Alone (7 page)

“But you've been to Back Bay?”

“Sure, Jimmy and his lady liked to spark the fireworks. He'd get drunk, she'd get mad, and off they'd go.”

“He beat her?”

Donny shrugged. “We never saw and she never said. They're not the ones who called it in anyway. It was always the neighbors who complained.”

“Didn't like fighting in their neighborhood?”

“Jimmy liked to throw things,” Walt said. “Once he hurled a chair off the balcony and onto his neighbor's Volvo. The neighbors
really
didn't like that.”

“When you were called out, what'd you do?”

“Not much. Couple of uniforms would go by, talk to the happy couple. I caught the call once. Jimmy apologized and, being of a generous sort, offered me a beer. The wife never said much of anything. Cold fish, if you ask me, though maybe if you're married to a guy like Jimmy, you learn to keep your mouth shut.”

“He was violent?”

“Time I was there, I saw a hole punched through the wall,” Walt said. “Wife didn't say anything, but it looked to me the exact same size as a man's fist.”

“And the kid?”

“Never saw him. I think they had a nanny. Probably better for the kid.”

Bobby's second beer was getting low. Donny flagged Gary down for a refill and Bobby didn't complain. “You'd think a judge's son would know better,” he said tersely.

Walt shrugged. “Way I hear it, Jimmy gets in a little trouble and the judge makes a little call, and it all goes away. If only we were all so lucky.”

“Didn't go away this time,” Bobby said sharply.

“Nope. Fine piece of shooting, Bobby. Honestly, if it wasn't for you, that wife and kid would probably be dead right now. That was some really serious shit.”

More guys were coming up. Someone clapped him on the back. Someone else bought him another beer. Bobby could no longer feel the rim of the glass coming to his lips. He was aware of sliding a little, disappearing into a vortex inside the loud, overheated bar. But at the same time, he was hyperaware—of the guys who didn't come up to him, of the eyes that peered at him from across the room, of the way some people looked over, saw his face, then quickly shook their heads.

And now he noticed something he hadn't before: the way both Walt and Donny regarded him. With respect, yeah, and awe, maybe, but also with genuine pity. 'Cause he was a cop who'd killed a man. And at the end of the day, it probably didn't matter what the DA's office finally ruled or what the department issued as its official finding. They were living in the media age, and in the media age, cops didn't get to fire their weapons. Cops were honored if they got themselves killed in the line of duty, but they were never supposed to draw their guns, not even in self-defense.

Another beer arrived. Bobby picked up the glass. He was well on his way tobeing completely, shit-faced drunk, when his LT found him and gave him the news.

J
ESUS SHITTING BRICKS.
What the hell are you doing, Bobby? Half this city is watching you and you go and get drunk?”

Lieutenant Bruni was dragging him around the corner from the tavern. He had one finger crooked around the collar of Bobby's jacket and was literally pulling him down the street.

“Not . . . on the . . . clock,” Bobby managed to slur out. Christ, it was cold outside. The raw November night slapped him across the face, making him blink owlishly.

“Camera crews are coming. Someone leaked to the goddamn press that you were holding court in a pub. But by God, you must have a guardian angel somewhere, because the chatter got picked up on the scanner and I was sent to bail you out. Bobby, listen to me.”

Lieutenant Bruni suddenly jerked to a halt. He was panting, his breath coming in frosty clouds that floated across Bobby's vision. He had both hands on Bobby's collar, shaking him.

“Bobby, you're in trouble.”

“No . . . shit.”

“Listen to me, Bobby. Today's been a busy day downtown. Judge Gagnon is not happy his son is dead, and he's not about to listen to reason or circumstance. The judge is gunning for revenge, Bobby, and he's got you in his sights.”

Bobby couldn't think of anything to say. The world was swimming around him. Air cold upon his cheeks. The stench of beer ripe in his nostrils. He needed to shower. Christ, he needed to sleep.

Thank you,
the woman had said.
Thank you.

And then it came to him:
What a fucking bitch!
Thank him? She shouldn't be thanking him. She should've left her drunken husband years ago. Or she should've said something to calm the man an hour earlier. Or never let go of her son. Or never taunted her husband in such a way to make him smile that cold, vengeful smile. She'd been the one in that room talking to Jimmy. She should've done a million and a half things differently, so Bobby would never have had to pull the trigger. So Bobby would never have had to kill a man and ruin his own goddamn life. So Bobby wouldn't be here now, drunk and exhausted and ashamed. What the hell kind of man killed a guy in front of his own kid anyway? Oh God, what had he done?

The bitch, the bitch, the bitch.

He pulled away from his lieutenant. He walked in small, random circles, still feeling crazy with rage. He wanted to take a bat and smash every fucking window in every fucking car on this street. And then he'd take a tire iron to every door and a blade to every tire. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted . . .

Oh Christ, he couldn't breathe. His chest had locked up. His lips were open, gasping, but nothing was coming, no air would draw in. He was having another heart attack. He was dying in South Boston because it was November and he'd always known it would happen like that. The summer was safe, fall not too bad, but November . . . November was a killer month. Shit, shit, shit.

“Head between your knees. Come on, Bobby. Bend over, deep breath. You can do it. Just concentrate on the sound of my voice.”

Bobby felt hands on his shoulders, hands forcing his head down. Stars were building in front of his eyes, brilliant white spots blooming in a sea of black. The stars would burst soon, fade away, and then there'd be only the black, rushing to greet him.

Then, as quickly as it started, his chest unlocked, his compressed lungs suddenly gasped to life and inhaled a rush of oxygen. He staggered into the middle of the street, barely missed a passing car, and gulped a deep lungful of icy night air.

Bruni was still beside him, dragging him out of the traffic and talking low and fast. “Pay attention to me, Bobby. Pull yourself together and pay attention.”

Bobby found a streetlight to cling to. He wrapped his arms and legs around the cold metal. Then he hung his head and fought to get a grip.

“All right,” he said. “I'm together.”

Bruni looked skeptical, but he grunted in acquiescence. “Do you know what a clerk-magistrate hearing is?”

“A clerk what?”

“Clerk-magistrate. The clerk-magistrate reports to the Chelsea District Court of Suffolk County. That's the civil side of the county's judicial system, versus the criminal side. You probably didn't know—hell, I sure didn't know—but any person can seek a clerk-magistrate hearing for probable cause that (a) a crime has been committed, and (b) that the defendant did it. If the clerk-magistrate finds in favor of probable cause, then the clerk-magistrate can issue criminal charges against the defendant,
even though it's a civil court.
Basically, any civilian can run around the DA's office and, using the clerk-magistrate, pursue their own criminal case, with their own personal lawyer and their own personal funds. You might want to ask, Bobby, what this has to do with you.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Bobby asked wearily.

“At four forty-five this evening, Maryanne Gagnon, wife of Suffolk Superior Court Judge James Gagnon and mother of Jimmy Gagnon, filed a motion for a hearing with the clerk-magistrate. She's arguing there's probable cause that a murder was committed, and that you did it.”

Bobby made the mistake of closing his eyes. The world promptly spun sickeningly.

“Judge Gagnon's not waiting for the DA's office, Bobby. He doesn't give a damn what their investigators find, he doesn't give a damn what the hell our department finds. He's gunning for you himself.”

“I thought . . . I thought as Massachusetts state employees we were protected from all that. The Mass. Tort Claims Act. As long as we're on the job, someone can only sue the state, not us.”

“Yeah, nobody can bring a civil suit against you specifically. But this isn't a civil suit, Bobby. This is a probable cause hearing to press
criminal
charges. This is a
felony.
This is,
if you're found guilty, you go to jail.
This isn't some guy looking to ease his bereavement by collecting cold hard cash, Bobby. This is a guy looking to destroy your life.”

Bobby's legs gave out and he went down hard, tilting wildly to the left, before Bruni caught his arm and brought him back to center. The lieutenant joined him on the curb. They sat, tucked hidden between two cars, and for a while, neither of them spoke.

“Jesus,” Bobby said at last.

“I'm sorry, Bobby. Honest to God, I've never heard of anything like this. Do you have a lawyer?”

“I thought the union provided a lawyer.”

“Union can't help. This is a case brought against you personally, not the State of Mass. or the department. For this, you're on your own.”

Bobby placed his head in his hands. He was too tired, too drunk for this. He felt as if November had leached all the fight out of his bones, and he had nothing left.

“It was a righteous shoot,” he said.

“No one I know is saying otherwise.”

“The man was going to kill his wife.”

“I listened to the tape of the command center's conversation this afternoon. You followed procedure, Bobby. You documented events, you detailed what was happening, and you did what you were trained to do. Maybe no one else will ever say this, but I'm proud of you, Bobby. You had a job to do, and you didn't back down.”

Bobby couldn't talk anymore. He had to pinch the bridge of his nose to quell the moisture suddenly stinging his eyes. God, he was tired. Worse, he was
drunk.

“Will it work?” Bobby asked at last. “Guy's a judge. He's got money, he's got influence. Shit, I can't afford a real suit on what I make. Does that mean he wins?”

“I don't know,” Bruni said, but he sighed heavily, which meant he knew enough.

“I don't understand. Jimmy had a gun. Jimmy was pointing it at his wife and child. Doesn't that mean anything to anyone? To even his parents?”

“It's a little complicated.”

“Why, because he's rich, because he's got a house in Back Bay? Beating your family is beating your family. I don't care how much money you got!”

The lieutenant grew quiet.

“What?” Bobby demanded to know. “For God's sake,
what
?”

Bruni sighed heavily. “In the court papers, the Gagnons aren't denying that Jimmy had a gun. And they're not denying that he pointed it at his wife. But they're saying . . .

“They're saying the wife's the problem in that house, Bobby. According to the court papers, Catherine Gagnon's been abusing her son. And if Jimmy was threatening her, it was only because he was trying to save his son's life.”

Chapter
7

N
ATHAN HAD BEEN
throwing up all day. He was finally asleep now, a pale, exhausted form that looked much too fragile against the pile of soft blue blankets. His eyelashes formed dark smudges against his cheeks. His sunken face appeared both too small and too old for a child who was only four.

When Maryanne and James had arrived first thing this morning, allegedly having bolted out of bed the minute they saw the news, but appearing strangely well groomed for a couple who had been wrenched from sleep by word of their son's death, they had eyed Nathan carefully.

Maryanne had been performing her favorite damsel-in-distress act, of course. All oversized blue eyes, pale face, and trembling hands.

“I simply can't bear it,” she'd said again and again in her overwhelming Southern lilt. Forty years of living in Boston, and the woman could still sound as if she'd stepped straight out of a Tennessee Williams play.

In between all the theatrics, however, Catherine could see both Maryanne and James making mental notes: Boy is thin, lethargic, and obviously stressed. Boy does not move toward his mother, but clings to his nanny. Boy has fresh bruise on forehead.

Twice Maryanne tried to pull Catherine aside for “a quick word.” Both times, Catherine held her ground. Prudence, the English nanny, was well trained and had been imported by Catherine for her dutiful nature and inherent sense of discretion. She was still new, however, so while Catherine had given her strict orders never to leave Nathan alone with his grandparents, she had no idea how the girl would hold up under pressure. James could be very charismatic when he chose. For all Catherine knew, he'd convince the girl to fetch him a cup of tea, and that quickly, the war would be lost.

Catherine couldn't afford that kind of risk. Not these days.

Maryanne and James had offered to let her and Nathan stay with them, of course. After the “terrible events” of the night before, surely they needed someplace to stay, somewhere far away from this “tragic scene.”
For God's sake, Catherine, think of the boy. Surely, he doesn't look well.

Finally, James had lost his patience. The minute Prudence escorted Nathan from the room—most likely to throw up again—the judge had turned on Catherine in a terrible rage.

“Don't think you're going to get away with this. Jimmy told us what was going on. Do you think you won last night? Do you think killing Jimmy solved your problems? Because I'm telling you now, they're just getting started.”

And for a moment, Catherine had honestly panicked. She thought wildly of Jimmy's new security system, installed six months earlier. The power light had gone off. She swore she saw the power light off. Then she realized that the silence had dragged on too long, that James was still regarding her with that cold accusing stare, so she drew herself up to her full height and said as regally as she could, “I don't know what you're talking about, James. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to plan a funeral for my husband.”