The Graves Page 6

  “I know you think she was with me and my brother, at the bar,” he says.

  “Was she?” I say.

  “No.”

  “Where did you go after you left the bar?” Kevin says.

  “I came back here. Emma can confirm that.”

  “I was asleep in Robbie’s room,” Emma says. “When I woke up at around three to go to the bathroom, he was passed out next to me.”

  Emma isn’t as willing an alibi witness as Robbie had hoped.

  “Where did Tommy go after he left the bar?” Kevin says.

  Robbie shrugs. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “We’re asking you.”

  “Look, I didn’t kill that woman. And neither did Tommy.” Robbie stands and takes his phone out of his pocket. “I’m not answering any more questions, until I’ve called my lawyer.”

  “Why?” Emma follows him into the hallway. “If you don’t answer them, they’re going to think you’re hiding something.”

  Robbie stops at the front door, opens it, expecting us to leave. Kevin and I continue to the party room. Robbie, unsure of what to do, follows. The room has been tidied; the bottles, keg, and bong have been removed.

  “Can I see some ID?” Kevin says to the group.

  “This is a private club,” Robbie says.

  A young woman looks like she’s about to burst into tears. “I’m nineteen. If you arrest me, my parents will kill me.”

  “My lawyer wants to talk to you.” Robbie hands me his phone.

  “You’re harassing my client,” Josh King says. “He had nothing to do with that girl’s murder.”

  “So he said.” I take the phone with me as I wander into the kitchen, where there are dozens of empty beer bottles and a scattering of cereal boxes. “The fraternity is chock-full of underage kids, and they’re all drinking,” I say.

  “News flash, Abby: college kids drink. You may have been a law-abiding, perfect-GPA-holding student, but most kids aren’t.”

  I fight the urge to remind Josh that I was the one who broke up with him.

  “Being a minor in possession of alcohol is a crime,” I say.

  “You’re going to give a bunch of Rhodes scholars criminal records?”

  “Have you met these clowns? They’re hardly MIT’s best and brightest.”

  I imagine Max’s disapproval of what I’m about to do. You arrested a group of teenagers because you couldn’t get what you wanted out of Greenough. You can’t abuse your authority to satisfy your own ego.

  I hang up and turn to Kevin. “We need leverage. Let’s arrest them.”

  “They’re not exactly public enemy number one.” Kevin inspects the liquor supply, an assortment of bottles containing high-octane grain alcohol. “Plus, arresting a senator’s kid is not going to help your chances of becoming DA.”

  “I don’t care. Besides, I’ve already pissed Greenough off. He’d never support me, and neither would his cronies.”

  “No one will ever accuse you of being one of the good old boys.”

  We look around the room. The walls are lined with framed yearbook-type photographs; each one shows the fraternity members for a particular year. Pictures of the leaders are on the top row, with their name and position: president, treasurer, social chairman, pledge captain.

  Kevin lifts one of the pictures off the wall.

  “They look like the board of trustees at a bank,” he says.

  I inspect the photo. It gives me an idea.

  “If these guys want to act like a corporation, then let’s treat them like one. We don’t have to charge the teenagers for drinking. Let’s charge the fraternity as a corporate entity.”

  “No offense, but you’re starting to sound like a fed,” Kevin says.

  “Exactly,” I say. “It’s like when they charged Enron, or the international soccer executives at FIFA.”

  “Okay, I’m liking it, but if we charge a corporation, then who wears the cuffs?”

  “The chapter president, who just so happens to be Robbie Greenough.”

  Kevin and I walk into the party room. He unlatches the handcuffs from his belt.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Kevin says.

  Robbie starts to breathe audibly, eyes the door like he’s about to bolt, and takes a step forward.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Kevin says.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I made my bones in the Roxbury District Court about twelve years ago, and I have a lot of fond memories here. It’s where I argued my first motion to suppress, arraigned my first serial rapist, and offered a plea on my first mayhem case. The courthouse has undergone extensive renovations, security has been improved, and people no longer urinate in the stairwells, but its bread and butter remain the same: drugs, guns, and more drugs.

  The sidewalk outside the building is packed; courthouse personnel, lawyers, defendants, victims, and witnesses all try to navigate around the crush of reporters. Extra deputies guard the front door. The line to get inside is at a standstill.

  Carl Ostroff elbows his way through the scrum.

  “Abby, you seriously arrested Senator Greenough’s kid for drinking a Heineken?” he says.

  “Check your facts. It’s not about drinking a beer. The charge is serving alcohol to minors.” I keep moving, my eyes fixed on the front door.

  Carl follows me. “Homicide prosecutors don’t arraign alcohol violations. My hunch is that you’re thinking he might be the serial killer.”

  “See you inside.”

  “You’re pretty touchy this morning,” he says. “Is it nerves, or do you have a case of buyer’s remorse?”

  I force a smile, ignoring the rest of the pack, who are waving and shouting questions at me. Do you plan to ask for jail time? Shouldn’t you be chasing real criminals? What’s next, you’re going to arrest Malia Obama for jaywalking?

  A court officer comes to my rescue, escorts me inside, and waves me around the line. I skirt the metal detector, pass through the lobby, and take the stairs up to the third floor. As soon as I open the door, I see Max, arms crossed, foot tapping.

  He directs me into a side office, and on the way, we pass Cassandra. She’s standing in front of a window, doing her best imitation of a concerned public servant; furrowed brow, pursed lips, and index finger pressed against her chin. She’s posing, with the hopes that she’ll make it onto the B roll of this evening’s newscast.

  As soon as I step in the conference room, Max slams the door. His face is red, his forehead sweaty. I don’t wait for his reprimand.

  “I know I should have called before we made the arrest, but there was a crime being committed right under my nose.” I hope if I keep talking, it’ll give him a chance to calm down. “I couldn’t just walk away, and neither could Kevin. We have legal, ethical, professional responsibilities.”

  “Fuck that. Your responsibility is to me.” His finger has a slight tremor as he wags it in my face.

  “Come on, Max. If the guy’s name was Robbie Green, instead of Robbie Greenough, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “I’m still the goddamned DA. I call the shots.” A spray of spit comes out of his mouth.

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect. I made a judgment call.”

  “You’ve lost your marbles. I knew you came back to work too soon.”

  This conversation is veering in the wrong direction; I have to stop it before it’s too late.

  “You don’t want to end up like Ray Harris,” I say.

  Max grips the back of a chair, and looks like he’s going to pick it up and hurl it at me.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he says.

  I should change course and retreat, but I can’t help myself.

  “Playing footsie with the rich and powerful, that’s what got Ray indicted.”

  Max takes a breath. I take a seat, hoping he’ll follow. He doesn’t.

  “You’re making me look like a goddamned Keystone Cop,” he says.


  “If you’re worried about saving face, blame it on me.”

  “You got that right. As soon as you leave this room, you’re going to file a nolle pros and withdraw the charges. Then Cassandra is taking over.”

  “You mean the drinking case, not the murder investigations.”

  “I mean the whole enchilada. I’m pulling you from the game.”

  I assumed that Max would be angry, but I didn’t expect him to yank me off the case entirely. Maybe I’ve overestimated both his allegiance and my value.

  There’s a light knock on the door, Kevin is looking in the window at us. Turning my back to Max, I mouth: Please, come in, interrupt us. He opens the door and eases into the room.

  Max doesn’t let up. “This was the final straw. You’re out.”

  “Whoa, hold off,” Kevin says. “This is my fault. Abby warned me that you’d blow a gasket, but I wouldn’t listen.”

  “Bullshit. This has Abby’s prints all over it. She ignored my directive, went ahead and did exactly what she wanted to do. Do you see all the press out there? They don’t care about your damn judgment calls. This is going to land on me.”

  “Max, I hear you,” I say. “I promise I won’t do it again—”

  “You’re fired.”

  He’s not bluffing. I don’t know how to respond. Fortunately, Kevin does.

  “Max, hear me out. There isn’t going to be any stink on the DA’s office.”

  “Kevin, you’re a stand-up guy, but this has spiraled beyond your control,” Max says.

  Kevin holds up his cell phone. “No, it hasn’t. Check your newsfeed.”

  Max scrolls through his phone and reads out loud: “The Globe is reporting that: unnamed sources claim this was a police tactic, a clever move, designed to further the investigation by squeezing information out of the Greenoughs.”

  “See there, they don’t even mention you,” Kevin says.

  Max continues reading. “They’re calling it: bold and decisive. It shows strong leadership, in the face of powerful interests.” His face drops. “Son of a bitch. The commissioner is getting all the credit.”

  Max’s rage has shifted away from me, toward the police department. Seeing an opening, I take a comb from my tote and hand it to him.

  “There are cameras all over the place,” I say.

  He runs the comb through his hair, then calls his press secretary to try to get some airtime. When he’s done, he turns to me.

  “You’re lucky this didn’t go south,” he says.

  “I’ve got to do the arraignment,” I say.

  He blocks my exit. “If you go against me again, that’s it, you’re done.”

  On my way out the door, I squeeze Kevin’s elbow. He got me out a jam—again. And I’m grateful.

  Downstairs, the arraignment session is bursting with reporters, lawyers, police officers, and defendants, all here to see the show. Even my favorite court watcher, Harold, has taken the Orange Line from downtown to catch the live performance. A news camera, which might as well be an Uzi, points in my direction, following my every move. As soon as I take my seat at the prosecutor’s table, Josh King walks in. He looks like a half a million bucks, which is probably what he’s getting paid.

  “Where’s your client?” I say.

  “All rise,” the court officer says. “This honorable court is now in session, Judge Patrick Lafferty presiding.”

  Judge Patrick “Lightweight” Lafferty bounds in, chest first, feigning confidence. He’s a former defense attorney, a workaday ham-and-egger, recently appointed to the bench because he used to coach the governor’s kid in peewee hockey. His greatest fear in life is being called upon to issue a well-reasoned decision. He’s been safe up to now, since district court judges are more akin to school yard referees than Nobel laureates.

  “Be seated.” Judge Lafferty smiles at Josh. “Nice to see you, Mr. King. It’s been a while.”

  In most instances, prosecutors have the home field advantage and command of the courtroom. A $750-an-hour attorney from a white-shoe firm is like a unicorn in state district court. When one deigns to make an appearance on a misdemeanor, almost everyone, prosecutors included, suck up to him as though he might leave a trail of hundred-dollar bills in his wake.

  “It’s a pleasure to be in your courtroom, Your Honor,” Josh says.

  I catch myself rolling my eyes and try to break up the lovefest.

  “This is the matter of Commonwealth v. Alpha Beta Zeta fraternity, alleging providing alcohol to a minor,” I say.

  “Where is your client, Mr. King?” Judge Lafferty says. “Call him in here so we can proceed.”

  “The so-called defendant is not in the building and, consequently, unable to partake in this hearing.”

  A few members of the audience chuckle. Judge Lafferty isn’t sure which of us Josh is mocking, him or me. It’s definitely me. Screw him.

  “Robert Greenough is president of the corporation. It appears that he has voluntarily absented himself from the proceedings,” I say. “I’d request that a default warrant be issued.”

  Lafferty looks down, shuffles some papers. Uh-oh, he may have to make a decision.

  “Was Mr. Greenough given proper notice?” he says.

  I don’t wait for Josh’s answer. “Detective Farnsworth served him personally, in my presence. The Commonwealth submits that Mr. Greenough is in default, and requests that an arrest warrant be issued.”

  Judge Lafferty looks around, fidgets with his pen. His biggest nightmare has come to fruition; a simple bail argument has evolved into a legal dispute, requiring resolution. He tosses the hot potato to Josh.

  “What do you say, Mr. King? Why shouldn’t I issue a warrant?”

  Josh grins. “Your Honor, the fraternity disbanded this morning. Therefore, there is no corporation and, consequently, no corporate president. And no one or nothing to charge.”

  Judge Lafferty spins his chair around and pulls a law book from a shelf behind him. He thumbs through it, turning the pages slowly, pretending to read. He probably wishes it were entitled Corporate Dissolution for Dummies, but it’s not. The book is a collection of statutes that have nothing to do with either corporations or criminal law; he’s perusing a collection of regulations from the 1800s that pertain to child labor regulations. He slams the book closed, takes off his reading glasses, and looks up as though he found precisely what he was looking for.

  “Would you like to be heard, Ms. Endicott?”

  “Mr. Greenough is president of the corporate entity. He can’t evade responsibility for its actions.”

  “Was president,” Josh says, “but the entity doesn’t exist anymore.”

  Josh takes out a file, hands me a copy of the Articles of Dissolution. Nice move. I didn’t think he’d be able dissolve the fraternity this quickly.

  I try to recover. “The defendant can’t escape responsibility by waving a magic wand and making it disappear.”

  “Apparently, he has done just that. The matter is dismissed.” Judge Lafferty stands, eager to make a swift exit.

  Josh rises. “Your Honor, Ms. Endicott is relentlessly harassing my clients, using them to gain attention as part of her efforts to become district attorney. I’d ask that she be admonished for her outrageous behavior.”

  “Ms. Endicott, reacquaint yourself with the rules of conduct, or I’ll refer you to the Board of Bar Overseers.” Judge Lafferty decided the best way to get out of the spotlight is to hurl it at me.

  Josh pushes on. “Since this was an unlawful arrest, the fruits of the poisonous tree—namely, Mr. Greenough’s fingerprints and DNA—must be suppressed.”

  “It was a lawful arrest. There is nothing unethical—”

  “That’s it. I won’t allow any grandstanding in my courtroom. The defendant’s motion is allowed. I’m ordering you to destroy Mr. Greenough’s fingerprints and DNA. They are not to be used in furtherance of any investigation.”

  A photographer memorializes the disaster. Click, click, click.
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  “We are adjourned,” the judge says.

  Judge Lafferty practically sprints off the bench. A serial murder case is going down the tubes because I drew the laziest judge in the Commonwealth.

  Josh packs his briefcase. “Offer him immunity or leave him alone,” he says.

  “Robbie Greenough is backing himself into an accessory to murder charge,” I say.

  “Keep it up and I’ll file a civil restraining order against you.”

  Josh turns and walks through the swinging doors. The courtroom empties. I sit, shuffle my papers, anything to avoid going outside. The door clacks open; I can hear snippets of courthouse chatter coming from the hallway.

  A defendant talking to his lawyer: The cops got it wrong. I didn’t hit her. She hit me.

  Josh King giving an interview: The prosecution is acting out of desperation. My client is an innocent man.

  A court officer directing traffic: Sir, put on your shoes. You can’t clip your toenails in the corridor.

  I turn and see Kevin, walking toward me. Feeling the shame of defeat, I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.

  “Lafferty tossed our evidence,” I say.

  “This isn’t a game for wusses,” he says.

  “I got my head handed to me on a silver platter.”

  He picks up my case folder. “There’s no time to lick your wounds. Our vic’s mother is waiting downstairs.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  While I was being humiliated in arraignment court, Kevin drove out to Logan to pick up Caitlyn’s mother, Karen Walker, and bring her to the courthouse. On the ride over, they passed the alley where Caitlyn’s body was found buried under trash. Now they’re seated in a sterile conference room, in the Roxbury District Court. Welcome to Boston.

  Kevin and I stand in the hallway, looking through the glass opening in the door. Karen has her back to us, head in hands.

  “How is she holding up?” I say.

  “She’s numb,” Kevin says.

  “Does she know what happened at the arraignment?”

  “She was scanning the news in the car, on the way over here.”

  I hoped to talk to Karen, explain what went on in court, before she heard about it through the media.