The Graves Page 14

  “Aren’t you coming to see Mom?” Charlie says.

  I shake my head. Nothing good will come from spending time with my family right now. I’ll be angry and accusatory; they’ll be defensive and dismissive. When it comes to my mother, my family members are like big tobacco executives.

  I join Kevin, who is on the phone, outside an exam room.

  “How is the boy?” I say.

  “He’s having a CT scan.” He points to a woman, about my age, seated in the waiting area. “That’s his mother.”

  “Does anyone know who the driver is?” I say.

  “Her name is Hollingsworth.”

  I look at Kevin carefully. “My mother’s maiden name is Hollingsworth.”

  I don’t have to spell it out for him. He nods. Missy probably came up with the idea for my mother to use her maiden name, but she won’t be able to fly under the radar for long. As soon as she’s arrested and interviewed by probation, her true identity will be revealed.

  I look over at the boy’s mother; she’s crying, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. I grab a cup of water and a box of Kleenex. Kevin takes them from my grasp.

  “You stay here.”

  He walks to the woman and hands her a tissue. A uniform sees me and approaches.

  “I heard they caught the driver,” he says.

  “Did they do field sobrieties?” I say.

  I picture my mother, on the side of the road, trying to walk an imaginary straight line, touch her nose, and recite the alphabet backward.

  “No, the lady was banged up, so they put her in the ambulance,” the officer says.

  “What about the Breathalyzer?”

  “She blew a .21.”

  That’s more than twice the legal limit, which means she’ll be charged with operating under the influence. I watch the doctors talk to Kevin and the child’s mother, who is listening intently. She puts her hand to her chest and exhales. I can’t tell if it’s good news or bad news.

  Kevin comes back to me. “The boy is going to be okay.”

  I tear up, relieved and frustrated. “Let’s get out of here,” I say.

  “I’ll pull the car around to Blossom Street,” Kevin says. “Just in case there’s press.”

  He leaves to get the car, and I walk through the lobby, toward the back door. As I pass the coffee stand, I hear a familiar voice.

  “Abby?”

  I look up. “Cassandra? What are you doing here?”

  “Max wants me to cover the motor vehicle case that just came in.”

  Cassandra is assigned to the white-collar crimes division. On rare occasions, a homicide is thrown her way, but this is going to turn out to be a reckless driving case. It should be handled by a less experienced district court ADA. Max must already know my mother was the driver. If his goal is to bury the case, he picked the wrong prosecutor. Cassandra will never keep this under wraps.

  She takes a sip from her coffee cup, leaving a thick pink lipstick impression on the white plastic cover.

  “I understand you know the perp,” she says.

  I look around. “Does the media know?” I say.

  “Not yet,” she says.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It’s after nine when I get home. Manny is behind the reception desk, watching the news stream on his tablet. He lowers the volume when he sees me.

  “Did you hear about the little kid who got hit by the car over in the South End?”

  I nod and move to check my mailbox, which is empty. Ty must be home.

  Unaware I’m giving him the brush-off, he persists. “Is that your case?”

  I shake my head. “When did Ty get back?”

  “A few hours ago. He was carrying a bag from Whole Foods, so I think you’re in for a home-cooked meal.”

  When Ty officially moved in a few months ago, Manny kept his own counsel, but I knew he didn’t approve—no one did. Not Kevin, not my family, not my neighbors. They said I was selling myself short, that Ty has an inferior education and an unambitious career path. They couldn’t be more wrong. Ty studied at the Berklee College of Music and is accomplished and well respected in his field. There’s nothing I can do to change their minds. Fortunately, I don’t have to. Ty has been winning them over with his quiet charm and easygoing nature.

  When I get upstairs, he’s in the kitchen, drinking a Sam Adams, cooking dinner. He doesn’t hear me when I come in; he’s in his own world, listening to a Mozart piano concerto, humming softly to himself. I hang up my coat and toss my bag on the table in the foyer.

  “Hey, babe.” He wipes his hands on a dish towel and gives me a kiss. “You’re just in time for a quick dinner, before I head to work.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Scallops with quinoa and kale.”

  I pour myself a glass of red wine. A dinner of leafy greens and healthy grains is the last thing I’m in the mood for. I’ll eat something decadent after he’s gone. There’s a pint of Ben and Jerry’s in the fridge.

  “It smells great, but I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say. “I grabbed something on my way home.”

  He opens the freezer, takes out a pint of Chunky Monkey, and scoops some into a bowl. I take the ice cream and wine, he plates his food, and we relocate to the dining table.

  “My mother hit a kid with her car today,” I say.

  “Seriously? That kid on the news?”

  “Yes and yes.” I take a few sips of wine.

  “They’re saying he’s going to be okay.”

  “He’ll live,” I say, “but I don’t know if he’ll be okay. Experiencing something that violent, at such a young age, is going to screw him up. It’ll change who he is.”

  Ty takes a few bites of his nutrient-rich food. I alternate between sips of wine and spoonfuls of ice cream.

  “It was an accident,” he says.

  “She was drunk.”

  I want him to share my outrage, my lack of compassion, my coldheartedness. For better or worse, Ty isn’t the unforgiving sort.

  “Face it, we’ve all got behind the wheel after we’ve had one too many,” he says.

  “Not me.”

  “Well, the rest of us make an occasional mistake.” He gets up and clears the plates.

  “Since when are you the champion of my mother?” I follow him into the kitchen.

  “She’s in trouble. You can’t just show up for the good stuff,” he says.

  “What good stuff?”

  He looks around the apartment to prove his point. “I love you, babe, but you can’t abandon people because they disappoint you.”

  I’m pretty sure we’re talking about more than my mother.

  He goes in the bathroom and turns on the shower. Cassandra has probably already leaked the story to her friend at the Herald. I think about calling Carl to launch an offensive strike. There’s time to get in front of this, but I’m not sure what the message should be. My mother has a problem. She’s going to get help. Or: She’s like many other people, struggling with addiction. Or: It was an accident. Let’s withhold judgment until there’s been a full investigation. Or: Of course my sympathies are with the child and his family.

  Carl picks up on the first ring. “Sorry about your mother,” he says.

  “It’s already out there?”

  “I got a tip.”

  “Was her name Cassandra?”

  “For what it’s worth, no, it wasn’t anyone from your office.”

  It’s plausible Cassandra didn’t leak the information. It could have been the court clerk whose brother I charged with armed robbery a few years ago. Or the desk sergeant whom I prosecuted for domestic violence. But my money is on Cassandra.

  “Credible sources tell me she failed the Breathalyzer,” Carl says.

  “Do me a solid, don’t humiliate her because of me,” I say. “If I wasn’t her daughter, this wouldn’t get any attention.”

  “Senator Greenough could argue the same thing.”

  “That’s on you and yo
ur colleagues—I’m not the one plastering their mugs on the news every day. Besides, there’s no comparison.” I hang up.

  As soon as I hang up, Ty comes out of the bedroom, freshly showered, holding the box from Saks and the card with his name on it.

  “What’s this?” he says.

  I forgot about his birthday gift. This is not how I wanted to give it to him, but nothing is going as planned this week.

  “Open it,” I say. “It’s for you. Happy belated birthday.”

  He sits down, unties the ribbon, and opens the box. When he sees the Saks logo adhered to the tissue paper, he says, “It’s way too expensive.”

  “You don’t even know what it is.”

  “I know where it’s from.”

  He unfolds the tissue paper, taking care not to tear it, and removes the coat. Suddenly, the protests stop.

  “Try it on,” I say.

  He slips the jacket on over his T-shirt, stretches out his arms, and admires the material. He looks hot, so hot that I’ve already forgiven him.

  “I love it, and I love you.” He gives me a kiss, takes off the jacket, and puts it back in the box. “We can’t afford it.”

  “It wasn’t expensive. I got it on sale for a couple of hundred bucks.”

  Ty doesn’t know a lot about fashion—he’s happy wearing jeans and cowboy boots—but he loves a good leather jacket, and he knows that this one cost a lot more than $200, even on sale.

  He puts the top back on the box and gives me another kiss. “You’ve got to get a grip on your finances.”

  “I will.”

  “When? Your credit cards are maxed out. The bills are piling up. As much as I’d like to, I can’t afford to pay for all this.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  He looks me in the eye. “Babe, who do you think has been paying the bills? I’m up to my eyeballs in debt.”

  I stand and look out the window. “I’ll pay you back.”

  He crosses the room, faces me, and put his hands on my shoulders. “You’re the smartest woman I know. You can prosecute complicated financial fraud cases and unravel Ponzi schemes better than a CPA. But when it comes to your own money, you can’t do simple math. I know it’s not about intelligence, that it has to do with emotion, but you’ve got to figure it out.”

  “You’re going to be late for work,” I say.

  He gives me a kiss and grabs his sax. After he leaves, I sit down and do some rough calculations. After taxes and deductions, I net about $50,000 a year. I don’t have a mortgage, but expenses for my apartment—condo fees, taxes, insurance, utilities, TV and wireless, and maintenance—come to about $90,000. Then there’s food, clothing, and other essentials. There’s no room for Givenchy bags and Rick Owens leather jackets in the budget.

  I’m already in the hole, and it’s getting worse every day. I can’t drag Ty down with me. I have to come up with a plan. Otherwise, I’m going to have to file for bankruptcy, which isn’t the best route for anyone, especially someone who wants to be the next district attorney.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I go to bed early but am awake most of the night, worrying about a host of things. At the top of the list is Valerie, followed by Caitlyn’s and Rose’s families, then my mother, the boy she hit, my finances, and, finally, my political career. Ty gets home at around three. He climbs into his side of the bed, keeping his back to me, and we don’t speak. He doesn’t stir when I slip out of bed in the morning.

  In the living room, I settle in behind my computer and troll the Internet, searching both legit news sources as well as gossip sites. There is a string of reports about the accident, all focused on the boy, whose condition has improved. There is no mention of the driver. I suspect this is the handiwork of a skilled publicist: highlight the good, and people will forget about the bad. It will be harder to keep the arrest under wraps, however, once she’s been arraigned.

  I decide to drop by and see the arraignment; otherwise, it will look like I’m hiding. When I arrive at the Edward Brooke Courthouse, just after nine, I’m surprised there are no press vans parked on the street, no reporters milling around on the front steps. It looks like a typical day in municipal court—a rogues’ gallery of low-level drug dealers, pickpockets, trespassers, and prostitutes.

  Inside the arraignment session, I scan the room, looking for my father, but he’s not here. My brother isn’t here either. Court officers nod and smile at me, giving no indication that they’re aware of the reason for my visit.

  Court has convened, and Judge Margo Meagher is on the bench, advising a flasher of his right to an attorney and telling him she’s going to release him on his own recognizance.

  She issues a stern warning. “Keep it in your pants until the next court date.”

  He promises to behave, but he’s not very convincing; when he walks out of the dock, his fly is unzipped. I set my coat on a bench, next to a law student, and ask her to keep an eye on it. I approach the prosecutor’s table, grab the call sheet, and flip through the pages, searching for my mother’s name.

  “Ms. Endicott,” Judge Meagher says, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

  She doesn’t care why I’m here; she knows about my mother, and she’s trying to embarrass me. A few years ago, I appealed her ruling on a gun case.

  “Do we have a murder on the docket?” she says.

  “No, I’m just visiting.”

  Maybe she’s not taunting me. My father could have pulled strings, arranged to have my mother’s case called right before the lunch break, when the courtroom is the least populated. I return to the bench, search around for my coat, but it’s gone.

  “What are you looking for?” a court officer says.

  “I can’t find my coat. Did you see where that law student went?”

  “Law student?”

  “She had brown hair and glasses. She was watching my coat.”

  “That lady was no law student. She was in here for grand larceny, third offense.”

  I’m really off my game. That was a rookie mistake. Regardless, it’s not worth making a fuss. I have to get out of here without being noticed. I sneak into the hallway to find Carl, cameraman in tow.

  “Did I miss the arraignment?” he says.

  “She’s not on the list,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  I shrug. “Maybe she’s still in the hospital.”

  “She was released last night.”

  “Then you know more than I do.”

  He follows me outside, puts his nose up in the air, and sniffs. “I smell a bag job,” he says.

  I walk up New Chardon Street, coatless. It’s cold, and a brisk gust of wind makes me shiver. This fiasco is getting worse by the minute. As I round the corner onto Cambridge Street, I call Kevin.

  “Do you know why my mother isn’t in court?” I say.

  “Her lawyer challenged the Breathalyzer.”

  Faulty breath tests have been an ongoing problem, causing hundreds of cases to be dismissed. This could be one of those cases, or it could have been made to look like it was one of those cases.

  “The machine was broke,” Kevin says. “It’s her lucky day.”

  “She’s not being charged at all?” I say.

  “She’s going to pay civil penalties for negligent operation, but I don’t think she’ll wind up with criminal charges.”

  I’m not sure which looks worse. If my mother is charged, she’ll be held accountable for what she did, but it will further damage my candidacy for DA. If she escapes charges, it will look like the fix was in.

  I cross the street, move away from the office, and cut across the back of the hill, stopping at my parents’ front door. Serena lets me in. She’s in a freshly ironed uniform, but she looks tired, like she’s been up all night. My mother has impacted Serena as much as the rest of us.

  “Where’s your coat?” she says.

  “In the car.”

  She shakes her head, opens the closet, and grabs one of my mother’
s coats. I accept the garment; it’s hard to resist cashmere.

  “Is my mother upstairs?”

  “She went to Martha’s Vineyard a couple of hours ago.”

  “She should have gone to treatment.”

  Serena isn’t going to fight me, but she’s also not going to voice her agreement. My mother isn’t afraid to fire a disloyal employee, even after decades of service.

  “You’re too thin. Claude can make you breakfast,” Serena says.

  “I don’t have time.”

  She grabs a freshly baked corn muffin, wraps it in a napkin, and puts it in my tote. I head to the office, and on the way, my cell phone vibrates. The caller ID shows it’s Chip Aldridge. Maybe he heard my mother was back in the hospital. He may have even operated on the boy she hit. Or it could be some other excuse, designed to keep the connection going. I let the call go to voice mail. His persistence is strong, and my resistance is weak. I’m about one phone call and a couple of glasses of Burgundy away from doing something I’ll regret.

  I stop by Starbucks for my third coffee of the day. Waiting in line, I check my e-mails. There’s no message from the governor’s office. I wonder if they know about my mother. If they don’t, they will soon, and it will likely be the final straw. My candidacy is already hanging by a thread. I haven’t heard from them in over a week, which is a bad sign. In politics, the only thing worse than being under the microscope is being ignored.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Fortunately, Valerie’s disappearance has garnered more publicity than my mother’s car accident. There have been stories in the papers, online, and on TV. Twitter has a couple of hashtags devoted to Valerie: #findvaleriejackson, #whereisvalerie, and #haveyouseenher. Facebook pages and websites have been established to announce local search efforts. Dozens of people have reported sightings; most turned out to be doppelgängers. The rest of the leads are hardly worth pursuing.

  I’m in my office, prepping for my meeting with Valerie’s father, when a knock on the door both startles and annoys me. I remain silent, hoping the intruder will assume I’m on the phone, or in a meeting, and retreat. No such luck; the banging becomes louder and more insistent.