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 crashing 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 MCIShirley 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 MCIShirley 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 shirt 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 Shirley 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."

"Would it really have mattered?" she asked. "You know office policy. Even if we reduce the charge, the defendant has to do some jail time."

"But maybe Furr should have been the exception to the rule. Maybe I showed no compa.s.sion toward him because he was black. If that's the case, then my actions are inexcusable."

"What are you talking about?"

"Would I have done more for him if he were a white white man with no record? Did I a.s.sume that he'd be able to survive in jail because he was black? I don't man with no record? Did I a.s.sume that he'd be able to survive in jail because he was black? I don't think think that's what I did. Now I'm not so sure." that's what I did. Now I'm not so sure."

"Listen to me. I've supervised you long enough to know that's not how you think. I've watched you in court and the way you handle pleas. You treat everyone with respect and professionalism, no matter what their race. You witnessed something tragic today. But it wasn't your fault."

Liz stood up. "Let me tell you a story. My first day on the job, I was excited just to be standing in a courtroom, doing something for the community. I'm preparing a stack of thirty or so arraignments, thinking I'm the good guy and everyone's going to admire what I'm doing for them. Then the first defendant I'm about to arraign calls me a 'sellout b.i.t.c.h' in open court. I look out over the faces in the gallery and can tell they think the same thing. It hurt. I knew that a lot of people in the black community didn't trust the police or prosecutors, but I believed it would be different for me. As a black woman, I thought I'd have some credibility with witnesses and defendants in the courtroom, that people would see me as a fair prosecutor. I was wrong. But I didn't let that stop me from doing my job."

"I took this job for the same reasons. Now I'm not so sure-"

"There are are people who appreciate what you do every day. Unfortunately, you don't get a chance to meet them. All you see in the courthouse are angry defendants and reluctant witnesses who don't want to be labeled as snitches. But most people in this community want to live in a neighborhood where their children can play outside without the constant fear of gunfire." people who appreciate what you do every day. Unfortunately, you don't get a chance to meet them. All you see in the courthouse are angry defendants and reluctant witnesses who don't want to be labeled as snitches. But most people in this community want to live in a neighborhood where their children can play outside without the constant fear of gunfire."

Mitch sat up straighter, his long fingers relaxing on the chair's arms. Liz was starting to get through to him in a way that Connie could not.

"Mitch, those are the people who respect you and appreciate what you do. You'll probably never meet them because they're busy working two jobs and don't have time to hang around a courthouse and thank you for the work you do."

Liz moved back toward her desk. "See those two Norman Rockwell prints?" she said, pointing to the wall behind her. There were two gold-framed prints, one of a little black girl in pigtails and a white dress; the other an ill.u.s.tration of parents, circa 1943, lovingly tucking their kids into bed, the father holding a newspaper with a headline of wartime bombing. Connie wanted to get that same Rockwell print of the bed-time scene-after all, Freedom from Fear Freedom from Fear was the only one of the four freedoms they had control of as prosecutors. was the only one of the four freedoms they had control of as prosecutors.

"Those aren't up there because they're pretty," Liz was saying to Mitch. "They're up there to remind me every morning why I do this job. They help keep me strong in my mission. The print of the little girl is called The Problem We All Live With. The Problem We All Live With."

"That's the little girl," Mitch said, "Ruby Bridges, who had to walk the gauntlet every day, escorted by federal marshals, just to go to her desegregated school in New Orleans."

Liz nodded. "Do you think that six-year-old girl had someone telling her that they appreciated what she was doing for every black child in America? Do you think anyone in that mob told her how much they respected her as they called her 'n.i.g.g.e.r' and threw rotten fruit at her?"

Mitch's eyes were fixed on the print.

"I'm not nearly as brave as Ruby Bridges," she continued. "I keep her picture there to remind me of what she she did for me, to help me keep fighting for the next generation of children out there. Are you familiar with the other print?" did for me, to help me keep fighting for the next generation of children out there. Are you familiar with the other print?"

Mitch nodded. He wiped at his face with his shirtsleeve.

"Our job as prosecutors is to try to make every parent in this city feel that safe about their kids, whether they're tucking them in bed at night or dropping them off at the park to play. Until we reach that goal, our work isn't complete."

Mitch stood up from his chair. "Thanks, Liz. I've taken up enough of your time."

"My door's always open," she said.

Connie glanced at Liz as Mitch stood up and walked unsteadily out of her office.

"You think he'll be all right?" Connie asked, looking after him.

She shrugged. "No one has ever killed himself because of me doing my job. My guess is, right now it doesn't matter what we say. He has to work things out for himself and decide if he really wants to be a prosecutor. Being a prosecutor is a tough job. We have incredible power over other people's lives."

CHAPTER 34.

Mitch stared at his computer screen saver with its simulation of fast-moving stars. He imagined himself floating through s.p.a.ce, dreaming he was someone other than Mitchum Beaulieu, the person responsible for another man's death. fast-moving stars. He imagined himself floating through s.p.a.ce, dreaming he was someone other than Mitchum Beaulieu, the person responsible for another man's death.

He wished he were a young kid again, back in Laurel, Maryland, where he'd been raised by his adoptive father, a wealthy, eccentric widower, Marshall Beaulieu. Marshall's young wife, Christina, had died giving birth to their stillborn child.

Marshall had sworn that he would never love another woman, but he had always wanted a son to carry the Beaulieu name. His father told him how sometime after Christina's death he'd decided to adopt a child. He traveled to the Sisters of Hope orphanage in Baltimore to find a son. All of the children looked the same to him with their fair skin, blond hair and blue eyes.

Then Marshall Beaulieu saw a young boy, no more than two years old, sitting alone on one side of the room coloring on a piece of white construction paper. "You were always different," his father told him. The other children wouldn't play with him and he didn't seem to care. "You were all alone in the world, like I was."

The boy had light brown skin and a full head of reddish-brown hair. He had gray eyes, a shade of gray that Marshall was familiar with, the color of a storm cloud on a hot August afternoon, the color of Christina's eyes. And as though he were watching that storm cloud fast approaching in the summer heat, Marshall antic.i.p.ated the relief that rain would bring.

When his father approached him, Mitch stopped coloring and looked up. Marshall tried to coax him over for a hug, but he got frightened and started to cry. He was the most handsome child in the room, even when he was crying, his father told him, and Marshall knew right then that this child would be his son.

Mitch closed his eyes and imagined himself back in that room, getting hugged by his father. It had been so long since he had seen his father, touched him, spoken with him, smelled his distinctive smell of sweet pipe tobacco and peppermint. He missed him, especially at a time like this when he needed his support and advice. He realized he had no one in his life now. Everything around him was shattered. He needed someone to help him make it through.

A punch in the arm startled Mitch from his thoughts. "Hey, Red, are you going to come get a workout or what?" Connie stood beside him, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder.

"I think I might stay here and try to get some work done," Mitch said, trying to focus on his computer screen.

"You might stay and do some work?" He sounded like a parent questioning a child who'd refused to do his ch.o.r.es. "A workout will help clear your head. Come with me."

"But I really don't feel like-"

"I don't care if you pedal around on an exercise bike or walk on the treadmill, you're not going to stay here alone and think about what happened today. It'll burn off some stress and you'll feel better."

"I don't want to stay long. And I don't feel like lifting any weights."

"Fine," Connie said. "No lifting-even though nothing relieves stress better than pumping iron. You don't even need to break a sweat. I just want you to get up and do something."

Mitch could see Connie wasn't going away. He turned off his computer.

"Great," Connie said. "Let me just say good night to Andi. She and Rachel are going to dinner with her parents tonight."

Mitch stood and started to pack his briefcase. He wasn't going to get any work done anyway, so he snapped the case shut and slipped it under his desk. He was putting on his suit jacket when Connie came back.

"Let's go," Connie said.

Mitch followed Connie down the stairs, shuffling after him like a little kid tagging along behind his big brother.