The Girl in White Pajamas Page 15

  Bogie stared at her then said, “Think about what you just asked me! Did I have a child and not tell you about her?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “It was never supposed to be like that. I thought we’d…never mind. How is Amanda?”

  “Eighteen, pregnant and engaged,” Bogie said as he glanced at the laptop screen.

  “I wrote to you,” she said.

  “I know. Mandie gave me your letter. I got the message loud and clear.”

  After what seemed like a long silence she said, “No, not that letter! I wrote to you about a year ago.”

  “I never got it,” Bogie said abruptly.

  “I apologized. I never should have written those awful…” She started choking on her words and stopped.

  For the next half hour, they each worked in silence on their computers until Bailey said, “It never came back, the letter I sent you.”

  “I’m not sure what to say,” Bogie said. “I never got a letter from you other than that gem you had Amanda hand to me.”

  Bailey turned around and continued working on her computer.

  Bogie knew what she was trying to do and wondered how long it would take before she admitted the threats to her life weren’t the only problems she was facing.

  29 WHEN FACTS DON’T FIT THEORY, CHANGE THE FACTS

  Boston

  Debbie Mouser sat at her utilitarian desk in a tiny space called an office. The gray-haired woman pushed back her short hair showing off more of her plain face and puffy brown eyes. She put her head back then inserted allergy drops in each eye. After blinking a few times she stared at Matt MacDonald and said, “That’s all you came up with!? A team of people working for almost a week and we don’t have one shred of evidence!”

  “I told you, I know for sure—”

  “You know shit! You don’t decide who committed a crime then back into it. It works the other way around. We need evidence!”

  As Matt MacDonald started to roll his eyes, Debbie Mouser glared at him. “How about you explain one more time how you happened to be Johnny on the spot and showed up at the crime scene of your best friend seconds after he was murdered!”

  “I told you!” Matt said defensively. “I was on the phone with him. He said he’d call me back, and he didn’t. I got worried.”

  Debbie Mouser shook her head as he spoke then tried again. “The storm we had would have topped the Storm of ’78 if it had happened six weeks earlier. Everybody here knows what a nor’easter is, and nobody volunteers to run outside and walk around unless they’re nuts. And here you are at home in your bed when you get a call from your friend telling you he’ll call you back in what five, ten minutes?” Without waiting for his response she continued, “He doesn’t call you back so you call him a couple of times. When he doesn’t answer, you get dressed and go down to Washington Street in the middle of the storm. You claim he didn’t tell you where he was, but you just shot on over there. Are you clairvoyant?” She glared at Matt MacDonald.

  “I told you. He told me where he was going to be.”

  “Why? Did you have some kind of ‘bromance’ going on? Why was he there? Who was he meeting?”

  “I told you!”

  “Prove it!” After stabbing a pencil several times into the stack of paperwork in front of her, Debbie Mauser seemed surprised when the pencil broke and a piece flew past Matt MacDonald’s head. “And another thing, MacDonald! Elizabeth McGruder walked onto the scene minutes after everybody arrived. You assumed the old lady walked from her house on Beacon Street. Did anybody question her? Did anybody ask her what the fuck she was doing out in that storm? Do we know for sure that she walked from her house? Are we sure she didn’t shoot him? Did anybody check her to make sure she didn’t have a gun on her?”

  Matt shook his head. “Bud was killed with a .45—”

  “And your point is?” she interrupted. “And weren’t there reports of gunshots from that house the night after the killing?” When Matt only nodded, she added, “Get somebody over there to talk to—”

  “She’s gone,” Matt said dejectedly.

  “What!?”

  “The family scooped her up and took her to Palm Beach right after the funeral.”

  Debbie Mauser’s eyes opened wider in disbelief. “This just gets better and better. You’re about a breath away from having Internal Affairs hauling your ass in, the old lady skips town and you keep pointing fingers at two attorneys!”

  *****

  It was almost midnight when Matt MacDonald entered the lobby of Charles River Park. He wore a blue blazer opened to give him easy access to his gun, but the jacket also showed off his growing gut. Although he badged his way in, it wasn’t necessary since most of the staff working the desk already knew him. A young black man, who looked like a former linebacker was also wearing a navy blue blazer. His was more expensive than Matt’s and fit better. “Ms. Christenson said you should go right on up.”

  Before he could knock on her door, Catie Christenson, still in her on-camera makeup and wearing a long black kaftan opened it. “This better be good, Matt. No more bullshit!”

  30 THE REAL ISABELLA

  At seven in the morning, Rose arrived in Weston with Angel. His cousin Jesus was getting ready to leave. The resemblance between Angel and Jesus was uncanny, but in addition to the telling scar on his cheek, Jesus’ mannerisms showed him to be more seasoned and world-weary.

  When Isabella walked down the stairs wearing her little Suffolk Law School sweatshirt and blue jeans, Jesus asked, “No fancy dress today?”

  She shook her head. “That was just for Da-dee to see how beautiful I am. Now he knows. Now I’m the real Isabella.”

  Wearing a tee shirt and jeans, Bogie walked behind her. The corner of his mouth twitched, but Bogie said nothing.

  Angel sat down and joined them for breakfast. Bogie sliced fruit trying to entice Bailey and Isabella to eat some. Bailey finally took a small piece of banana while Isabella tried a chunk of pineapple. “It’s very delicious,” she claimed then returned to her Cocoa Puffs. Rose leaned against the sink and faced the group as she sipped on her travel mug of Starbuck’s coffee.

  Isabella studied Angel then asked, “Are you really an angel?”

  He smiled broadly showing off his white teeth. “My mother thinks so.”

  Isabella nodded and returned to her cereal.

  As the meal ended, Rose announced, “Angel and I will take Bailey to the office. You and Isabella can chill out until this afternoon.”

  “Maybe Kim can clean up around here,” Bogie offered.

  “No. We’re giving her a ride home. She’s taking the day off.”

  Bogie said nothing as he studied Rose.

  After they were gone, Bogie turned to Isabella. “Let’s go visit Jack and George.” As the little girl clapped her hands, Bogie looked around. “Don’t you have a jacket around here?”

  Isabella nodded. “Two are in my closet. There’s one downstairs on the dryer.”

  They walked down the cellar stairs and grabbed the jacket on the way out. Isabella led Bogie to the side of the house to a small area with a frozen, potted plant sitting on top. “This is Fluffy’s grave,” Isabella said solemnly.

  “I’m sorry, Isabella. It’s very sad when a pet dies.” ‘And like that!’ he thought.

  She nodded in agreement.

  “Why is the plant on top of the grave? Why wasn’t it put in the ground?”

  “Uncle George said the ground is too hard. We have to wait for it to warm up. Then we can plant the flowers. Da-dee, will the flowers die?”

  Bogie shrugged knowing they were already dead. “If they do, we’ll get some more. It’s the thought that counts.”

  Nodding, Isabella walked to the small house and rang the bell.

  When George opened the door, Bogie said, “We’ve come to borrow a cup of sugar. Geez, don’t you guys believ
e in haircuts?” Bogie studied the thin man with a wild mane of black hair.

  Moving his long black hair off his shoulder, George Doyle Hampfield smiled and said, “With all the money we save on haircuts we’re able to offer you a wee bit of sugar. How the hell are you? You look marvelous!”

  As they walked into the immaculate cottage, Bogie looked around and smiled. “Cute!” he said. It was. Not his taste, a little too chintzy with white ruffled curtains and floral patterned upholstery, but charming. It was what he expected Bailey to have, not two men.

  “Uncle George, do you know Da-dee?”

  “Oh yes, Sweetheart, I’ve known him a long time.”

  She was deflated. Everyone seemed to know Da-dee before her. Isabella walked into the tiny living room, plopped down on the sofa and used the remote control to turn on the TV. Jerry Springer spoke as guards tried to keep a mother and daughter from tearing each other apart. They shared a boyfriend. The love interest sat grinning showing holes in his grillwork, as each woman pulled at a tube top straining over enormous breasts.

  “She does this to irritate me,” George said softly when Bogie glanced at him. George gingerly picked up the remote and put on the Disney channel. He and Isabella looked at each other and smiled.

  “Jack’s at work?” Bogie asked.

  George nodded.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I have good days and bad. The Avonex doesn’t seem to be working. I get a shot once a week then I’m sick for three days after. It doesn’t do much for the headaches either.”

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “My doctor is great but conservative. She doesn’t want to change the treatment until we’ve given this a chance.”

  “Do they have any clues as to what caused the MS?”

  “No family history—little ethnic history. But I know how I got it. I’d put money on it,” he spoke softly. “My frigg’n brothers beat me up so bad I ended up in Mass General for a week with a head injury.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “So, it doesn’t count?! I know it was because of those bastards. They tried to kill me and almost succeeded. Drunken pricks!”

  Glancing to make sure Isabella wasn’t tuning in to their conversation, Bogie said, “So your point is that coming out of the closet in South Boston is not safe. Speaking of safe—“ Bogie stopped and watched as George’s face tightened and closed down for questioning.

  They sat in silence until a small voice said, “Da-dee told Kim to clean the house. It looks like a shithouse in a dress.”

  Biting the inside of his cheeks to stop from laughing, George said, “Sometimes your father has a potty mouth. Maybe you shouldn’t repeat everything grown-ups say.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “What’s a shithouse in a dress, Uncle George?”

  “I’ll defer that question to Da-dee for a response since he’s the one who made the eloquent comment,” George said gesturing to Bogie with his palm up.

  “I didn’t say in a dress. I said in distress.”

  “Shithouse in distress?” she asked earnestly.

  Bogie only nodded and glanced at his watch. “Time flies,” Bogie said. “We should go for a walk and get some exercise. Take care, George. You have my number if you…”

  George nodded and hugged Isabella.

  After Bogie and Isabella left the small house, they went to the beginning of the driveway. They walked down the two-lane road with Bogie holding Isabella’s small hand. They strode in silence as Bogie mulled things over. Accustomed to long walks and runs, he didn’t give a thought to the small child moving quickly beside him trying to keep up with his every step. Suddenly she stopped and cried. Bogie crouched down in front of her. “What’s the matter, Isabella?”

  “I’m tired... my legs hurt,” she sniffled and started crying again.

  Bogie lifted her in his arms and carried her. “You should have said something. I’m sorry, Pumpkin, I forgot how little you are.”

  “I tried to be a good girl like Kim said. She said if I was bad you’d go away.”

  “You are a good girl, you’re a wonderful little girl.”

  “You won’t leave us, will you Da-dee?”

  “Not if I can help it.” He held his daughter remembering his own father leaving him and his mother. He was almost a year older than Isabella, and his name was Boghdun Uchenich then. He was a skinny kid with blonde hair and blue eyes, just like his mother. She was a refugee who spoke broken English when the dark, handsome Pittsburgh cop swept her off her feet. By the time she was nineteen years old, Boghdun was born and his mother, Mary, was an outcast with her family and the Ukrainian community on the South Side. Baxter McGruder paid for a small two room apartment for them, but he wouldn’t marry her. He wasn’t too concerned about what she called the boy because he didn’t plan on being in his life that long. Since Baxter couldn’t pronounce Boghdun, he started calling the child ‘Bogie’ telling Mary that was Humphrey Bogart’s nickname, and he was a real man. The nickname outlasted the relationship.

  That day when his father left was one he couldn’t forget no matter how much he tried. His mother’s hysterical screams, his father’s cold eyes and tight jaw as he told her ‘It was for the best’. Even now Bogie still felt a knot in his stomach as he recalled the fear that washed over him when his father destroyed their little family.

  His mother laid on the kitchen floor sobbing while Baxter McGruder walked out of the slum apartment without looking back, not even to say goodbye to his young son.

  Bogie vowed as he carried the sleeping child up to her room that he was not going to walk out of her life and destroy her the way his father did him.

  31 WHY I HATE MY JOB

  As her personal life deteriorated around her, Bailey sat next to her clients in the Dorchester District Court trying to look lawyer-like. She didn’t need to sit at the front table with other attorneys because her clients were, for a change, witnesses, not defendants. Young, good-looking black men, David Thompson and Mark Curtis claimed they were victims of mistaken identity when they were thrown out the third floor window of a building on Irwin Avenue in Roxbury. They said they were shooting some baskets in the neighborhood, although they didn’t live there. It started to rain and they looked for shelter in a nearby tenement building with an open front door. As they stood in the vestibule, men armed with knives forced them to accompany them to a third floor apartment. There, they were robbed of their cash plus the gold chains around their necks. A black man in charge of the others ordered his men to throw them out the windows. First David Thompson, then Mark Curtis were pushed out the window onto the asphalt below. David had internal injuries and lost a kidney. Mark’s shin bones were smashed through the bottoms of his feet, and the doctors weren’t optimistic that he’d walk again.

  When Bailey’s uncle, Rubin Goldstein, brought her to the hospital to meet the young men, she felt so bad for them she almost cried. Two months later, she found the facts of the case got murkier. The clients were actually two-bit criminals who had juvenile and adult records for unarmed robbery, assault and shoplifting. There were warrants out on both. The apartment where they were robbed and assaulted was a crack house in a neighborhood of crack houses. Even the Boston cops were reluctant to accompany Bailey to the building when she naïvely wanted to take witness statements.

  She met with the detective handling their cases, and he explained that the police were willing to look the other way with the outstanding warrants as long as David and Mark testified against the man who was the head of a Jamaican gang that was terrorizing Roxbury. The cops believed that after David and Mark testified, they were sure to screw up again and then all bets were off.

  As the detective spoke to Bailey, her clients sat next to her ready to testify. He asked her why she was representing the young men. Bailey explained that David and Mark sustained life-threatening i
njuries and had amassed huge hospital bills.

  “So you’re looking for compensation from this bozo for the bills?”

  “Oh, no, we’re suing the owner of the building for lack of security,” Bailey responded.

  The cop laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair.

  Angry at being ridiculed, Bailey got up and went to the ladies’ restroom. As she started to splash cold water on her face, the girlfriend of the Jamaican gang leader moved toward her with a shiv. Bailey’s screams brought the young detective, who was standing outside the door, charging through it. He later admitted that he was waiting outside the door to apologize. The detective really wanted to hit on her again and thought an apology might help convince her to go out for a couple of drinks.

  Shaken, Bailey returned to her seat and watched as David testified. He was well-spoken and sincere as he explained how a bishop from his former congregation had an apartment in that building. David planned on finding the man of the cloth to ask for shelter from the rain.

  Under cross-examination, David was asked if he was aware that the bishop died four years earlier. David said he wasn’t and he was saddened to learn this.

  As Mark was brought to the bench in a wheelchair, he glanced over at the gang leader who mouthed ‘I’m going to kill you’! Mark told how he accompanied David to the old neighborhood where they shot some hoops and reminisced to celebrate David’s birthday. When he started to tell how they were forced up to the third floor, tears rolled down his cheeks.

  The gang leader was led away, and he made a gesture with his index finger across his throat while looking at the witnesses. Other threats, open and covert were hurled at David, Mark and their stunning red-headed attorney. The group was forced to leave the courthouse under police protection with cops in front and back of them with guns drawn.

  Mark was wheeled out a back exit and taken home by the handicapped transportation The Ride. Angel Fernandez jumped out of the Escalade and ran toward Bailey as he saw the police surrounding her. He stood frozen as the cops yelled for him to ‘Stand Down’ when he moved toward them.