Eight In The Box Part 9

Then her expression changed as she started putting things together. He was sure she knew he was a Homicide detective now. Word travels fast in the old neighborhood, whether it's good news or bad.

Angel Alves's eyes began to well up as he stepped forward. He tried to give her a hug.

"No!" she bawled as he got close to her. She started pounding his chest with closed fists. "No. No. No." She began to sob before collapsing into his arms.

As he held the frail shivering woman close, he knew that everything had changed. This wasn't just about doing his job anymore. This was about revenge.

CHAPTER 30.

The shriek from the fire alarm was deafening. Connie and Mitch followed the trickle of people laughing and chatting as they made their way down the stairs. No one ever took the drills seriously, Connie thought. followed the trickle of people laughing and chatting as they made their way down the stairs. No one ever took the drills seriously, Connie thought.

Judge Davis trained them on evacuation procedures with his unannounced drills, a response to the September 11th terrorist attacks. As if some terror group were going to target his inner-city courthouse. Word had it that someone had called in a bomb threat at nine o'clock as court was about to begin. "Probably some defendant trying to postpone his trial," Connie said. "Judge Davis will have the sessions open in an hour."

As they stepped outside into the crisp February air, Connie was surprised by the number of people who'd been evacuated from the building. With the defendants, the witnesses and courthouse personnel, there were more than two hundred people crammed in the plaza between the courthouse and the police station.

"Hey, Red, breakfast?" said Connie.

"You?" said Mitch. "Eat breakfast? Are you kidding me?"

"I eat breakfast, I just don't eat the c.r.a.p you call breakfast. And I don't want to stand around freezing my a.s.s off with people I'm going to send to jail later. We could sneak over to The Silver Slipper for some hot grits."

"Sounds good, but I'm in the jury session with Judge Davis."

"So am I. We've got plenty of time. This is a real bomb threat, which means the court officers have to evacuate the building, including all the custodies. That's a big production, getting everyone shackled up before they lead them out. We have at least an hour before the Bomb Squad clears the building."

"Let's go before someone sees us."

Connie and Mitch walked past the police station, a concrete bunker of a building that didn't fit in with the rest of the architecture of the square. The facade of the building, facing the Dudley bus terminal, reminded Connie of pictures he'd seen of the Berlin Wall. No wonder the people of Roxbury didn't trust the police.

They walked across Dudley Street into the heart of the Square. Connie liked to imagine what it was like in its heyday, when all the storefronts were open and you could hear the pitch of street vendors for a half mile outside of the Square, the old elevated Orange Line trains pa.s.sing overhead with their steel wheels squealing as they made the turn from Washington Street onto Dudley Street and then back onto Washington Street. When he was a kid that slow, serpentine turn was Connie's favorite part of the ride into Downtown Boston from his family's home in West Roxbury.

But even as a child, looking down from that train, Connie had missed the opportunity to see a bustling Dudley Square. By the time he was born, this center of black culture and history had already been destroyed by years of racism and neglect. By the early 1970s many of the restaurants and stores had been boarded up and closed, the old, majestic buildings slowly decaying.

The South Bay District Court, a three-story, red-brick building designed to stand out next to surrounding granite and sandstone buildings, had been built as part of an ongoing effort to revitalize the Square. The city was trying to encourage renovation by offering subsidized loans, but it was a slow process bringing back a neighborhood that had been run-down for forty years. The new courthouse was a symbol to the black community that they had not been forgotten by the government.

Despite these efforts, the Square was still far from its original glory. The streets themselves were trash-strewn. Gangs of kids stood around hara.s.sing people, scaring away legitimate business. Many of the buildings, abandoned by fleeing merchants, had not been entered in years except by prost.i.tutes and skinny-armed drug addicts. These same addicts spent most of their lives sitting on the benches in the Dudley MBTA bus terminal.

The Silver Slipper was one of the few places that wasn't marred with bubble-lettered graffiti; instead, the side of the building was graced with a ma.s.sive mural dedicated to the history of the area. The Slipper was a fixture in the neighborhood. It had been around forever, surviving riots in the 1960s-legend had it that Malcolm X ate his breakfast at the counter-and the drug wars of the late 1980s and early 1990s.

As always, it was crowded. Connie and Mitch ordered their food at the counter, then sat at a small table.

"What'd you do this weekend?" Connie asked.

"Nothing good. Case prep."

"That's it?"

"I went out Sat.u.r.day night."

"It's about time you put yourself out there again. Anyone I know?"

"Just a woman I went to law school with."

"Her name wouldn't happen to be Sonya, would it?"

"Very funny. She is friends with Sonya, though, so it's been a little awkward. We've gone out a few times. I like her and I plan on seeing her again, but I'm not rushing into another serious relationship." Mitch pulled a few napkins from the dispenser and twisted them in his hands. He looked to be lost in thought. Then he cleared his throat and sat up in his chair. "What did you do?"

"I worked at home. Andi was studying all weekend. I did get some interesting news, though. But you can't tell anyone. There was another murder this weekend."

"There's a murder every weekend."

"Let me rephrase that. The police found another bathtub full of blood early Sat.u.r.day morning."

"You're f.u.c.kin' kidding me. Where?"

"Mattapan."

"Who's the victim?"

"Some woman. Robyn Stokes, I think her name was."

"How'd you find out? I didn't see anything in the papers."

"It wasn't in the papers. I talked with Alves yesterday afternoon. He knew the woman. They grew up together. He and Mooney were able to keep it quiet over the weekend, but that's not going to work for long. I'm sure 'an anonymous source familiar with the investigation' is going to leak it to the press."

"What did Alves tell you?"

"They think the guy changed his MO." Connie leaned into the table and lowered his voice. "Robyn Stokes was a professional, but she was never married, had no kids and she was black. He went from divorced white mothers to single black females with no kids. I guess Mooney's starting to wonder if the guy is just an opportunist, a thrill killer who's draining their blood to throw off his investigation."

"They still have no idea why he's doing this?"

"None."

"Did they find any evidence, any clues?"

"She did know the guy was in the house before he attacked her."

Mitch stopped twisting a paper napkin from the dispenser and looked at Connie.

"It looks like she might have tried to call for help from her cell. The crime lab took the phone to be fumed for prints." Mitch was a great audience. "They're hoping maybe he grabbed it from her."

Mitch dropped the twisted paper. "You said Alves knew this woman."

"He grew up with her. He had to tell her mother the bad news. I feel sorry for this guy if Alves gets to him."

"There you are." Nick stood in the restaurant's door, calling across the crowded room. Right behind him, Connie could see, was Monica, looking irritated. "Thanks for inviting us to breakfast."

Connie gave Mitch a dip of the head, letting him know the conversation was over, and Mitch nodded.

"Your invitation must have been lost in the mail."

The waitress deftly slid a plate with a stack of pancakes and cheese grits toward Mitch. "Is this for you or the whole table?" she asked Connie as she put down a serving-sized bowl of grits. "How on earth are you going to eat all that, son?"

Connie offered a smile. "I can handle it. Thanks."

"What'll it be for you all?" she said, turning to Nick and Monica.

"Thanks, we'll eat at the counter," Nick said.

Monica stood there for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders before following Nick.

Connie winked at Mitch then picked up his spoon and started in on his mountain of grits.

CHAPTER 31.

Going out for breakfast had broken up their morning routine. Now Connie and Mitch were taking turns answering on their cases in Judge Davis's session. Connie and Mitch were taking turns answering on their cases in Judge Davis's session.

Connie admired Judge Davis. He treated everyone with respect. Even more important, he cared about the people in Roxbury. Judge Davis referred to his courthouse as a "beacon of hope for the people of Roxbury." He had shown his commitment by staying in the community, even after he'd become a successful attorney and then a judge. Born and raised in Roxbury, he had every intention of dying there. From the comments he made from the bench it was clear that he believed that the person sitting in judgment of the many black defendants should himself be black.

Some of the old-timer Jewish defense attorneys said that he was a man who had true rachmanas, rachmanas, the Yiddish word for mercy. They knew that Judge Davis was never afraid to give someone a second chance, regardless of any criticism he might take from the public or the media. He wanted people to feel that they could come to his court and find true justice. But if he gave someone that second chance and they made him look bad by committing another crime, he wasn't shy about sending that person to jail. the Yiddish word for mercy. They knew that Judge Davis was never afraid to give someone a second chance, regardless of any criticism he might take from the public or the media. He wanted people to feel that they could come to his court and find true justice. But if he gave someone that second chance and they made him look bad by committing another crime, he wasn't shy about sending that person to jail.

"Commonwealth versus Isaac McCreary," the clerk called out.

"Good morning, Your Honor." Connie stood up and looked toward the defense attorney as she approached the bar with her client, a sad sack of a man in a print shirt his wife had probably pressed for him that morning. He looked around the courtroom as though he'd been dropped there from another planet.

Connie checked his watch and saw that it was 12:40 P.M. P.M. "I'm sorry, Your Honor, good "I'm sorry, Your Honor, good afternoon, afternoon, Conrad Darget for the Commonwealth. The Commonwealth is answering not ready for trial on this matter." Connie felt like a parrot repeating the same words for the eighth time that day. He had summoned the civilian witnesses on all of his cases, but none of them had shown up for court. Typical. Conrad Darget for the Commonwealth. The Commonwealth is answering not ready for trial on this matter." Connie felt like a parrot repeating the same words for the eighth time that day. He had summoned the civilian witnesses on all of his cases, but none of them had shown up for court. Typical.

The only witnesses who did show up were the police on two drug possession cases. Both defendants pled guilty and were placed on probation. Every other case was "dismissed for want of prosecution." This case was Connie's last DWOP of the day and he wanted to get it over with. He tried to get at least one trial a week and eight DWOPs on Monday was a bad way to start the week.

"Mr. Darget," Judge Davis said, "why has the Commonwealth answered not ready on so many cases this morning?"

"I'm not sure, Your Honor, but I do apologize to the court," Connie said. "All of the civilian witnesses I summoned for this morning chose to ignore their subpoenas."

"Mr. Darget, I can issue capias writs capias writs to have them brought before the court in custody. Is that what you'd like?" to have them brought before the court in custody. Is that what you'd like?"

"No, Your Honor. These cases have all been relatively minor misdemeanors. The case against Mr. McCreary is a dispute between neighbors that ended in a shoving match. Mr. McCreary is charged with a.s.sault and battery. The defendant is forty-five years old, has no prior criminal record and the alleged victim has since moved to a new apartment in another neighborhood."

"I understand, Mr. Darget. This case is dismissed. What else do we have on the docket?" Judge Davis asked his clerk as Connie stepped back and resumed his seat at the table with Mitch.

"What a waste of time," Connie whispered to Mitch. "What do you have left, Red?"

"One more case, but I don't think it's going. The guy's charged with selling crack in a school zone. He's looking at the mandatory two. I'm hoping he'll take a plea with a little bit of jail time if I dismiss the zone. Stick around and see what happens, then we'll go upstairs."

"Commonwealth versus Anthony Furr," the clerk called the case as Mitch, the defense attorney and the defendant stood up.

"Mitchum Beaulieu for the Commonwealth," Mitch said as he approached the bench.

"Attorney Norman Woodrum for the defendant, Anthony Furr," the defense attorney said. He and the defendant, a youngish man with an athletic build and a defiant look permanently fixed to his handsome features, approached the bench. Woodrum was a man trapped in the sixties. He had long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail that looked like it hadn't been washed in a week. If he wasn't wearing a cheap wrinkled suit, you'd think he'd just jumped out of his Volkswagen bus after returning from Woodstock. But he was much respected as an advocate for his clients. He was a true believer who never trusted the government and fought like a pit bull to give his clients a fair trial. He felt the system was biased against the indigent and against young black men in particular.

"All right, gentlemen," Judge Davis said. "Are we ready for trial or is this going to be a plea? What's your pleasure?"

"Your Honor," Mr. Woodrum started, "my client is willing to change his plea to guilty if the court would place him on probation. Mr. Furr is twenty-eight years old and has no criminal record prior to this arrest. He has always held a regular job as a construction laborer and is married with a young daughter. He was laid off several months ago and foolishly started selling drugs to support his family. His first day on the street he sold to an undercover cop and was arrested. This is his first run-in with the law in his twenty-eight years. He certainly does not deserve to go to jail for two years."

"Thank you, Mr. Woodrum," Judge Davis said. "I understand your position and I would love to place your client on probation. Unfortunately, Mr. Furr sold drugs within a school zone and I have no discretion in what sentence he receives. Mr. Beaulieu and the Commonwealth hold all of the cards here. If the Commonwealth doesn't move to dismiss the school zone charge, your client has to serve the two years in jail, unless, of course, he goes to trial and is acquitted."

Connie caught the implication of the judge's words. He was sure it wasn't lost on Mitch either. Judge Davis was trying to pressure Mitch into dismissing the school zone charge. The prosecutors didn't mind giving a man a break, but any leniency should still involve some jail time. The defendant had to be punished for selling the drugs that were ruining lives.

"Your Honor," Mitch began. "I appreciate Mr. Woodrum's argument, but the law is the law and the defendant was selling crack cocaine within a thousand feet of a school, in a neighborhood that's been plagued with drugs and violence. The Commonwealth would be willing to dismiss the school zone if the defendant would plead guilty to the distribution and take a six-month term in jail, followed by two years of probation."

"This is the problem I have with the school zone law," Woodrum argued. "Mr. Beaulieu talks about my client selling drugs near a school, knowing that you can't go anywhere in this city without being within a thousand feet of a school. Every black kid that gets caught with drugs in the city is looking at a mandatory two years in jail, while kids in the lily white suburbs get a slap on the wrist and sent home to Mommy and Daddy. It's a racist law. And I don't see how Mr. Beaulieu can pretend it is not."

"I'll tell you how," Anthony Furr said. "He's a f.u.c.kin' sellout. A p.a.w.n for the white man."

"That's enough, Mr. Furr. I won't have language like that in my courtroom," Judge Davis said.

Furr turned to stare at Mitch. "Remember one thing, my brother. You're not white, and the day you realize that, it'll be too late. You'll have sold your soul to these white devils."

Connie watched as the judge raised his eyebrow to the court officer, warning her to be on alert.

The court officer took her time rising from her chair and approached Furr from behind.

"And the devils will turn their backs on you. You'll face your sins alone. There won't be any brothers left to stand with you, Mr. Beaulieu, because you've destroyed their lives."

Mitch stood motionless.

"Mr. Furr," Judge Davis said, "that's no way to speak to the man who holds the key to your freedom. I suggest you let your attorney do the talking for you, and please be more respectful to this man if you plan on walking out of this building without handcuffs and shackles."

"That's just it, Judge. Based on what Mr. Beaulieu has said to my attorney, I'm not walking out of this courtroom of my own free will. I've sat in here all day," Furr said as he turned to face the gallery of seats behind him and continued around to face the judge after a complete pirouette, "and I have watched one black defendant after another stand before this court and get no justice. It's clear to me. I'm going to be taken into custody by this here court officer," he said as he pointed to the fifty-something-year-old, heavyset woman standing behind him studying her manicure. "And I'm not going to be led off to jail without first giving Mr. Beaulieu a piece of my mind."

Connie turned in his chair to face the court officer. He tried discreetly to get her attention. He'd seen Furr perform his little spin move a moment earlier. Furr had become cagey since he'd first approached the judge. Connie could see that he was checking the number of court officers when he turned toward the gallery. But the court officer was oblivious.

"I've never broken the law," Furr continued. "Not even a speeding ticket. Then just once, I do something stupid to put food on the table and this man wants to send me to jail. Well, Judge, I can't go to jail. I made a mistake. I'm sorry for what I did. Mr. Beaulieu, no matter how hard you try, you will never wash my blood off your hands. And, Mr. Woodrum, please tell my wife and daughter that I love them."