Part 10 (1/2)

Anthony Furr turned toward the gallery, this time with no intention of turning back toward the court, and made a break for the door. The court officer struggled to grab hold of him. Instinctively, Connie stood up and started after Furr. Behind him, he heard the officer calling for backup. Connie was hoping to catch him before he made it to the stairs.

But Furr wasn't trying to make it to the stairs. As they closed in on the balcony that looked down on the main foyer to the courthouse twenty feet below, Connie realized that Furr was heading straight for the railing at a full sprint, with no intention of stopping. Connie saw two court officers from another session trying to get to Furr, but all of them were too late.

Seeing how gracefully he jumped over the balcony rail, tucking his arms by his sides and cras.h.i.+ng headfirst into the marble floor below, Connie thought that Furr must have been on the diving team in high school. He never uttered a sound as his body fell. It was a beautiful, perfect dive that led to a horrible, messy death.

As Connie reached the balcony he looked down and saw Anthony Furr, lifeless, lying on his back, his eyes open, staring up at the domed ceiling of the courthouse. A ma.s.sive pool of blood began to rapidly expand outward from his crushed skull, like a thick red halo. As Connie turned away, he found Mitch standing next to him. His light brown skin was ashen.

”So what do you think, Mr. Beaulieu?” Woodrum said as he walked up to them and looked over the balcony at his dead client. ”Do you think Boston is a safer place now that you permanently removed Anthony Furr, a father, a husband, a hard-working man, from its streets?”

”Leave him alone,” Connie said. He could see how shaken Mitch was. ”You know Mitch was just doing his job. Your client is dead. You can knock off the act.”

”May G.o.d forgive you for what you've done, Mitch Beaulieu,” Woodrum said as he walked toward the stairs leading down to the foyer.

Mitch sank to his knees. Connie put a hand on his shoulder and lifted Mitch off the floor by his jacket as people from the other courtrooms were drawn out by the commotion, gathering around the balcony.

”Mitch, get up,” Connie said. ”You can't let people see you like this.”

”Connie, I...s.h.i.+t, Connie, I just killed that man.”

”Shut the f.u.c.k up. You didn't kill anyone,” Connie said. He put his arm around Mitch's back and hurried him toward the stairs. ”Let's get up to the office.” Mitch was silent, barely dragging his feet. ”I'm not going to let people see you like this, Red,” Connie said.

CHAPTER 32.

The Whittier Street Housing Development was spitting distance from One Schroeder Plaza. It was also the current residence of Michael Sampson, a convicted rapist and home invader who had been paroled from MCIs.h.i.+rley Prison six months earlier. Convicted rapists weren't supposed to be living in public housing complexes, but Sampson wasn't on the lease. He was living with his mother, the way he had his entire adult life-when he wasn't being housed in a prison. from One Schroeder Plaza. It was also the current residence of Michael Sampson, a convicted rapist and home invader who had been paroled from MCIs.h.i.+rley Prison six months earlier. Convicted rapists weren't supposed to be living in public housing complexes, but Sampson wasn't on the lease. He was living with his mother, the way he had his entire adult life-when he wasn't being housed in a prison.

Angel Alves rang every doorbell in the building except for one. It took less than a minute for someone to buzz him and Mooney in. Alves propped the door open with a large rock, a trick he had learned as a rookie cop, just in case they needed to call for backup. Any delay in getting help could mean the difference between life and death.

Alves looked around the first-floor hallway, making sure they were alone, before following Mooney to the third floor. They stood on either side of the door to apartment 301 as Mooney knocked on the door. They listened for sounds inside the apartment. Nothing.

Then Alves knocked on the door, this time much harder than Mooney. ”Boston Police,” he said in a loud voice.

Now there was movement. At first they heard someone walking around, but no one came to the door.

A third knock, this time from Mooney and a sterner announcement of police presence in the building.

Much quicker movement in the apartment now, too quick to be Michael Sampson's elderly mother. Alves removed his gun from its holster and took a few steps back before launching his body into the door. He heard it crack. He stepped back again and hit it with more force. The doorjamb split open. One hard kick and they were in the apartment.

”Not bad for a little guy,” Mooney said.

Alves was already moving through the apartment, clearing each room before moving on to the next. One room left: the bathroom at the end of the hall. Alves heard the toilet flush and tried the door. Locked. ”Boston Police!” he shouted, more of a courtesy than anything else, before kicking the door open.

”Don't shoot,” Michael Sampson said, his hands over his head, ”please don't shoot me.” Water was flowing out of the toilet onto the floor as he tried to flush away a half pound plastic bag of weed.

”s.h.i.+thead, pull that out of there before you flood the building,” Alves said.

Sampson reached into the toilet and pulled out a large Ziploc bag.

”Now get out here.” Alves grabbed Sampson by the back of his s.h.i.+rt and threw him down the hall toward the living room.

”What do you guys want? I didn't do nothing.”

Mooney laughed. ”You didn't do nothing? You think your PO will be cool with you having all that weed?”

Sampson didn't respond.

”I didn't think so,” Alves said. ”We have some questions for you and, unless you feel like going back to s.h.i.+rley on a parole violation, I expect your complete cooperation. Comprende? Comprende?”

Sampson nodded.

”Where were you Friday night? And it better be the f.u.c.king truth.”

CHAPTER 33.

Connie tended to Mitch the way a paramedic might treat a person with a concussion, trying to keep him awake and alert. Mitch was staring down at the table in front of him, eyes unblinking, face covered in sweat. Connie expected Mitch would be throwing up soon. with a concussion, trying to keep him awake and alert. Mitch was staring down at the table in front of him, eyes unblinking, face covered in sweat. Connie expected Mitch would be throwing up soon.

Even behind the closed door, Connie could hear the muted sounds of the commotion below. The two of them wouldn't be alone for long. Mitch still hadn't said a word. Now he made a low moaning sound, and Connie rubbed the back of his neck in an effort to comfort him.

Then the door swung open and Liz Moore came into the conference room. ”What's going on downstairs?” she asked. ”The front of the building's closed off by cops and EMTs.”

”One of the defendants in the trial session jumped off the second-floor balcony,” Connie said. ”Killed himself.”

She glanced at Mitch and back at Connie. ”Who?”

”One of Mitch's defendants. We thought he was going to plead guilty. Next thing you know, Woodrum plays the race card. The defendant flips out on Mitch, calling him a sellout. Then he makes a break for it. Lands a perfect ten on a swan dive off the balcony.”

”What was his name?”

”Anthony Furr,” Connie said.

A look came over Liz's face. Disappointment? Barely controlled anger? Connie wasn't sure.

”Woodrum talked to me about this case last week,” she said. ”He said Furr wasn't a real drug dealer, that he'd never been arrested before and he wouldn't survive in jail. I told him there was nothing I could do for him. Woodrum's going to raise holy h.e.l.l. I'd better call the DA before he does.” She looked over at Mitch. His skin was still ashen gray. ”Mitch,” she said. ”How are you doing?” He stared down at the table. ”Bring him into my office,” she said as she stepped out of the conference room.

Once they were in Liz's office, Connie propped Mitch up in an upholstered armchair. Connie didn't know if he should leave them alone, but Liz didn't say anything, didn't really look at him, so he stood by Mitch's chair.

”I know what you're thinking,” Liz said, ”but you didn't do anything wrong. When someone brings up race with one of the white guys, they feel like they're being labeled a racist. When they do it to you, they make you feel like Judas. You're not. You're a good prosecutor. You were doing your job, and you did it well. Furr got caught selling drugs. He's responsible for what he did. He couldn't face the penalty for his actions.”

Something in her words seemed to strike Mitch. ”Anthony Furr was a decent man who made a mistake. And I stood there selling the company line: If you do the crime, you do the time. I should have listened to his story. Felt some compa.s.sion for his circ.u.mstances. I never talked to you about the case. Maybe there was something we could have done for him.”