Square, to Bulfinch Place.

  I step onto the elevator and swipe my badge on the sensor; a text from Stan’s assistant summons me to his office.

  “I got the indictment.”

  “Great. Emma Phelps gave you probable cause?” Stan says.

  “Not exactly, but Kevin did.” I tell him what happened.

  He doesn’t take the news well. “Most people with your level of intelligence learn from their mistakes, but not you. First, you arrest him prematurely. Then, you indict him with no evidence. You’ve backed yourself, and the whole office, into a corner.”

  “Paul Tagala killed two men. Who knows, he could have been targeting someone else. What if he had gone after a third person, then where would we be? You should be thanking me. I got a dangerous guy off the street.”

  “The goal is to imprison the murderer for life. As soon as this guy’s lawyer takes one look at our case, he’ll get the charges dismissed, and Paul Tagala will be back home in time for dinner.”

  “Nothing is going to be dismissed. I can get a conviction.” I sound confident even though I don’t feel that way.

  Stan’s assistant taps on the door. “Paul Tagala’s lawyer is on the phone.”

  “Tell her I’ll call her later.”

  “She is not looking for you, Abby.”

  Tracey Miller is a fighter, but I didn’t expect her to do an end run around me and go directly to the boss. If Stan takes the call, it’ll weaken my bargaining power.

  Stan, picks up the phone. “Hello?”

  As soon as Tracey brags about her chat with Stan, my standing in the legal community will take a nosedive.

  “Stan, please don’t,” I say. “Let me handle Tracey.”

  Stan puts his hand in the air and waves at me to shut up. As soon as he starts speaking, I appreciate him a little more.

  “Tracey, I don’t negotiate with defense attorneys. This is Abby’s case. You’ll have to deal with her.” He hangs up and turns to me. “My number one rule of law enforcement: present a united front—even when I want to toss my skipper overboard.”

  Maybe he’s not such a bad guy after all. Surprised, and impressed by his attitude, I try a new tack: I ask him his thoughts and actually listen to his answer.

  “Immunize Emma Phelps. That will take away her Fifth Amendment claim on the trespassing.”

  “That will only solve half the problem. Emma can still hide behind her First Amendment freedom-of-the-press argument.”

  “Then, maybe it’s time to offer Tagala a plea.”

  “We just got the indictment, I don’t want to throw in the towel yet. Besides, Tracey has been around the block—she’ll smell the desperation.”

  He stands, unable to meet my eyes. “I’m thinking about putting another prosecutor on the case.”

  “It’s a minor setback.”

  “It’s not just the case. You’ve got some personal issues to deal with.”

  He takes out his phone, types a few words, shows me a photo: me at Anchovies, drunk, kneeling on the floor, looking up. It’s not a flattering picture.

  “My top prosecutor looks like a train wreck. And that reflects poorly on me, and the whole office.”

  “I had a rough night.”

  “From what I hear, you’ve had a few of those lately.”

  I start to respond, but Stan picks up his phone, indicating that the meeting is over. More determined than ever, as soon as I’m back in my office, I call Kevin.

  “I want to reexamine our evidence, maybe we missed something,” I say.

  We meet at the crime lab. I glove up and sort through everything: clothing, hair
, fingerprint exemplars. I hold my nose and inspect the trash that was collected at the crime scenes. I hold my breath and examine the autopsy photos. Kevin carefully unseals the boxes of items that were seized from Rudy’s house, Wayne’s storage locker, and his boyfriend Graham’s apartment.

  “Let’s talk motive,” Kevin says. “There’s a few things staring us in the face.”

  “Steroids.”

  “Wayne and Rudy were buying them, but dollars for doughnuts they weren’t selling them. Next?”

  “Money,” I say. “They both lived beyond their means.”

  “So do a lot of young athletes. They come from nothing, have no idea about financial planning, and get in over their heads.”

  I look at the bubble-wrapped baseball that we seized from Graham’s apartment. “They were both hiding baseballs for some reason, like they were saving them for something. Let’s get them tested.”

  We drop the baseballs off at the crime lab and put a rush on them. Less than an hour later, we get a call.

  “The balls have been tampered with,” the technician says.

  “Can you be more specific?” Kevin says.

  “I could discern traces of K-Y jelly.”

  I’d heard of spitballs, but didn’t think they were a real thing—used by superstar athletes.

  “What happens when you grease a baseball, besides making it slippery?” I say.

  Kevin doesn’t wait for the technician’s response. “A slick ball moves faster, it has less spin, and it catches the batter off guard, with a late drop.”

  “Sounds like that only benefits one person,” I say. “The pitcher.”

  “There’s our motive. Tags worked for Moe Morrissey. Moe was cheating and his catchers knew it. Maybe they threatened to expose him. So Moe had to get rid of his catchers.”

  “If that’s our working theory, this could have been a murder for hire,” I say. “Which means it didn’t have anything to do with steroids.”

  If Moe paid Tags to kill Wayne and Rudy, that would make Moe the instigator. Tags is still responsible for the murder, but Moe is the one we want most. A contract killing never happens without the contractor and whatever incentive he offers to the hit man.

  “Maybe we can make Tags a flipper,” I say.

  “You think he’ll turn on Moe?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Tracey Miller jumps at the chance to meet me and Kevin at the jail. She has nothing to lose by hearing us out. If she doesn’t like the offer, she can tell us to pound sand. Hopefully, that’s not the way it will go down.

  Tracey, Kevin, and I watch in silence as Tags shuffles into the room. Jail doesn’t agree with him. His hair is stringy, his face pale. Kevin stands and pulls out a metal chair, causing it to squeak against the cement floor. Tags flinches at the sound. He looks pathetic as his eyes well with tears. It’s a good sign when your defendant cries before you’ve uttered a syllable.

  At my request, the guard unshackles Tags, and as soon as the cuffs come off, he rubs his wrists.

  “What’s the purpose of the meeting?” Tracey says.

  “We’ve come into possession of new information,” I say.

  “Is it exculpatory?” Tracey says.

  “No, but it could be helpful to your case,” I say. “We believe Tags wasn’t acting alone.”

  “We think someone ordered you to carry out the hits,” Kevin says.

  Tags looks at me, his lip quivering, and starts to mumble something.

  Tracey puts up her hand, cuts him off. “Don’t say a word. We’re not here to answer questions or offer incriminating evidence.”

  I keep my eyes trained on Tags, but speak to Tracey. “If it’s true, and he was acting under someone’s direction, we’re prepared to offer a deal.”

  “I’ll take it,” Tags says, his voice cracking.

  “Slow down,” Tracey says.

  She leans in, whispers to him. He bites his lip, sits on his hands, whispers back.

  Tracey shakes her head. “I don’t recommend it.”

  “Ask them,” Tags says.

  “My client wants to know, what’s the offer?”

  “He pleads guilty to a second,” I say.

  “No way,” Tracey says.

  “Hold on. What does that mean?” Tags says.

  “They want you to admit to second-degree murder. And testify against Moe. I don’t recommend it.”

  “Why not?” Tags says. “Will they let me go home?”

  “No. They’d put you away for life.”

  Tags drops his head forward.

  “But you wouldn’t necessarily serve life. You’d be parole eligible in fifteen years,” I say. “That’s better than life without the possibility of parole, which is what you’re facing.”

  “Fifteen years is an eternity when you’re the one in prison. Plus, he’ll serve at least thirty. The parole board will never let him out the first few times,” Tracey says. “He’d be admitting to killing two members of the Red Sox.”

  “Let’s not forget, he did pull the trigger,” Kevin says. “Twice.”

  “He’s got to serve at least fifteen years,” I say.

  Tracey cups her hand over her mouth and speaks softly to Tags. I look away, but can hear snippets of what she says. Let’s wait until the trial.… They may not be able to prove anything.… It’s up to you.

  Kevin kicks me lightly, under the table. Time to do some double-teaming.

  “Are you a gambler, Tags?” Kevin says. “Because if you take this case to trial, the odds won’t be in your favor.”

  “You’re young,” I say. “You could get out in fifteen years and still have a full life—finish school, get married, have kids.”

  Under my own definition of a full life, I’m only one for three.

  “Tell us the truth about what happened,” Kevin says.

  “Don’t do the time for someone else,” I say. “That’s not fair to your grandmother, your sisters, or yourself.”

  Tags takes a lion’s breath, looks at Tracey, ready to talk.

  “It’s your call,” she says, “but for the record, I’m advising against it.”

  Tags looks at me and nods.

  Kevin turns on the recorder. “In your own words, tell us what happened.”

  “He paid me to do it.”

  “Who?” Kevin says.

  “Moe.”

  Even though this has been my working theory, it’s shocking to hear Tags say it out loud. I cover my mouth to hide my surprise.

  Kevin inches his head closer to Tags, gets in his face, and teases out his story. “Moe Morrissey hired you to kill Rudy Maddox and Wayne Ellis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Rudy and Wayne knew he was cheating.”

  “How was he cheating?”

  “He was putting gel on the ball.”

  “Did they threaten to expose him? Were they extorting him?”

  Tags nods. “They wanted money to keep quiet, and Moe paid them. But it was never enough. They kept coming back and asking for more. They were going to take him down, ruin him.”

  Tags’s story has the ring of truth—it explains the money and the baseballs, but not the reason for his own involvement.

  “How much did Moe pay you?” I say. “It must’ve been a lot.”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “Total?” Kevin says.

  “Each.”

  “So you got a half-million dollars?” I say.

  Tags gnaws on a hangnail, then spits it out. “Not yet, but I will. Moe put it in a bank account.”

  Kevin and I exchange looks. Tags is still holding back.

  “That’s not the only reason you did it,” Kevin says.

  “This wasn’t just going to hurt Moe. If they exposed him, they would’ve taken down the whole team.”

  I underestimated Tags; he was motivated by greed, but he was also moved by loyalty—a warped sense of allegian
ce.

  “Are we done?” Tracey says.

  “One more question,” Kevin says. “Where did you get the gun?”

  “It was Moe’s. He gave it to me.”

  “What did you do with it?” I say.

  “He wanted it back, so I gave it back to him.”

  Tags is about to say more, but Tracey interrupts. She wants to seal the deal.

  “If you want my client to testify, you have to reduce the charges to manslaughter and recommend he serve no more than fifteen years.”

  I look at Kevin, who nods reluctantly. Neither of us want to lessen Tags’s degree of guilt, or his sentence, but it’s the only way to get Moe.

  “Deal,” I say.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The whole city is wondering, worrying, that the steroids scandal is going to have a devastating impact on the team. Meanwhile, the rest of the country is excited about the potential for another Boston sports scandal. Even the grand jurors are obsessed with the subject. When I go back into the grand jury room, they think I’m there to present more evidence about steroids. I wish that’s all it were about.

  Armed with Tags’s confession, including the part that inculpates Moe, I reopen the case. This time I present the grand jurors with two new indictments—first-degree-murder complaints against Moe Morrissey.

  Kevin takes the stand and hits the play button on his recorder. We listen to Tags’s interview. Everyone is still; there’s no fidgeting, no snacking. When it’s over, there is a collective sigh of disappointment. No one asks questions. The grand jurors know what they have to do and they’re devastated—everyone except the Dodgers fan.

  Kevin and I wait outside the grand jury room while they deliberate. We position ourselves close to the door, trying to eavesdrop, but we can’t hear any of the discussion. It only takes a couple of minutes. The door swings open, smacks me in the shoulder, almost knocking me over. Kevin grabs my elbow to steady me and keep me from dropping to the floor.

  The foreman and I sign the indictments, and I authorize an arrest warrant for Moe Morrissey. I want to get him into custody immediately, before word leaks out. If he finds out we’re looking to arrest him for murder, he could harm someone else, or he could flee.