Mission Hill (30 page)

“Yes, I'm fine. We're both going to be fine.”

 

Chapter Fifty-two

The trial is delayed for a week, and I spend the time working from home. I want to be close to Ty now that he's been released from the hospital. I'm happy and relieved that he's accepted my invitation to convalesce in my apartment.

The shooting, the corruption scandal, and the tie-in to Tim's murder are splashed across every media outlet from
The New York Times
to
Inside Edition.
Since the moment Ty got out of surgery, I've made numerous attempts to reach his parents and let them know what happened before they hear about it or see it on the news.

Ty's mother, Melody, is not easy to track down. I spend hours googling and calling various friends and relatives, trying to reach her, but I keep hitting dead ends. Finally I locate her at a sweat lodge in Taos. I dial the phone number for the better part of a day, using my phone's redial button, until someone finally picks up.

“I'd like to help you, but she's at a smudging ceremony,” the lodge leader says as though that's a valid excuse. “It's a sacred rite, and I can't interrupt.”

“Her son was shot. He almost died.” I find it impossible to believe he heard me correctly the first time.

“I'll be sure to give her the message.”

Ty's father is easier to find. He has two recent speeding tickets and one arrest for driving unregistered and uninsured out of Tampa, where he now lives with his twenty-three-year-old girlfriend. He returns my call immediately and tells me he's extremely concerned, but he doesn't offer to come up to Boston to see his son.

“Abby, honey, while I have you on the phone, do you think you could spare a couple of thou for my lawyer's fee? I'm a little short right now,” he says. “I'll pay you back as soon as I get my tax refund. I swear.”

“Let me talk to Ty about it,” I say, knowing that I'll never mention a word about this phone call.

Charlie and Missy come directly to my apartment from the airport, with sun-kissed skin and an exquisite turquoise Hermès blanket. While Missy goes in to visit with Ty, Charlie sits with me on the sofa.

“Thanks for the blanket,” I say.

“Missy thought Ty might want something soft.”

“Should I take that as a dig?”

“Accept the gesture, don't analyze it,” he says.

Missy comes out of the bedroom and makes a pot of ginger tea for everyone.

“Sorry we interrupted your honeymoon,” I say as she hands me a cup.

“We've been to Saint Barths before.” She sits across from me. “We'll have plenty of opportunities to go again.”

“We're here for you,” Charlie says.

“You always have been,” I say.

“Do you need money?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I'm going to have to figure out how to make my own way.”

“I wish you didn't always suffer in silence,” Missy says.

“It's the Endicott way—we don't talk about money or feelings, and we don't complain. Welcome to the family.”

When Missy smiles, I see that her bottom front teeth are slightly crooked, one of the few visible remnants of her impoverished past. She reaches into the pocket of her sweater and hands me a string of lavender glass beads.

“Worry beads. I got them from one of the nuns when I was a child. I take them out when I'm anxious, to pass the time.”

“I'll keep them in my briefcase, for when I'm waiting for my jury verdict.”

After Charlie and Missy leave, I find a roll of seven crisp hundred-dollar bills on my kitchen counter.

My mother calls every day to check on Ty's status. She sends vases from Winston Flowers, delicate anemones with papery white petals and bold black centers. She has platters of cold lobster salad and hearty beef bourguignonne delivered from Savenor's Market. She even stops by once, in the flesh, with my father.

She walks into my living room in a silk Valentino suit, looking like she has had her hair shellacked. She cases the joint with suspicion, examines the books on my coffee table.
Matisse,
a retrospective of his bright, cheerful cutouts.
The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death,
a macabre collection of dollhouses designed to re-create gory murder scenes.

She picks up the silver perpetual calendar on the mantelpiece, and as she puts it down, it looks like she's going to don a white glove and run her finger along the marble ledge, inspecting for dust.

“This is such a charming apartment,” she says.

“I'll miss living here.”

“You have options.”

“I'm not quitting my job.”

The door to my bedroom is closed, and I tell my mother that Ty is asleep, sparing us all what would surely be an awkward encounter.

She stays for about fifteen minutes and then begs off, claiming that she has to go to an event. She says she can't miss it; she's being honored by the Boston Ballet for her fund-raising accomplishments. After she leaves, I riffle through my desk and find my invitation to the party. The gala was last night.

 

Chapter Fifty-three

Court reassembles, and the jury is sent out to deliberate. In less than an hour, we hear a knock coming from inside the jury room. Sal pokes his head in and comes out with a piece of paper. I try to catch his eye, hoping he'll give me a clue about what's in the note. He goes directly to Judge Volpe's chambers, without glancing in my direction. A few minutes later, Judge Volpe calls us in to his chambers.

“The jurors have a question,” he says, showing us a handwritten note signed by the foreman.

“What could they possibly want to know?” I say, worried that we have one lunatic who is going to hang the jury.

Volpe shows us the paper.
Which box do we check if we think he is guilty under both theories of murder in the first degree? Premeditation, Cruel and Atrocious, or both?

“I plan to send this back to them in response,” he says, jotting down his answer.
Both.

The jurors file in, some taking note of the cast on my leg. The foreman announces the verdict.

“Guilty of the first degree murder of Jasmine Reed. Guilty of the attempted murders of Ezekiel Hogan and Denny Mebane.”

As soon as the verdicts are recorded by the clerk, a mob of deputies swarm, cuff, and shackle Orlando. As they whisk him to the lockup, he turns and looks into the audience. No one is there for him—not his family, not his fellow gangsters.

Nestor walks up to the table and congratulates me. I give him a hug.

“You're a champ,” he says.

“Thanks for putting up with me.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kevin in the back row of the gallery. He smiles, gives me a wink, and disappears. Jackie and Adele are seated in the front row. Behind them is Harold, along with a bunch of reporters, ADAs, defense attorneys, and people I don't recognize.

Out in the hallway, Jackie approaches with a basket of homemade gingersnaps.

“I saw what happened to your boyfriend. I hope he's okay,” she says.

“He's going to be fine.” I accept the basket and give her a hug.

“I can't wait to get back and tell Denny about the verdict,” Adele says.

Winnie comes in the courtroom and hands me her phone. “Someone wants to talk to you.”

“I wanted to thank you,” Ezekiel says. “I'm sorry for giving you a hard time.”

“Thanks for hanging in there with me,” I say.

Max follows me into the elevator.

“I can't begin to express my appreciation.”

“I wish it had turned out differently, for everyone.”

“Me too.”

“You and Owen had a long history.”

“Thirty years. We were altar boys together at Holy Name. He was best man at my wedding. I'm Patsy's godfather. I should have seen it. Maybe I could have done something.”

“We all missed it.”

Kevin told me that Owen was deep in debt. When he gave up drinking, he replaced it with another addiction—gambling. He was betting on everything, dogs, horses, scratch tickets, college football, even his kids' Little League games.

“Take some time off—you deserve it,” Max says.

“I plan to.”

“If I throw my hat in the ring for mayor, you should run for DA. You'd win by a landslide.”

When we get out to the street, the media has assembled. They're holding cameras and microphones, waiting for an official statement about the verdict. Max walks toward the podium, but turns when he notices that I'm not following him.

“You should be up there with me. This is your win.”

“I've had enough of the spotlight.”

He puts his hand over his mouth. “Want to join me for a drink later?”

“I've got to get home to Ty.”

I consider hailing a taxi but decide to walk. It's got to be at least forty degrees outside, warm for this time of year, and I need the fresh air. I'm not going to let a fractured ankle slow me down.

I head up Cambridge Street, toward the Boston Common, put my Bluetooth in my ear, and make a phone call.

“I wanted to be sure you heard the news,” I say when Crystal's mother picks up

“I saw it on TV. Justice has been served, and Crystal can finally rest in peace. I hope you can find your peace too,” she says.

I hang up and continue toward Park Street. I see a familiar figure standing at an ATM, collecting cash. I'm in no mood for Rodney Quirk tonight. I want this to end. I'm done living in fear. I reach into my bag, feel around for my Mace, and approach him.

“Why are you following me, Rodney?”

“Excuse me?”

“You beat your murder case—isn't that enough?”

“I don't want anything to do with you.”

“I see you every morning at the coffee shop. Now you're out here following me. I should have reported you a long time ago.”

“Following you? I work here. My public defender got me a job, I work at Legal Aid. The office is in Center Plaza.”

“Bullshit.”

“I'm assigned to the Innocence Project.”

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls something out. I flinch and think about yelling or running or spraying him with Mace. He opens up his wallet and holds up his employee ID.
Rodney Quirk, Staff Assistant, Innocence Project.
I'm not sure what to do. Apparently, Rodney has a right to be in the area. He's a killer, but he's not a stalker, which at this point is as good as it gets.

When I get home, Ty is in bed, dozing. The curtains are drawn back, and I look out the window. I'll miss being in this apartment in the springtime, when the cherry blossom trees form a bright-pink umbrella over the Esplanade.

“You're late,” he says. “Everything okay?”

“I ran into an old friend on my way home from work.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No.”

I kick off my shoes, sit down on the bed, and give him a kiss.

“Congratulations on your verdict,” he says. “I'm glad it's finally over.”

“I'm sorry you were one of the casualties.”

“I'll heal.”

“I'm going to take some time off, figure out where to go from here.”

I kiss him again, careful not to bump or rub against his bandages.

“A real estate agent stopped by today. Are you sure you want to sell this place?”

“I don't have a choice. I can't afford this life anymore.”

He shifts his weight and struggles to face me.

“I pay rent in Somerville. I could just as easily pay it here,” he says.

“I can't charge you rent.”

“I'm not looking to be your tenant. I know it's a new concept for you, but how about we work as a team, like a real couple.”

“You're saying that you want to give up your apartment and move in?”

“I want to live with you, here—or anyplace else.”

“You're on some pretty heavy-duty painkillers, I'm sure it's the meds talking. But you've tendered the offer, and I accept. That means we have a valid, binding contract.”

“Okay, Counselor. But I have one condition.”

“Name it.”

“We have to be more open with each other. You have to let me know what's on your mind. Otherwise, this will never work.”

“Deal.”

Ty dozes off. I can hear his deep breathing and see his chest rising and falling. I lie down and nestle in next to him.

After a few minutes, he turns toward me, his eyes still closed. “Open, honest, full disclosure.”

“I swear.”

“No more secrets?”

“No more secrets.”

“You have to tell me when you're afraid of something or someone.”

“I'll tell you. I promise.”

As Ty falls back to sleep, I look at him, and then close my eyes and begin to recite my list.

 

Acknowledgments

Victoria Skurnick, agent extraordinaire, thank you for your insight, expertise, and enthusiasm. And everyone at Minotaur Books, especially my fabulous editor, Kelley Ragland, for your discerning eye, and Elizabeth Lacks, for your patience and guidance.

I wrote the first draft of this book in a workshop at Grub Street. Thank you to my classmates and instructor, Sophie Powell, for the feedback and fellowship.

To my friends in Boston, New York, and Los Angeles: Joan Rater, Jenny Kane, Laurie Grotstein, Betsy Beale, Elizabeth White, Chris White, Ursula Knight, Mary Beth Long, and Sarah Ellis—I'm so grateful for your pep talks, notes, and guest rooms.

Billy Bob Thornton, thank you for listening to my stories and for sharing yours, for suggesting that I write this book, and for cheering me on along the way.

Thanks to my brother, Peter Wechsler, for your championship and counsel. And to my father, Henry Wechsler, for your unwavering encouragement, confidence, and support.

 

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