Love You More: A Novel (25 page)

Females sit on one side of the van. Males sit on the other. A clear Plexiglas sheet separates the two. The bleach blonde beside me spent most of the journey making suggestive motions with her tongue. The two hundred and fifty pound, heavily tattooed black male across from us urged her on with his hips.

Three more minutes, and I think they could’ve completed their transaction. Sadly for their sake, we arrived at the Suffolk County Jail.

The sheriff’s van pulled into the unloading bay. A massive metal garage door clanged down and locked tight, sealing in the place. Then the vehicle doors finally opened.

Males disembarked first, exiting the van as a shackled line and entering the sally port. After a few moments, it was our turn.

Stepping out of the van was the hardest. I felt the peer pressure not to stumble or fall, as I would take down the entire line. The fact I was white and wearing new clothes already made me stand out, as most of my fellow detainees appeared to be members of the sex and drugs trade. The cleaner ones probably worked for money. The not so clean ones worked for product.

Most of them had been up all night, and to judge by the various smells, they’d been busy.

Interestingly enough, the orange-haired woman to my right crinkled her nose at my particular odor of hospital antiseptic and brand-new blue jeans. While the girl to my left (eighteen, nineteen years old?) took in my bashed-in face, and said, “Oh honey, next time, just give him the money, and he’ll go easier on you.”

Doors opened. We shuffled our way into the sally port. The doors behind us shut. The doors to the left clanged open.

I could see command central directly ahead of me, staffed by two COs in dark blue BDUs. I kept my head down, afraid of spotting a familiar face.

More hobbling steps, inching our way shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip down a long corridor, past cinder-block walls painted a dirty
yellow, inhaling the astringent smell of government institutions everywhere—a mix of sweat, bleach, and human apathy.

We arrived at the “dirty hold,” another large cell, much like the one at the courthouse. Hard wooden bench lining one wall. Single metal toilet and sink. Two public pay phones. All calls had to be made collect, we were informed, while an automated message would inform the receiver the call originated from the Suffolk County Jail.

We were unshackled. The CO exited. The metal door clanged shut, and that was that.

I rubbed my wrists, then noticed I was the only one who did so. Everyone else was already lining up for the phone. Ready to call whomever to bail them out.

I didn’t line up. I sat on the hard wooden bench and watched the hookers and drug dealers, who still had more people who loved them than I did.

The CO called my name first. Even knowing it was coming, I had a moment of panic. My hands gripped the edge of the bench. I wasn’t sure I could let go.

I’d handled it so far. I’d handled so much thus far. But now, the processing. Officer Tessa Leoni would officially cease to exist. Inmate #55669021 would take her place.

I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it.

The CO called my name again. He stood outside the metal door, staring straight at me through the window. And I knew he knew. Of course he knew. They were admitting a female state police officer. Had to be the juiciest scuttlebutt around. A woman charged with killing her husband and suspected of murdering her six-year-old daughter. Exactly the kind of inmate COs loved to hate.

I forced myself to let go of the bench. I drew myself to standing.

Command presence, I thought, a little wildly. Never let them see you sweat.

I made it to the door. The CO snapped on the bracelets, placing his hand upon my elbow. His grip was firm, his face impassive.

“This way,” the CO said, and jerked my arm to the left.

We returned to command central, where I was grilled for basic information: height, weight, DOB, closest relative, contact information,
addresses, phone numbers, distinguishing tattoos, etc. Then they took my picture standing in front of the cinder-block wall, holding a sign covered in the number that would be my new identity. The finished product became my new ID card, which I would be required to wear at all times.

Back down the corridor. New room, where they took away my clothing, and I got to squat naked while a female officer pointed a flashlight into all of my orifices. I received a drab brown prison suit—one pair of pants, one shirt—a single pair of flat white sneakers, nicknamed “Air Cabrals” in deference to the sheriff, Andrea Cabral, and a clear plastic hooter bag. The hooter bag contained a clear toothbrush the size of a pinky, a small clear deodorant, clear shampoo, and white toothpaste. The toiletries were clear to make it harder for inmates to conceal drugs in the containers. The toothbrush was small so it would be less effective when inevitably made into a shiv.

If I desired additional toiletries, say conditioner, hand lotion, lip balm, I had to purchase them from the commissary. Chapstick ran $1.10. Lotion $2.21. I could also buy better tennis shoes, ranging from $28 to $47.

Next, the nurse’s office. She checked out my black eye, swollen cheek, and gashed head. Then I got to answer routine medical questions, while being inoculated for TB, always a major consideration for prison populations. The nurse lingered on the psych eval, perhaps trying to determine if I was the kind of woman who might do something rash, like hang myself with overbleached sheets.

The nurse signed off on my medical eval. Then the CO escorted me down the cinder-block hall to the elevator banks. He punched the ninth floor, which held pretrial women. I had two choices, Unit 1-9-1 or Unit 1-9-2. I got 1-9-2.

Sixty to eighty women held at a time in the pretrial units. Sixteen cells to a unit. Two to three women to a cell.

I was led to a cell with only one other female. Her name was Erica Reed. She currently slept on the top bunk, kept her personal possessions on the bottom. I could make myself at home on the butcher block that also served as a desk.

Second the metal door shut behind me, Erica started chewing her
discolored fingernails, revealing a row of blackened teeth. Meth addict. Which explained her pale sunken face and lank brown hair.

“Are you the cop?” she asked immediately, sounding very excited. “Everyone said we were getting a cop! I
hope
you’re the cop!”

I realized then that I was in even bigger trouble than I’d thought.

22

L
ieutenant Colonel Gerard Hamilton didn’t sound thrilled to talk to D.D. and Bobby; more like resigned to his fate. One of his troopers was involved in an “unfortunate incident.” Of course the investigative team needed to interview him.

As a matter of courtesy, D.D. and Bobby met him in his office. He shook D.D.’s hand, then greeted Bobby with a more familiar hand clasp to the shoulder. It was obvious the men knew each other, and D.D. was grateful for Bobby’s presence—Hamilton probably wouldn’t have been so collegial otherwise.

She let Bobby take the lead while she studied Hamilton’s office. The Massachusetts State Police were notoriously fond of their military-like hierarchy. If D.D. worked in a modest office space decorated as Business-R-Us, then Hamilton’s space reminded her of an up-and-coming political candidate’s. The wood-paneled walls held black-framed photos of Hamilton with every major Massachusetts politician, including a particularly large snapshot of Hamilton and Mass.’s Republican senator, Scott Brown. She spotted a diploma from UMass Amherst, another certificate from the FBI Academy. The
impressive rack of antlers mounted above the LT’s desk showcased his hunting prowess, and in case that didn’t do the trick, another photo showed Hamilton in green fatigues and an orange hunting vest standing next to the fresh kill.

D.D. didn’t dwell on the photo too long. She was getting the impression that Baby Warren was a vegetarian. Red meat bad. Dry cereal, on the other hand, was starting to sound good.

“Of course I know Trooper Leoni,” Hamilton was saying now. He was a distinguished-looking senior officer. Trim, athletic build, dark hair graying at the temples, permanently tanned face from years of outdoor living. D.D. bet the young male officers openly admired him, while the young female officers secretly found him sexy. Was Tessa Leoni one of those officers? And did Hamilton return the sentiment?

“Fine officer,” he continued evenly. “Young, but competent. No history of incidents or complaints.”

Hamilton had Tessa’s file open on his desk. He confirmed Tessa had worked graveyard Friday and Saturday nights. Then he and Bobby reviewed her duty logs, much of which made no sense to D.D. Detectives tracked active cases, cleared cases, warrants, interviews, etc., etc. Troopers tracked, among other things, vehicle stops, traffic citations, call outs, warrants served, property seized, and a whole slew of assists. It sounded less like policing to D.D. and more like basketball. Apparently, troopers were either making calls or assisting other troopers making calls.

Either way, Tessa had particularly robust duty logs, even Friday and Saturday night. On Saturday’s graveyard shift alone, she’d issued two citations for operating under the influence—OUI—which in the second case involved not just taking the driver into custody, but arranging for the suspect’s vehicle to be towed.

Bobby grimaced. “Seen the paperwork yet?” he said, tapping the two OUIs.

“Got it from the captain a couple of hours ago. It’s good.”

Bobby looked at D.D. “Then she definitely didn’t have a concussion Saturday night. I can barely complete those forms stone-sober, let alone suffering from a massive head trauma.”

“Take any personal calls Saturday night?” D.D. asked the LT.

Hamilton shrugged. “Troopers patrol with their personal mobiles, not just their department-issued pager. It’s possible she took all sorts of personal calls. Nothing, however, through official channels.”

D.D. nodded. She was surprised troopers were still allowed their cellphones. Many law enforcement agencies were banning them, as uniformed officers, often the first responders to crime scenes, had a tendency to snap personal photos using their mobiles. Maybe they thought the guy who blew his head off looked funny. Or they wanted to share that particular blood spatter with a buddy they had in a different field office. From a legal perspective, however, any crime-scene photo was evidence and subject to full disclosure to the defense. Meaning that if any such photos surfaced
after
the case had been adjudicated, their mere presence would be grounds for a mistrial.

The DA didn’t like it very much when that happened. Had a tendency to get downright nasty on the subject.

“Leoni ever reprimanded?” D.D. asked now.

Hamilton shook his head.

“Take a lot of days off, maybe personal time? She’s a young mom, spending half her year alone with a kid.”

Hamilton flipped through the file, shook his head. “Admirable,” he commented. “Not easy meeting both the demands of the job and the needs of a family.”

“Amen,” Bobby murmured.

They both sounded sincere. D.D. chewed her lower lip. “How well did you know her?” she asked the LT abruptly. “Group bonding activities, the gang meeting for drinks, that sort of thing?”

Hamilton finally hesitated. “I didn’t really know her,” he said at last. “Trooper Leoni had a reputation for being distant. Couple of her performance reviews touched on the subject. Solid officer. Very reliable. Showed good judgment. But on the social front, remained aloof. It was a source of some concern. Even troopers, who primarily patrol alone, need to feel the cohesiveness of the group. The reassurance that your fellow officer always has your back. Trooper Leoni’s fellow troopers respected her professionally. But no one really felt they knew her personally. And in this job, where the lines between professional and personal life easily blur …”

Hamilton’s voice trailed off. D.D. got his point and was intrigued. Law enforcement wasn’t a day job. You didn’t just punch a clock, perform your duties, and hand off to your coworkers. Law enforcement was a calling. You committed to your work, you committed to your team, and you resigned yourself to the life.

D.D. had wondered if Tessa had been too close to a fellow officer, or even a commanding officer, such as the LT. In fact, it sounded as if she wasn’t close enough.

“Can I ask you a question?” Hamilton asked suddenly.

“Me?” Startled, D.D. blinked at the lieutenant colonel, then nodded.

“Do you fraternize with your fellow detectives? Grab a beer, share cold pizza, catch the game at one another’s homes?”

“Sure. But I don’t have a family,” D.D. pointed out. “And I’m older. Tessa Leoni … you’re talking about a young, pretty mom dealing with a barrack of entirely male officers. She’s your only female trooper, right?”

“In Framingham, yes.”

D.D. shrugged. “Not a lot of women in blue. If Trooper Leoni wasn’t feeling the brotherly love, can’t say I blame her.”

“We never had any complaints of sexual harassment,” Hamilton stated immediately.

“Not all women feel like doing the paperwork.”

Hamilton didn’t like this assertion. His face shuttered up, he looked intimidating, harsh even.