The Fens Read online

  The man keeps talking. “Wait, you killed two people, right?”

  Judge Levine tries to run interference. “Does the Commonwealth have anything else to present?” Judge Levine’s words are muffled because his mouth is full of ice cream.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Then this view is over.”

  Two of the jurors toss their unopened Hoodsies in the trash. I suppress a smile as I lead the jurors out of the park and we all climb back into the bus.

  Chapter Forty-One

  I’m exhausted from the view but still have to put in a couple of hours at Bulfinch. I want to organize my exhibits and prepare questions for tomorrow. If all goes according to plan, I should get through my opening statement and at least three witnesses. Nothing, however, ever goes according to plan during a trial, so I have to be ready to shoot from the hip.

  At about eight, my phone rings. It’s Missy. “Your mother and I are having dinner at the Gardner Club. Can you join us?”

  “I’m in the middle of trial.”

  “You still have to eat.” A hint of desperation is in her voice.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I think she wants to tell us something.”

  I agree to meet them at the club, one of my least favorite places in Boston. It’s the default location for Endicotts to observe various rites of passage. It’s where my parents celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, where Charlie and Missy were married, and where Uncle Minty had his last meal before going to prison for tax evasion.

  When I arrive, my mother is in rare form, flitting around the dining room. She looks as if she were hosting a private dinner party, moving from table to table, Missy in tow. Missy is carefully monitoring the conversations, to be sure my mother doesn’t say or do anything to shame herself or the family.

  I tell my mother I have to get up early and coax her to the table, where a bottle of champagne is waiting on ice.

  “We don’t need a whole bottle,” Missy says, patting her expanding baby bump. “I’m not drinking.”

  “That’s ridiculous—my generation drank when we were expecting, and our children turned out fine,” my mother says. “Abigail will join me in.”

  I’d love some alcohol—it’d help numb the pain, both familial and professional—but seeing my mother drink drives home Missy’s and Ty’s point—my gene pool is loaded with addiction. I have to be mindful of my own behavior.

  “I’m not drinking tonight.”

  My mother rolls her eyes and turns to the waiter, who is ready to take our dinner orders. Beef Wellington for me, lemon sole for Missy, and shrimp cocktail for my mother, who prefers to drink her calories.

  “Are we celebrating something?” I say.

  My mother smiles at the pop of the champagne cork. She waits for the sommelier to fill her glass, then raises it as though making a toast. “I have an announcement.” She takes a sip, holding the suspense.

  Missy catches my eye.

  “What’s the news?” I fidget with my silverware.

  “Will and I are moving in together.”

  A piece of my dinner roll goes down the wrong pipe. I try to clear my throat, but can’t stop coughing. Missy hands me a water glass and I take a few small sips. A waiter stands nearby, ready to perform the Heimlich.

  My mother, who is not at all concerned, waves him off. “Don’t be so dramatic. You of all people should understand the desire to cohabitate.”

  After a minute, I’m able to clear my throat and regain my breathing.

  “When are you moving?” Missy says.

  “I’m not actually relocating.”

  My mother signals the sommelier, who tightens the napkin around the champagne bottle and refills her glass.

  “He’s moving into our house?” I say.

  “It’s my house now, at least it will be when the divorce is final.”

  “Does Dad know?” I say.

  My mother shrugs. “That’s not relevant.”

  “What’s the rush?” Missy says.

  “Will has been staying at the Harvard Club since his divorce. He has to live somewhere.”

  “Whose idea was this?” I say.

  “That’s it, end of subject,” my mother says.

  When the waiter arrives with our food, none of us are hungry. My mother nibbles on a shrimp and polishes off the bottle of champagne. Missy takes a forkful of fish and moves the snow peas around on her plate. I ask for a doggie bag because I’ll be hungry later—and because it’ll annoy my mother. She thinks it’s crass to take uneaten food home.

  Since Kevin drove me to work this morning, and I don’t want to spend money on a taxi, I ask Missy to drive me home. My mother lives three blocks away, but she’s barely walking a straight line. We drop her off first.

  When we arrive at the house on Louisburg Square, our housekeeper opens the door. Will is standing in the foyer, behind her. The housekeeper takes my mother’s coat; Will takes her arm.

  “Let’s have a nightcap,” Will says.

  As he ushers her upstairs, Missy clocks my look of concern.

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “I know he’s got money of his own, but, no, I don’t trust him.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Normally, I call witnesses in chronological order, starting with the first responder—an EMT or patrolman, who talks about finding the body. That’s not going to work today. I have to go off script and begin with a witness who is recognizable, someone with gravitas, someone who can tarnish Moe.

  “The Commonwealth calls Donnie Rourke to the stand,” I say.

  Donnie, the team manager, is a celebrity in his own right, and he’s the only person who can drive a wedge between Moe and Boston’s beloved ball club. He races in the courtroom as though he were trying to catch a bus, stopping short in front of the clerk, who administers the oath. Cameras click and people sit up a little taller. Everyone in Boston has seen Donnie on TV, and they feel as if they already know him, which allows me to tick off the introductory questions quickly: name, occupation, background, and training.

  Then, I get to the point, ask the million-dollar question. “What is Moe’s current status with the ball club?”

  “Inactive.” Donny remains his usual loquacious self.

  “He’s been suspended from the team?”

  “Yes.”

  I display photos of Moe with Wayne at an away game, and Moe with Rudy at a family function, and Donnie identifies both victims.

  “Did Paul Tagala know both men?” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “As far as you could tell, was there any animus between them?”

  “Nope.”

  When I’m done with my direct examination, Anthony dives in and does his best to rehabilitate his client. “Moe has been suspended, pending the outcome of this case.”

  “Correct,” Donnie says.

  “If he’s acquitted, as he should be, he could be back on the team. And they could start winning games again.”

  I jump out of my seat. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  “Would he be allowed to play again?” Judge Levine wants to know the answer as much as the rest of the sports fans in the courtroom.

  “Possibly,” Donnie says. “Can’t say for sure.”

  Two jurors, seated in the front row, glare at me, as though I were the only thing standing between the Red Sox and another World Series championship.

  “Nothing further,” Anthony says.

  Anthony smiles and sits.

  Before I have time to figure out my recovery, Judge Levine prompts me to move on. “Call your next witness.”

  I need to humanize my victims. I turn to look at Rudy’s family. His mother, June, offers a faint smile, which could be tacit assent. Or at least that’s how I choose to interpret it. She wouldn’t allow me to prep her, and I know she’s probably going to be a hostile witness, but I need her testimony.

  I turn to the judge. “The Commonwealth calls June Maddox to th
e stand.”

  Mr. Maddox leans in to whisper something to his wife, but she shakes her head. She doesn’t want to hear it. She’s doesn’t look me in the eye, and it’s obvious to anyone who’s paying attention, she’s no longer on my team. She stands, smooths her suit skirt, and tugs on the cuffs of her shirt. Anthony must have prepared her for the possibility that I’d call her. The court officer opens the swinging door that separates the audience from the participants, and June tromps through to the front of the courtroom.

  Once she’s settled in, I tread lightly. Maybe the jury didn’t notice the seating situation; it’s possible they don’t know that the mother of my victim is sitting with the family of the accused.

  “Could you please state your name for the record,” I say.

  She crosses her arms and looks at the ceiling.

  “Mrs. Maddox?” I say.

  No response.

  “Did you hear the question?” Judge Levine says.

  She nods. “I heard, but I don’t want to talk to her.”

  “Why not?” the judge says.

  “My daughter-in-law, Rebecca, told me she’s a sneaky lawyer and she’s out to get us.”

  I clock the jurors. The lunch lady twists her body away from me. The accountant holds her purse in her lap as though she’s ready to get up and go home as soon as the judge gives her the go-ahead. This is a disaster, but I’ve backed myself into a corner.

  “Your Honor, perhaps it’s time for the afternoon recess,” I say.

  The judge consults his watch. “No, we still have thirteen minutes.”

  He’s enjoying my pain. I clear my throat, shuffle my papers, and glance into the gallery. Kevin throws me a Go get ’em, tiger look. I take a photograph from the top of my pile of exhibits: Rudy, wearing a Red Sox uniform, flashing a toothy smile. I project the image onto a screen.

  “Do you recognize this man?” I say.

  She tears up, as I’d hoped. I hate to bring her pain, but I have to get her to stop snarling long enough to answer my questions.

  “That’s my son, the day he signed with the team.”

  I have the picture marked with an evidence sticker and pass it around to the jury. Then, I show them Rudy’s contract with the Sox. Hopefully that will take their minds off me, and back onto what this case is about. The jurors study the contract; maybe I’ve neutralized a couple of them. Regardless, I’ve killed enough time to make a second request for a recess, which the judge allows.

  The courtroom empties, and I look for Kevin in the hallway. He’s waiting with a gooey, sugary cinnamon roll.

  “I’ve dealt with hostile witnesses before, but the victim’s mother has never refused to cooperate.” I take too big a bite of the roll and chew until it’s safe to swallow.

  “No time for self-pity. What’s your plan?”

  “I need to put Tags on the stand. Can you arrange to have him brought over from the jail?”

  “You sure you want to call him so soon?”

  “My options are diminishing. If I have any hope of a conviction, I need the jurors to stop hating me and start hating Moe. ASAP.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  It will take at least an hour to transport Tags from the jail to the courthouse. I fill in the time by putting the transfer-station worker on the stand. I go slowly, methodically, dragging it out as long as I can.

  He helps me get in some gory details about the condition of Rudy’s body and the horror of finding him. When I hold up a photograph of Rudy partially buried in the scrap heap, I hear a sound from the jury box. Someone is hissing at me. Hissing—the courtroom equivalent of rotten tomatoes. I want to turn to him and tell him this isn’t my fault—I wasn’t the one who killed Rudy.

  Anthony is so confident about the case he doesn’t even bother to cross-examine the witness: “No questions.”

  I turn and look at Kevin, who gives me a thumbs-up, signaling that Tags is here.

  “The Commonwealth calls Paul Tagala to the stand,” I say.

  The court officers escort Tags into the courtroom. He’s wearing his orange prison-issued jumpsuit; his lawyer, Tracey Miller, keeps pace by his side. This should turn things around. Tags will set things straight. As the clerk swears him in, Anthony and Tracey exchange the hint of conspiratorial nods. Wait. This can’t be happening.

  “Your Honor,” Tracey says, “may we approach sidebar?”

  I try to stall. “Objection.”

  “On what grounds?” the judge says.

  “Um, it’s unduly prejudicial.”

  “To have a sidebar?” Anthony says.

  Judge Levine rolls his eyes and waves us all forward.

  “My client wishes to invoke his rights under the Fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution,” Tracey says.

  “No way,” I say. “We had a deal.”

  Tracey smiles and shrugs. “He changed his mind.”

  “When?”

  “Does the time really matter?” Anthony says.

  I ignore Anthony, stay focused on Tracey. “If he doesn’t cooperate, we’ll withdraw the plea offer.”

  “Yes, he understands that.”

  “He’ll do life, no chance of parole.”

  “Only if he’s convicted at trial,” Tracey says.

  “At the rate you’re going, that’s not going to happen—to either Tags or Moe,” Anthony says.

  “Your Honor,” I say, “I demand that the court enforce our agreement with Mr. Tagala.”

  “No can do,” Judge Levine says. “Your request is denied.”

  I’m being triple-teamed.

  “It’s a few minutes before five.” Anthony points to the clock. “Perhaps we could break early. My client has plans to go to Las Vegas for the long weekend.”

  Judge Levine addresses the entire courtroom. “We’re in recess. It’ll give us all some time to rest and recharge. See you on Tuesday.”

  I wish he were that amenable when I needed to buy time. He gets off the bench and disappears into his chambers.

  After the jury is dismissed, Tags get off the stand and walks past Moe’s table. Tags signals solidarity with a quick chin raise. Moe looks over at me and smiles. I hold his gaze—a game of who will blink first—until Kevin calls me over.

  He’s got a piece of paper in his hand. “It’s the visitors’ log at the jail. Guess who visited Tags last night.”

  “It couldn’t be Moe. Tell me the guards didn’t let Tags’s coconspirator visit him in the jail.”

  “It wasn’t Moe.”

  “Did he send his lawyer? Did Anthony visit him? That’d be cause for reprimand.”

  “Nope. It wasn’t Anthony.”

  I grab the paper from Kevin and scan the list.

  “It was Cecilia,” he says. “Moe sent his fiancée to do his bidding.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Moe gets permission to travel to Las Vegas for the weekend. While he and Cecilia are playing blackjack, shopping at Cartier, and dining at CUT, Kevin and I do some digging. Bank records don’t show a transfer of funds from any of Moe’s accounts to Tags, but $500,000 was recently withdrawn from Cecilia’s investment account. We can’t figure out where the money went, but it’s reasonable to infer that it went to Tags. Or at least that’s what I plan to argue in court. It’s not proof beyond a reasonable doubt that Moe bribed Tags, but maybe we can use it as leverage.

  On Saturday afternoon, Kevin and I make the drive to Cohasset. It’s not even October, but an unexpected storm has left Jerusalem Road slick with a thin layer of ice. The sky is dark and the road is slick with fallen leaves. We park behind the Maddoxes’ home, knock on the door. Rebecca answers but doesn’t invite us in.

  “We won’t stay long,” I say. “Please hear us out.”

  Rebecca steps aside and we enter the kitchen, wipe our feet on the mat. Chloe is crawling behind her mother. Rebecca picks her up, holds her in her lap as we all take seats around the table.

  Rebecca speaks f
irst. “Moe is innocent. I don’t understand why you’re doing this to my family.”

  “We’re doing it for your family—for you and for Chloe,” I say.

  “Even Tags says Moe wasn’t involved. You pressured him into lying.”

  “Tags didn’t exonerate Moe,” I say. “He took the Fifth—it’s different.”

  Chloe whines and starts to fuss. Rebecca bounces her on her knees and sings the words that every Boston-born baby loves to hear: “Trot, trot to Boston. Trot to Lynn. Look out little Chloe or you might fall in.” With that, Rebecca opens her knees, but keeps hold of Chloe’s underarms, while pretending that the child might slip through. Chloe knows the routine. She squeals in delight.

  “Your sister paid Tags money, to stop him from testifying,” Kevin says. “Moe doesn’t want the truth about what happened to come out.”

  Rebecca shakes her head. “I don’t believe you.”

  Kevin shows her the printout of the visitors’ log from the jail and directs her to her sister’s signature. I show her the bank records. Rebecca chews her bottom lip as she studies the documents.

  “Cecilia protected Moe, knowing he killed your baby’s father,” I say. “That’s what the evidence shows.”

  Kevin shows Rebecca the security tape from the jail, time-stamped from Thursday night. It shows Cecilia checking in at the front desk, putting her coat and bag in a locker. Rebecca looks at her daughter, who is humming to herself. Rebecca struggles with what she wants to say.

  “I saw Cecilia.”

  Kevin and I exchange looks, but mask our excitement.

  “Your sister? When?” Kevin’s voice is calm.

  “The day after Rudy went missing.”

  Rebecca pauses, puts Chloe in her play seat.

  “Where did you see her?” Kevin says.

  “At their house, in Chestnut Hill. Cecilia and I were in the living room, drinking coffee, waiting to hear from Rudy. Moe called.”

  “Did she talk to him?” I say.

  “For a minute.”

  “How did she seem?” Kevin says.

  “Nervous, she was pacing around, whispering. Then, she left the room.”

  “Could you see where she went?” Kevin says.