The Fens Page 15

  “My brother lies to you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You want him to lie.”

  “About certain things, yes. I want him to pretend to share my obsession with child safety locks. I want him to act interested in wallpaper choices for the nursery. And I definitely don’t want him to tell me when something makes me look fat, especially now.”

  I signal the waiter and order tiramisu and two forks, even though I know Missy won’t partake.

  “What about infidelity?” I say. “Would you want to know if he was cheating on you?”

  “I don’t want him to cheat, and I don’t think he will, but if he does, I don’t want to know about it.” As I consider, she reads me. “This must have something to do with your job.”

  “Yes.”

  “I love my career. I worked hard to land a job at Fidelity and I hope to go back after my maternity leave. But no job is more important than a relationship.”

  I’m not sure I agree, but I let it drop. We finish dessert—or I finish dessert—and she finishes her chamomile tea. I take a final sip of wine and offer to give her a ride up Mount Vernon Street.

  “Are you sure you’re sober enough to drive?”

  “Yes. I only had one glass of wine.”

  “It was a carafe. More like three glasses.”

  “I’m sober.”

  “I could use the air. I’m going to walk up the hill.”

  When we get outside, I realize I’m a little wobbly after all. I decide to leave my car on Charles Street and Uber to my apartment. I’m disappointed to find Ty is home. He’s in the living room, putting on his leather jacket. We exchange tense hellos.

  “Hey, babe,” he says. “We need to talk.”

  He meets my eyes, touches my arm with confidence, definitely not the behavior of a guilty man who is about to confess to treason. He leans in for a kiss. Something is on his mind, but I don’t want to deal with it right now.

  “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

  He feels my forehead, looks me in the eye. “You feel fine.”

  “I’m going to bed.” I turn to leave.

  “This isn’t working. We can’t keep dancing around each other.”

  I stop short. Ty is not one to make false threats. He’s as tolerant and patient as any man I’ve ever known, but he draws the line at prolonged silence. I turn to face him and wait for him to speak.

  “I haven’t pressed, because I know how you are before your trials, but this is getting out of control. We can’t live like this.”

  I look him in the eye. I want to have a rational, adult conversation but I’m overcome with anger.

  “You leaked the Mike Chase story without talking to me. Admit it. You lied to me, you betrayed me, and you screwed up my case.”

  “I told you it wasn’t me.”

  “I guess I don’t believe you. I can forgive you, but I don’t believe you.” I search his face for a hint of guilt.

  He looks at me blankly. “I didn’t leak that story. If you can’t accept me at my word, then we have serious problems.”

  He picks up his sax case and walks out the door without looking at me again. As soon as he’s gone, I regret being so hard on him. It’s possible that I’m wrong. Maybe he’s not the source of the story. And even if he did talk to a reporter, it’s his story to tell—and I was the one who encouraged him to come forward in the first place. I’ve been too harsh on him. I call his phone to apologize, but he sends me to voice mail. I hang up, without leaving a message.

  I take a lukewarm shower, then check my Twitter feed. Since the trial is starting tomorrow, the Detective Chase controversy has been back in the news. It had quieted for a while; Brookline PD is conducting an internal investigation. But last week, another man came forward to file a complaint. Yesterday, the governor issued a statement, denouncing the detective, and Brookline Police rejected his request to mediate the claims. The headline in today’s Globe announces “Detective Chase Suspended from the Force amid Increasing Allegations of Racism.” Whoever leaked the story has done a great service to the community, but they’ve done irreparable damage to my murder case, and possibly to my relationship.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Whenever Kevin and I are on trial together, we have a routine. The day of my opening statement, he volunteers to be my chauffeur, picks me up before sunrise. And he always brings a Grande soy latte with an extra shot of espresso. In his car on the way to court, we review our to-do list, then he gives me a pep talk and helps carry my exhibits to the courtroom.

  When I step out my front door, he’s waiting in his car. “Your front porch light is still out. You want me to bring a bulb tomorrow?”

  “Ty said he’d do it.”

  He raises his eyebrows, hands me my Starbucks. “Yeah, when was that—like five months ago?”

  I take a long sip of coffee. “This is going to make me jittery.”

  He hands me a paper bag; inside is a cranberry scone. “That oughta soak up the acid in your gut.”

  I take a bite, set it aside. “I’m nauseous.”

  He starts the car and smiles. “For a lady who can’t pack enough adventure into her day, you’re pretty predictable.”

  When we arrive at the courthouse, we set up shop at the prosecutor’s table. My trial box has a file for each witness: the initial police interview, the follow-up detective’s report, grand jury minutes, a catalog of corresponding exhibits, and a list of the questions that I plan to ask. Everything is in alphabetical order and color coded. I remove the exhibits from brown paper bags, but keep them in their plastic evidence sleeves. Then, I lay them out on the bench, according to when I plan to use them. I have spent hours meticulously choreographing each move of this trial, well aware that nothing will go as planned.

  A few minutes before nine, the court officer unlocks the door, and people start to file in—reporters, a pool cameraman, lawyers, and spectators. Moe’s family and friends assume their seats in the front row, on the defendant’s side. My side of the gallery is empty, a rare occurrence. In most of my murder trials, the front pew is jam-packed, unless the victim’s family has given up caring, can’t afford to take a day off work, or both. Today that’s not the reason for the empty space. Wayne’s partner, Graham, is here, but he’s been sequestered because he’s on my witness list. Wayne’s mother isn’t here—she had a heart attack, probably from the stress of losing her son. The Maddox family, including Rebecca, are in the courtroom, but they’re seated on the defendant’s side.

  Moe is seated at the defendant’s table, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and holding a Bible. Nice touch.

  “All rise,” the court officer says.

  Judge Levine bounds into the courtroom, with energy and enthusiasm—which makes me uncomfortable. The more alert he is, the tougher he’ll be on me. I take a silent breath and steel myself as he gets the ball rolling.

  Not surprisingly, Moe’s lawyer files a motion to suppress my most compelling evidence—the bullets that were allegedly seized from Moe’s car. He assumes I’m going to call Chase as a witness at trial, so he never even bothers to ask. His team wrote an extensive brief deeming Mike Chase unreliable, alleging that the search of Moe’s car was illegal, and arguing that the judge shouldn’t allow the ammunition to be part of the evidence. It’s a valid request, and it’s also another way to garner pretrial publicity.

  “Does the Commonwealth wish to be heard on the defendant’s motion to suppress?” the judge says.

  I gather my thoughts and utter a sentence I’ve never said before.

  “The Commonwealth assents to the defendant’s motion.”

  It makes me nauseous but I don’t have a choice. Everyone saw the damage Mark Fuhrman did to the OJ case. I’m not going to vouch for Chase’s credibility. I know too much; it’d be bad strategically, not to mention morally repugnant.

  Jury empanelment goes swiftly and efficiently. This is one of the rare cases where people actually want to serve as jurors. The judge el
iminates anyone with strong feelings about sports and the police. Most people have heard about the case, and the judge asks if they can still remain fair and impartial.

  The trial is going to be tough, but I’ve tried cases with less evidence. Hopefully, Tags’s testimony will be enough to carry the day. My real concern is the media spotlight. High-profile cases bring out the worst in people—not just lawyers. It impacts the judge, court officers, witnesses; even spectators react in an exaggerated manner. Everyone clamors for attention, hoping to make it on the nightly news. Jurors are never filmed and they’re not supposed to read coverage about the case, but they’re aware of the cameras and they know their verdict will undergo tremendous scrutiny. Sometimes it seems as if people care more about perception than about getting it right.

  It only takes a day to pick twelve jurors and five alternates. We adjourn for the night and start fresh in the morning. Everyone is anxious and excited to get going, but no one else as much as me.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Levine says, “you are now going to hear opening statements from both attorneys. These statements are like a road map, to let you know what you can expect to hear at the trial.”

  The road-map analogy is a staple among trial judges. I disagree. To me, an opening statement is a contract, between the jury and me. I tell them how I’m going to prove my case, and if I make good on my promise, I expect them to convict. So, I’m careful not to make promises I can’t keep.

  When Judge Levine gives me the nod, I stand and center myself in front of the jury box. After establishing eye contact with each juror, I pivot and point at Moe Morrissey.

  “It’s indisputable that the defendant is many things. He’s a husband, a father, a professional athlete. Moe Morrissey is an all-star on the field, a sports legend. But he’s also a double murderer. Just like a Mafia boss, he put out a hit on Wayne Ellis and Rudy Maddox.”

  I pause, survey the panel. My least favorite juror, an accountant from the North End, is staring at Moe. Jurors often look at defendants with contempt. Not this juror. This juror looks as if she’s itching to go over and ask for an autograph, or a kiss. The attraction of celebrity. I pause until she turns her attention back to me.

  “The defendant has a high strikeout-to-walk ratio and a multimillion-dollar contract, but that doesn’t make him any less of a killer. In fact, it corroborates our theory—he had a lot to lose. He was cheating, about to be exposed.”

  I glove up, take out the baseballs, and hold them up, one at a time, using both hands—as though they were fragile. The jurors lean in, straining to see.

  “This is why he wanted Rudy Maddox and Wayne Ellis dead. He was a cheater. He manipulated the balls with a slippery substance and the victims found out and they threatened to expose him. He hired Paul Tagala to do his dirty work, to keep distance between himself and the killings. He didn’t pull the trigger, but that doesn’t make him any less guilty.”

  Halfway through my opening, Moe tips his glass and spills his water all over the table, causing a distraction and breaking my momentum. I glance over but keep going; I’m not going to yield control. I walk the jurors through the evidence and talk to them about murder for hire, and how it makes Moe responsible for the murder itself. Then, I talk about some of the witnesses that I expect to testify—the medical examiner, the detectives, the crime lab technicians.

  “The most important witness you will hear from is Paul Tagala. He knows what happened because he was there. He will take the witness stand and tell you about Moe Morrissey’s directive to kill, and the compensation he was promised. He will describe the horror of what happened.”

  Before I conclude, I move to Moe’s table. He sits up straight and we lock eyes.

  “At the end of this trial, you will know that this man is a murderer.” I turn back to the jury. “And I will ask you to return a verdict of guilty.”

  Anthony stands and starts talking before I get a chance to put my butt in my chair.

  “Ms. Endicott’s case is all smoke and mirrors. There isn’t any evidence of a conspiracy or an agreement to kill, nothing to tie my client to a murder. Moe Morrissey loved Rudy Maddox, like a brother. He grieved his death like everyone else in this city. And he is an innocent man.”

  Anthony picks up one of the baseballs, tosses it in the air. “Pardon the pun, but I’m asking you to keep your eye on the ball. Don’t be fooled or misled by an overzealous prosecutor.”

  Anthony is entertaining, and worse, he’s convincing. He tells the jurors about the steroids scandal, to make the victims look bad and to raise another motive for someone else to have done the murders. He wraps up by insulting Tags, calling him an opportunistic liar with an immunity deal.

  When Anthony is done, the judge calls a recess so we can take the jury on a view. Moe joins his family in the hallway. It’s unsettling to see him, walking around, without as much as an ankle bracelet.

  In the hallway, a couple of spectators approach Moe, shake his hand, and ask for his autograph. The stenographer asks him to sign a baseball that she pulls from her tote. A detective who is on trial across the hall smiles and takes a selfie. When I see an ADA from my office move toward Moe, palming her cell phone, I throw her the stink eye. Reluctantly, she backs off. Then, the accountant juror comes into the hallway and stands in place, waiting to catch Moe’s attention. If I were allowed to talk to jurors, I’d tell her to keep moving.

  Fortunately, a court officer steps in. “Ma’am, why don’t you follow me.”

  “I wasn’t trying to talk to Moe or anything. I can be fair and impartial.”

  She is unconvincing—and unable to take her eyes off Moe.

  Chapter Forty

  Pictures may speak a thousand words, but they’re no replacement for a jury view. A field trip to the crime scene is always creepy, scary, and invaluable. Jurors can stand where the victim took his last breath. They can imagine the horror he experienced, especially if I’m lucky enough to have a location where bullet holes are still in the ceiling or specks of blood spatter on the walls.

  We all get on the bus at the courthouse, and the driver takes us to our first stop, Fenway Park. Taking the jury into the ballpark would be fun, and taking them on the roof where Emma filmed Tags would be an adventure, but neither sets the tone I’m going for.

  I stand and turn to face the rear of the bus.

  “Members of the jury, I’d like you to take note of the location of the ballpark. And pay particular attention to Gate D because I’ll be talking about that exit during the trial.”

  They all look out the windows as I speak. Some seem eager to get off the bus. I have to deliver the bad news, in case they don’t hate me enough already.

  “We’re not going into the park. I’d like you to notice the distance between this location and our next stop.”

  We travel the route Tags took, to the transfer station. When the bus arrives, we see that Kevin, along with a dozen uniforms, is positioned near the front gate. Yellow crime-scene tape is up to keep the crowd away. Workers, reporters, and lookie-loos—all with cameras—lurk nearby, hoping for a money shot of Moe. He nods but keeps his game face on.

  The stench of rotting trash is heavy in the air. I’m not sure where it’s coming from, but I’m glad it’s here. I prefer a trial that assaults all the senses.

  Kevin leans in and whispers, “You’d better make this quick—a couple of jurors look a little green around the gills.”

  I filed the motion in court, and the judge allowed me to have the view, but my role is limited. I’m not allowed to do much more than point things out. I direct the jurors’ attention to the entrance of the dump and the spot where Rudy was discovered. Later, I’ll connect the dots, through witnesses and photos.

  As I speak, Anthony and Moe hover, as though they’re spectators; a subtle way of distancing themselves from the crime. On our way back to the bus, one of the jurors, the accountant, stumbles on a loose piece of scrap metal; Moe rushes to her side, catches her elbow, an
d steadies her. She smiles and blushes. He hasn’t said a word, but he’s scoring a lot of points.

  Our next stop is the Fens. Traffic is heavy and the driver seems to hit every pothole on Massachusetts Avenue. Halfway there, it starts to rain lightly. Then there’s a quick downpour, complete with a burst of thunder.

  Anthony, who is seated in the row behind me, leans on my headrest and whispers, “Having fun yet?”

  I smile but he knows I’m aware that the jurors are mumbling and grumbling in the back of the bus.

  When we arrive at the Fens, I lead the pack down the path, which is now an obstacle course of puddles and soggy grass. At our destination, I see Kevin talking to an ice cream vendor.

  “Do you mind moving for a few minutes?” Kevin says.

  The man has planted himself on a bench and refuses to budge. “It’s a free country.”

  Kevin, not wanting to make a scene, stands in front of the man, blocking him from view. I direct the jurors’ attention to the streetlights and ask them to take note of the distance between the entry points of the park. Tags will testify to how he dumped the body in the swamp under the cover of darkness.

  The ice cream vendor steps out from behind Kevin and interrupts, “Hey, does anyone want a Hoodsie?” The man holds up a red-and-white paper cup, and a wooden spoon. “I’m running a special, two for three dollars.”

  A couple of jurors reach for their pockets. Moe beats them to it. He takes out his wallet, gives the man a $100 bill, in exchange for the entire stash.

  It was a brilliant move. He looks like a good guy, and I can’t object—unless I want to deny my jurors their treat. I look to Judge Levine, hoping he’ll intervene. He steps up, and instead of admonishing Moe, he reaches into the box of Hoodsies and helps himself.

  The man puts the money in his billfold and then looks back at Moe. “Hey, you’re Moe Morrissey.”

  Moe puffs out his chest. “That’s right.”

  “Didn’t you kill someone?”

  Moe moves back a few steps, slumps against a light post.