Among Thieves (20 page)

Finn took a seat at the back and watched the courtroom. It was packed with lawyers milling around, hustling in and out, shuffling
stacks of court files. Clients dragged their feet and looked about with angry, distrustful eyes. Police officers strutted
in and out through the swinging doors at the back. Justice was a messy process.

Arraignments are short affairs. They’re designed to advise defendants of all the charges against them, ensure that they have
legal assistance, obtain initial pleas, and set bail if appropriate. In a few misdemeanor cases, plea agreements will have
been worked out even before the arraignment, but in most serious matters an initial plea of not guilty is entered, and plea
arrangements are reached through negotiations afterward.

On that day, the Honorable Myron Platt was presiding over the arraignments. Platt was in his mid-fifties, with a slight paunch
and a receding hairline. He had been appointed a few years before in the final days of an outgoing gubernatorial administration
as a reward to a loyal political hack. The bench was not the dream job he’d hoped for, and he let his boredom show. In most
other respects, however, he was reasonable—even if that reason was primarily a by-product of disinterest.

Two assistant district attorneys sat at the prosecutors’ table, alternating on cases as they were brought up for preliminary
dispositions. One was a young man Finn didn’t recognize who was probably less than two years out of law school. The other
was a woman in her forties whose name was Kristin Kelley, against whom Finn had tried a number of cases in the past.

It was a virtually automated process; the prosecutors had only a few minutes with any given file, and they treated each according
to established guidelines. Finn had to sit through six arraignments before Devon’s case was called. The court clerk read out
the case caption, “Case number 08-CR-2677, Commonwealth versus Devon Malley! Come forward and be heard!”

Finn stood up. “Scott Finn for the defense,” he announced as he moved forward to defense counsel’s table.

Kristin Kelley stood up. “Attorney Kelley for the Commonwealth,” she said. She looked over at Finn as he put his briefcase
down on the table. It was not a friendly look. Finn had beaten her every time they’d gone head to head, and nothing annoyed
prosecutors more than being beaten. It probably would have been better for Devon if she hadn’t pulled the case, but there
was no helping that now.

Devon was led in from the front of the courtroom, still in his jailhouse fatigues. He was shackled at both his wrists and
ankles, but otherwise he seemed relaxed. “Your Honor, if I may confer with my client for a minute?” Finn said.

“Thirty seconds, counsel.” Judge Platt yawned. “All we need right now is an initial plea—guilty or not. Anything more complicated
than that you can deal with once we’re done. I don’t want to hold the others here up.”

Devon duckwalked in his shackles behind the desk. He put his fingers to his lips and made a zipping motion. “I’m keeping quiet,”
he said, winking. “This is your show.”

“Good,” Finn said. “But we need to talk seriously once you’re out.”

“I know,” Devon said. “I swear, though, you’re gonna get your money. I’m not gonna leave you hangin’ out to dry on this.”

“It’s not about the money, Devon,” Finn said. “Ballick was killed last night. That makes you two for two—Ballick and Murphy.
The cops want to talk to me, and I don’t know what to tell them. All I know is that I don’t like being connected to murders
through one client. It means you’re either really bad luck, or you’re not telling me everything I need to know. Either way,
it pisses me off.”

Finn watched as the blood drained from Devon’s face. “Ballick?” he said. His voice had gone hoarse. “Murdered?”

“Yeah,” Finn said. “Murdered.”

Judge Platt shifted in his chair on the bench. “Time’s up, counsel,” he said. “Do you waive reading?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Finn said, turning to look at the judge.

Any sense of confidence that Devon had exuded when he walked into the courtroom was gone. His eyes were wheeling. “Wait, Finn,
I need to think,” he whispered.

“How does your client wish to plead?” the judge asked.

“Not guilty,” Finn said.

“Finn!” Devon was hissing now, and even Judge Platt was forced to take notice.

“Counsel, please instruct your client that I will not tolerate outbursts.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Finn turned to Devon and put his hand up, making clear that it was time for him to be quiet.

“I assume you’re looking for bail, Mr. Finn?” Judge Platt continued.

“Your Honor, we would ask that the defendant be released on his own recognizance.”

“Mr. Finn has an excellent sense of humor, Your Honor,” Kelley interrupted.

“That’s true, Judge,” Finn replied, “but I don’t happen to be exercising it at the moment. My client has been a resident of
this community for his entire life. He has a daughter who resides with him. This is the kind of case where no bail is required.”

“We’ve got to talk!” Devon said, louder this time, drawing another look from the judge.

Kelley used Finn’s distraction with his client to butt in and try to control the argument on bail. “Your Honor, the defendant
was caught with over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stolen merchandise that he was loading onto a truck. To release
him on O.R. would virtually guarantee that he would never be seen again. He is well known to the law enforcement community
as an accomplished thief—”

“Mr. Malley has not been convicted of theft in more than twenty years,” Finn interjected.

“It’s true, it’s been a while since he was convicted of a crime,” Kelley conceded. “He has been arrested seven times in the
past decade, though.”

“He was not convicted in any of those cases, Your Honor. You can’t really punish him for the overzealousness of the police
department and the DA’s office, can you?”

“Your Honor, this is outrageous!” Kelley nearly shouted. “To suggest that this man is somehow a victim of the system is over
the top, even for Mr. Finn.”

“Settle down, both of you,” Platt said. He waved his hand in a dismissive way, but Finn could tell he was interested in the
argument. There was no way Finn was going to get Malley out on his own recognizance, but he might get bail set lower than
normal. “He has a daughter?” Platt asked.

“He does, Your Honor,” Finn said. “She’s fourteen and she’s living with him.”

“Where is she staying at the moment?”

“For the past two nights she has stayed with me, Your Honor.” He laced his fingers in front of him and looked down, adopting
the posture of an altar boy. “She has no relatives, and with Mr. Malley in jail there have been few options.” He was selling
now, and he was hoping Platt was in a buying mood. “Mr. Malley’s primary concern at the moment is to make sure that he is
there for his little girl.”

“Oh, please,” Kelley objected, rolling her eyes. “If Mr. Malley is such a model parent, why did he spend last Sunday night
out in the Back Bay ripping off a boutique? This man is a real flight risk, Your Honor.”

“You really think he’s going to abandon his daughter?” Finn asked.

“Mr. Finn makes some good points,” Platt said to Kelley. “I’m not sure I should penalize him for arrests where no convictions
were ultimately obtained. He also does have strong roots in the community, including a daughter who resides with him.” He
paused, then turned to the clerk. “Can I see Mr. Malley’s file?”

Finn turned to Devon and nodded reassuringly. He’d done his job well and he knew it. He was expecting a grateful acknowledgment
in Devon’s eyes in return. To his surprise, however, his client’s face betrayed a mixture of fear and frustration. Devon turned
toward him, dipping his shoulder down and leaning his head down. Assuming Devon wanted to whisper to him, Finn leaned in as
well.

Devon punched him in the face. Hard.

It was an excellent shot, made more effective by the fact that Finn had stuck out his chin in order to listen to his client.
He was off balance, and the blow was completely unexpected. As Finn started to fall, he tripped over the chair behind him,
overturning it. That sent him sprawling to the floor, nearly smashing his head on the banister that separated the front of
the courtroom from the gallery.

There was a moment of silence in the courtroom, followed by pandemonium. The bailiffs were running at Devon, their nightsticks
drawn, and Devon was ducking down, trying to shield his head. It wasn’t easy with the chains and cuffs around his body. It
took only a moment before two other bailiffs were on top of him, pummeling Devon.

“Okay! Okay! Okay!” Devon screamed as he fought to fend off the blows. It was useless, though, and Finn saw several solid
shots land on his arms and back. Then they had him on his feet, and they scurried him out of the courtroom, his feet dangling
off the ground as four bailiffs carried him.

The din died almost as quickly as it had started once he was gone. Finn got to his feet, rubbing his chin. He looked at the
judge, unsure what to say. Kelley recovered more quickly than he did.

“Your Honor, the Commonwealth opposes bail in any amount,” she said simply. Finn could see the smirk on her face.

“Judge,” Finn began. He wasn’t sure where to go from there. “I would like to point out—”

“Save it, Mr. Finn,” Platt said. “Bail is denied.”

“But Your Honor,” Finn protested.

“Enough, Mr. Finn!” Platt thundered. It was the first time Finn could remember Platt ever raising his voice. “If Mr. Malley
would like to make bail, he will have to come in here and apologize and show me that he can behave like a civilized person.
Even then, I will have to consider whether or not to grant bail in any amount. Until then, he stays locked up!”

Finn rubbed his jaw. He could feel the swelling. The judge just looked at him, daring him to say anything. Finn was the one
who had been assaulted, yet the judge was just as angry at him as he was at Devon. Finn wasn’t surprised. The feeling among
judges, prosecutors, police, and much of the public was that defense lawyers deserve whatever clients they take on. In fairness,
Finn wasn’t sure they were wrong.

He looked up at Platt and swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Honor,” he said. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

Gavin Middle School in South Boston looked like every other school in Boston built in the first half of the twentieth century.
It was a two-story brick-and-cement structure next to the Church of St. Mary on Dorchester Street, on the edge of Dorchester
Heights. It had fallen into squalor in the latter half of the century, and sections of it were now roped off with bright orange
safety netting. It was bordered on three sides by dilapidated residential housing the color of dirt and depression. The pointing
between the bricks on the school’s exterior was chipping, causing the corners to sag wearily.

It had been designed to accommodate three hundred students in the sixth, seventh, and eighth grades. More than twice that
number now trudged up the walkway every morning hoping to be educated. One-third of those who attended were enrolled in special
educational programs. Two-thirds were classified as either failing or performing below acceptable standards. Not a single
student was classified as “advanced.” The school itself had been designated as “restructuring”—the lowest classification for
public schools, entitling parents to opt out of the place and send their children to another school within the district. Many
did. The students left were those whose parents lacked the wherewithal or the motivation to find their children a better alternative.

It was the fourth school Sally Malley had attended in three years. She’d left two schools as a result of the wanderlust of
her two parents; she’d been forced out of another because of disciplinary problems.

It was lunchtime, and most of the students were in the cafeteria. Sally could hear the screaming from the basement lunchroom
even at the side of the building, down the alley that separated the school from St. Mary’s. She hated the screaming. It seemed
as though it was almost involuntary, the way all of the students screamed whenever they had the chance. The lunchroom was
the worst, and she avoided it at all costs.

As soon as the bell rang for lunch, she sneaked out and ducked down the alleyway into a step-down covered doorway that led
to the church’s basement. As far as she knew, the door was never used; she’d never seen anyone come in or go out. It was her
sanctuary.

She put her bag down and reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out her Marlboros and a book of matches. She tugged a cigarette
out with her teeth, struck the match and held it up in front of her face. For a moment she was tempted to skip the cigarette
and light her hair on fire. Or maybe her face or her hand; a good burn would get her out of classes for a while. She sighed
and lit the cigarette instead. She hadn’t quite lost her instinct for self-preservation.

She inhaled the cigarette smoke deeply, letting it fill her lungs, wondering how quickly she might be able to develop a tumor.
Probably not quickly enough to get her out of math class, she guessed.

She was running through scenarios in her mind by which she might be able to avoid school altogether that afternoon when she
heard them coming from the back of the school. They were loud. They were laughing in that vicious, brutal way that immediately
identified them as adolescent boys who’d given up on life too early. They spoke in the heavy dialect of the projects, and
their banter was punctuated with a curse every other word.

Sally shrunk back from the mouth of the overhang, tucking herself into the shadows as far as possible. She wasn’t scared;
not really. Not the way others might be. This was a part of the life to which she had become accustomed. Threats were everywhere;
she accepted them as inevitable, and treated them as an inconvenience. If she could avoid dealing with this particular threat,
terrific. If not, she was ready. Always would be.