The Fens Read online

  “To the garage—Moe was there. I thought it was weird that he called when he was right outside.”

  “Was anyone else there?” Kevin says.

  “Tags.”

  “What happened?”

  Rebecca hesitates, looks at her child. “Moe handed Cecilia a laundry bag.”

  “How big was it?” Kevin says.

  Rebecca shrugs. “It was all bunched up. It looked like it could have come from the locker room at Fenway. Cecilia took the bag and got in her car and drove away.”

  “What do you think was in the bag?” I say.

  She starts to speak, stops herself.

  We wait.

  “Moe kept a gun in the garage.”

  “How do you know?” I say.

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “It must’ve been the murder weapon,” Kevin says, looking at me.

  “You think your sister stashed it somewhere?” I say.

  Rebecca eyes the baby, who is gnawing on her stuffed Paddington bear’s paw, and nods.

  “When your sister came back to the house, did you ask where she went?” I say.

  “Yes, but she didn’t really answer, so I let it drop.”

  I take out my iPad. “I’ll draw up a subpoena, call her as a witness.”

  “She’ll never testify against Moe,” Rebecca says.

  “If she doesn’t, she’ll go to jail,” Kevin says.

  Rebecca drops her head and starts to cry. “She won’t care. She’ll do anything for him.”

  I get a tissue from the counter, hand it to her. Then, pour her a glass of water from the dispenser near the fridge.

  “If she’s locked up, she’ll be separated from her kids,” I say.

  Chloe sees her mother in distress, starts to cry.

  Rebecca scoops her up. “She won’t turn on him.”

  “What makes you so sure?” I say. “Is she scared of him?”

  Rebecca stands, keeping her daughter in her arms. “It’s nap time. You can see yourselves out.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Kevin and I drive out to Logan Airport on Sunday night. We’re optimistic that forcing Cecilia to testify is the break we need. We scan the arrival board until we find Moe’s flight information, then position ourselves near the luggage belt. Dozens of suntanned passengers are already at baggage claim. I look around, scout out a man in a dark suit, holding a sign: MORRISSEY.

  Moe rounds the corner first, holding a Vuitton duffel bag. Cecilia is close behind, wrapped in a plush cashmere sweater.

  If Moe is surprised to see us, he doesn’t show it. He puffs out his chest slightly, as though he’s emboldened by our presence. “Did you come to tell me you dropped the charges?”

  We’re not allowed to speak to a defendant who is represented by counsel, not even the arrogant ones who need to be knocked down a peg.

  “Cecilia, we have a gift for you,” Kevin says.

  She looks at Kevin, then at Moe.

  “Whatever it is, we don’t want it,” Moe says.

  A small crowd is starting to form around us. Hey, that’s Moe Morrissey. Did you do it, Moe? Why’d you kill them? Can I have your autograph? A couple of cell phone cameras snap. We’ve got to serve the subpoena and split, otherwise we’ll be on the eleven o’clock news.

  Kevin holds out the papers. “It’s a court order.”

  “Go ahead, take it,” Moe says. “There’s nothing more they can do to us.”

  Cecilia extends her hand and accepts the subpoena.

  “Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock—be there,” Kevin says, “or instead of that diamond tennis bracelet, you’ll be wearing handcuffs.”

  Kevin drives me home. When we arrive, the porch is dark. I’m annoyed to see Ty still hasn’t changed the bulb. I’d do it, but we don’t have a stepladder, and I’m not tall enough to reach the light fixture. When I get upstairs, I decide not to nag him. We’ve got bigger issues right now.

  I stay up all night, preparing for Cecilia’s testimony. It’s going to be stressful in the moment and I don’t want to forget anything. I draw up dozens of questions, starting with the basics. Name, address, relationship to Moe. Then I move on to questions that will elicit information about Moe’s relationship with Rudy. How long did they know each other? How often did they interact socially? I’ll save the best for last. Where were you the night Rudy disappeared? Was there a gun in the laundry bag? Did Moe tell you to dispose of it? Where’d you put it?

  The pages fill up quickly. When my head starts to throb, I take a break to shower and dress. It’s cold and dark when I set out for the courthouse. Out of habit, I grab a coffee at Starbucks, but what I really need is a beta-blocker, to slow my heart rate and dull the physical symptoms of anxiety. I’m amped up and jittery, but excited to face off against the Morrisseys. This is going to be my day. Things are going to turn around. The jury will come over to my side.

  In my office, I stare at the clock, waiting for the courthouse to open. No need to review my questions again; I committed them to memory. At eight o’clock, I pack my trial box and walk toward Pemberton Square. The temperature has risen in the last couple of hours, and by the time I climb the steep stairs at Center Plaza, my forehead has developed a film of sweat.

  In the lobby, near the elevator bank, Emma Phelps breaks away from her cameraman and catches up with me.

  “You look flushed,” she says. “Is everything okay?”

  “Never better.”

  She jumps on an empty elevator car, holds the door. “Coming?”

  “I’ll wait for the next one.”

  I don’t trust myself alone with her. I’m so excited, I might blurt out something I regret. Moe Morrissey is going down.

  Anthony calls the clerk to say he’s going to be late for court. He says he’s tied up at home. His kid is sick. I don’t think he has children, but I let it slide. He’s probably at his office, furiously trying to prepare his cross-examination of Cecilia. He can prepare all he wants, the truth doesn’t change.

  An hour later, Anthony strolls in. Kevin tells me Cecilia is in the hallway. The court officer calls order, and Judge Levine takes the bench.

  “Ms. Endicott, who is your next witness?” he says.

  I stand and look at the jury. “The Commonwealth calls Cecilia Bond.”

  The jurors look back at me; one even shows the hint of a smile. They take out their notebooks, uncap their pens. Cecilia sashays into the courtroom as though she were on a runway, dressed to the nines in a turquoise pantsuit. She passes Rebecca, who has switched seats. Today, she’s on the prosecution side of the aisle, next to Graham.

  The clerk swears her in and Cecilia takes her place on the hot seat. As I move to the lectern, I catch a glimpse of Moe. He looks as confident as ever, game face on. Nothing seems to ruffle him.

  I want to start slow, build the tension, and find my rhythm. “Please introduce yourself to the members of the jury.”

  She takes a sip of water, smiles. “My name is Cecilia Morrissey.”

  “Where do you—” I stop short. Wait. Cecilia Morrissey? “You mean Bond, Cecilia Bond.”

  “No, I mean Morrissey. Moe and I got married yesterday, in Las Vegas.”

  She holds up her ring finger—for the jury, the cameras, and me. The lower half of her finger is covered by a sparkly emerald-cut diamond. This is not how I expected it to go.

  Anthony shoots out of his chair. “Your Honor, may we approach sidebar?”

  “Approach. You too, Mrs. Morrissey.”

  We huddle; the jury strains to listen. The clerk turns on the white-noise machine.

  Anthony speaks first. “The witness has informed me she intends to assert her marital privilege. Pursuant to the General Laws, Chapter 233, Section 20, she must be excused.”

  The judge looks at Cecilia. “Is that true? Do you intend to assert your spousal privilege?”

  “I don’t want to testify against my husband, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  The judge looks at me.<
br />
  I try to keep my cool, but only because the jury is watching. “Your Honor, the marriage is a sham. The Morrisseys are trying to take advantage of a loophole in the system.”

  “We’ve been engaged for two years. We have kids together,” Cecilia says. “We were in Vegas and we decided it was as good a time as any.”

  “While the timing is suspect, I’m bound by the rules, Ms. Endicott,” Judge Levine says. “Mrs. Morrissey, you don’t have to testify. You are excused.”

  Cecilia flashes her million-dollar CoverGirl smile, winks at her husband, and takes her place in the front row of the gallery. When this trial started, I didn’t have a lot of evidence, but I had hope. Now, I don’t have either.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  For me, Moe’s nuptials have not been cause for celebration. Cecilia was going to be my Hail Mary, and her refusal to testify is a major setback. Since I had planned to spend most of the day with her on the stand, I only have one witness on deck: the junkie who found Wayne’s body in the Fens.

  He’s pacing around the hallway, twitching and sniffling, ingesting as much sugar as he can get his hands on. I gave him my lunch—a Mounds bar and a pack of Oreos. I can’t call him to testify in this condition—the jury doesn’t trust me as it is. It’d be the final nail in my coffin.

  “Who is your next witness?” Judge Levine says.

  I’d like to summons someone from the Brookline Police to testify, to show the jury the ammunition that was found in Moe’s car, but I can’t. I look around the gallery, at all the people who could help, but won’t: Emma Phelps, Cecilia Morrissey, even Paul Tagala’s grandmother is here. My eyes land on Rebecca.

  “The Commonwealth calls Rebecca Maddox.”

  I turn to look at Rebecca, who is shaking her head back and forth. I walk over to her, cover my face with a legal pad, and lean across the rail. Kevin joins the huddle.

  “I need you,” I say.

  “I can’t testify against Moe. I can’t.”

  “You don’t have to testify against anyone,” Kevin says. “Testify for Rudy.”

  “All you have to do is tell the truth,” I say.

  The judge calls out. “Let’s go, Ms. Endicott.”

  Rebecca hesitates, then stands and follows me up the aisle. As we cross the bar, Moe turns his entire body around to glare at her. She stumbles. I hold on to her elbow and help her regain her balance.

  “Raise your right hand,” the clerk says.

  She’s shaking so much that she has to use her left hand to steady her right one. Her breathing is loud and purposeful as she takes the oath. As soon as she sits in the witness box, I launch in. We make it through the foundation questions.

  “Please introduce yourself to the members of the jury.”

  “My name is Rebecca Maddox.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “What is your marital status?”

  She takes a breath. “I’m a widow.”

  I project a photo of Rudy onto the screen. He’s smiling, his arm around Rebecca, holding their baby.

  “That’s my husband.”

  As Rebecca dabs at the corner of her eyes with a tissue, my least favorite juror, the accountant, unfolds her arms and looks at me. She might be warming up to me. Maybe she sees I’m not the enemy.

  “Do you know the defendant, Mr. Morrissey?” I say.

  “He’s my brother-in-law.”

  Anthony jumps out of his chair. “May we be heard at sidebar?”

  “Approach,” Judge Levine says.

  Anthony leads the charge to the judge’s bench. In an effort to overpower the white noise, he raises his voice. “Ms. Endicott didn’t give notice of this witness. It’s a violation of the discovery rules.”

  “I didn’t know your client was going to marry a key witness,” I say.

  “What’s your point, Counsel?” the judge says.

  “Mrs. Maddox should be excluded and her testimony stricken.”

  “She’s a necessary witness,” I say.

  The judge looks over our heads, at the reporters in the gallery. “I’m going to split the baby. I’ll allow her to testify, but I’ll give you time to prepare. We’ll adjourn until tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be able to get her back here tomorrow,” I say.

  “That’s your problem,” the judge says. “We’re in recess.”

  The courtroom starts to empty. Rebecca looks as if she’s about to bolt.

  “If you’re worried about safety,” I say, “we can put you in a hotel for the night.”

  “And then what?”

  I wish I had a good response, but I don’t. I wish Kevin could make a preemptive arrest for failure to appear, but that’s not one of his superpowers. Rebecca promises to come back tomorrow, but she’s not very convincing. I remind her that the judge will issue a bench warrant if she doesn’t show. Hopefully, her fear of arrest is at least equal to her fear of Moe.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Back at the office, I line up witnesses for the next day, including some backups in case we have to issue an APB for Rebecca. As I’m packing up for the night, my phone rings. It’s my sister-in-law.

  “I’m downstairs, and I was wondering if you could grab dinner.”

  Missy has never stopped by my office before, and she’s due to give birth any day now. Something is up.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Charlie is working and I’m kind of lonely.” Her speech is clipped and tentative.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Since I don’t have a lot of time for dinner and Missy is craving sauerkraut, we go to Zaftigs in Brookline, not far from my apartment. I order a Reuben sandwich; it’s heavy, greasy, and exactly what I wanted. I’d love a glass of wine.

  “I’ll have a seltzer,” I say.

  As soon as the waiter is gone, Missy pleads her case: “I think your mother’s beau, Will Dorset, is a fraud.”

  I dip a french fry into mayonnaise, fully aware that I’ll regret this whole meal before the waiter brings the check.

  “I’m staying out of it. My mother isn’t interested in my opinion.”

  “Charlie said your mother is burning through money. That trip they took to Palm Beach—she paid for it. She even bought him a new car.”

  I’m taken aback by this. Still, none of my business. “She’s enjoying her life. That’s not a crime.”

  Missy takes a fry from my plate, a sign she’s not thinking clearly. “Can’t you run his record, or something?”

  “No, I can’t. It’d be a violation of CORI laws.”

  “Charlie saw Will at the Harvard Club, said he was wearing a Patek Philippe. I think it’s the one your grandfather used to wear.”

  I’m getting more uncomfortable with each morsel of information, but I’m not getting involved. “The watch is hers to give.”

  “He’s the reason she’s drinking again. Charlie thinks he wants to impair her judgment so he can rob her blind.”

  That’s where I draw the line. Taking advantage of my mother, preying on her weakness and vulnerability, is cause for interference. “I’ll look into it.”

  Missy drives me home and when we pull up to my apartment, she asks to use the bathroom. Missy hasn’t been inside my apartment yet, and I’m embarrassed to invite her upstairs, but I can’t deny a pregnant women use of the facilities.

  The front porch is dark. Either the stairs are more warped than when I left for work this morning, or I’m hyperaware of the shabbiness of my new home.

  “Your bulb is out. Someone could trip and fall.”

  “Ty keeps promising to fix it.”

  I take Missy’s elbow to be sure we don’t have a mishap. We reach the top of the landing and I dig around the bottomless pit that is my tote, looking for my key. Suddenly, Missy screams.

  I drop my tote and turn around. “What? What happened?”

  Missy is speechless, staring at the bottom of the steps. Someone is there, in th
e darkness. It looks like a man—he’s wearing a hoodie, pulled tightly around his face, exposing only his eyes. His hands are gloved and he’s brandishing a knife—sharp and shiny, with about a four-inch blade. We both freeze. He lunges toward us.

  The man grabs Missy and holds the metal to her throat. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  I stand, throw my hands in the air. “Don’t hurt her. She’s pregnant.”

  Missy starts to hyperventilate. “Please, take my money.” She drops her bag on the steps of the porch.

  “Leave Moe alone.” He waves the knife in the air.

  I could take out my pepper spray, but that might make things worse. Ditto if I scream. And I can’t run for help—that’d mean leaving Missy alone.

  “I’m having contractions,” she says.

  The man isn’t dissuaded. I lean against the wall, trying to press the doorbell with my elbow. The living room light is on, Ty must be upstairs. I’ve never heard our buzzer before, and I don’t know if it’s supposed to make a sound on this floor, or if it’s broken.

  Suddenly, liquid splashes onto the porch, trickles down the steps.

  “My water broke.”

  The man lets go of Missy, pushes me up against the door.

  “I have to get her to the hospital,” I say.

  As he grabs my throat, the door swings open, knocking into us. The man and I lose our balance. As we go down, I feel his knife plunge into me; first the cold metal, then the warmth of my own blood. I grab on to my left side, under my rib cage.

  Ty comes out of the foyer. “What the hell is going on?”

  Ty charges onto the porch, makes a grab for the knife, but the man takes off. I look over at Missy. She’s holding on to the railing, trying to control her breathing. I look at my hand, red and sticky with blood.

  “The baby is coming,” she says.

  “Get in the car,” Ty says. “I’m taking you both to the hospital.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  I sit in the back of Ty’s Corolla. Missy is next to me, lying with her head in my lap. As soon as Ty starts the engine, we get into an argument about which hospital we should go to. He wants to go to the closest emergency room, St. Elizabeth’s. I have nothing against the hospital. I’ve been to the emergency room a few times to visit victims, but Missy had planned to have her baby in the Mass General. That’s where her doctor is. The least I can do is get her there safely. Missy is screaming and sweating, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she’s almost swearing.