"They're fine. Angel's had a cold this week, but Iris is her usual self, bouncing off the walls."

"The kids will get over their daddy missing a party. We are working this case together. together. This isn't some a.s.sault or robbery case. It's not even your typical murder investigation. You'd better be prepared to work sixteen-hour days until we get this guy. Your family has to accept it too. Don't worry, though, I'll be sure to sign your overtime slip," Mooney said. "Marcy will be happy when she sees your paycheck next week." This isn't some a.s.sault or robbery case. It's not even your typical murder investigation. You'd better be prepared to work sixteen-hour days until we get this guy. Your family has to accept it too. Don't worry, though, I'll be sure to sign your overtime slip," Mooney said. "Marcy will be happy when she sees your paycheck next week."

"I won't be alive next week," Alves muttered. No wonder the guy's divorced, he thought.

"She did want you to make Homicide, didn't she?"

"Yeah." He knew where this was going.

"Welcome to Homicide. Do you want me to call her for you?"

"No thanks. I can handle that myself, but I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"Don't mention it. I'll see you when you get here. And pick up some dinner for us on the way. I don't care what you get, surprise me," Mooney said.

"You hungry, Sarge?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"I have a great idea. How about we get some work done first. Then we can shoot over to the hall, get a quick bite and save my marriage at the same time. We have to eat anyway, and it's only five minutes from headquarters. I guarantee the food will be excellent. We won't stay more than an hour. You can be my excuse to leave, and then Marcy can be mad at you instead of me."

"What do I get out of this?"

"A free meal and a happy detective, who will show his appreciation by busting his a.s.s for you."

CHAPTER 20.

Mitch Beaulieu thumbed through a stack of booking photos from the previous days' arrests. So many black faces, so many hollow lives destroyed by poor education, drug addiction and violence. He sat at his desk while everyone packed up work to take home. He wasn't overly anxious to get to his empty apartment, the one he used to share with the woman he loved. previous days' arrests. So many black faces, so many hollow lives destroyed by poor education, drug addiction and violence. He sat at his desk while everyone packed up work to take home. He wasn't overly anxious to get to his empty apartment, the one he used to share with the woman he loved.

He'd met Sonya Jordan at Harvard Law in an advanced criminal procedure cla.s.s. She was the first woman president of the Black Law Students a.s.sociation and was perceived by many, especially the white males, as a militant, both for her feminist views and her opinions on racism in the United States. By the end of the first semester, Sonya had moved in with Mitch in his cramped apartment in Harvard Square. Their relationship was proof that opposites attract. Mitch had always wanted to be a prosecutor and Sonya was born to be the next great criminal-defense attorney.

Mitch was the only conservative voice on the BLSA, so he argued with Sonya over everything from affirmative action to the American criminal justice system and the prison industrial complex. They rarely agreed on anything. It was the pa.s.sion in their arguments that led to the pa.s.sion in their relationship. Mitch loved her. He was sure she loved him too. But in the end the philosophical differences that had brought them together tore them apart. It'd been almost six months since she'd left Boston, and he was having trouble accepting the breakup.

Looking at the booking photos served as a reminder of why Sonya had ended their relationship. She'd never bought into his view that he could help make neighborhoods safer places for people to live and raise their families. He remembered her saying that he was "persecuting his own people by helping racist cops put young black men in jail." In the end she told him she couldn't continue to live with him as long as he worked as a prosecutor.

As much as he loved her, his work was too important to give up. He did the job to make a difference. He was working for a cause greater than himself and Sonya, greater than the love they shared. It had been unfair for her to make him choose between the two things that made his life complete. He chose the job, hoping Sonya would eventually understand and come back. She never did. They hadn't spoken in months. He heard that she'd accepted a job in the DC area.

Tonight he wanted to talk, to tell her he wasn't so sure anymore. He felt felt as if he was helping his people. After all, his father had raised him well, teaching his only child what it meant to be a decent person. But his father didn't understand what it meant to be black. All through his childhood, he'd felt the stigma of being a black child adopted by a white father. And now Mitch feared his upbringing had limited his understanding of what it meant to be black. as if he was helping his people. After all, his father had raised him well, teaching his only child what it meant to be a decent person. But his father didn't understand what it meant to be black. All through his childhood, he'd felt the stigma of being a black child adopted by a white father. And now Mitch feared his upbringing had limited his understanding of what it meant to be black.

Staring at the booking photos, he felt guilty thinking he'd had a difficult childhood. But for him it was tough growing up not knowing who his real parents were. As a teenager, he'd pictured his birth mother as an upper-cla.s.s white girl with long red hair, the color of the sun setting over Chesapeake Bay, and striking gray eyes, his eyes. Mitch envisioned his father as a young black man, maybe a college student who worked summers as a laborer, who met Mitch's mother while working on her family's estate. In Mitch's young mind, his father was tall and handsome with a powerful jaw and black hair slightly darker than the color of his skin. After the two fell in love, they would sneak off into the woods surrounding the estate.

Mitch was sure his mother's parents would never have approved of the relationship, pushing her even closer to her lover. Later that summer, when her parents learned she was pregnant, she was probably sent away to a home with other unwed pregnant girls so she could give birth to her child and give it up for adoption. When she returned home, Mitch's father was gone. The two lovers never saw each other again and spent the rest of their lives dreaming of reuniting.

Mitch didn't care if his story was true. It was unrealistic and sentimental, but he clung to it because what was the alternative? Sitting around thinking his real mother hadn't wanted him?

The sky outside the courthouse was a soft pink as night began to fall on the cars, buses, and people-his people-pa.s.sing through Dudley Square. He wished he could talk to Sonya. He needed to figure out if he was doing the right thing working as a prosecutor. As he looked down at the booking photos in front of him, then back at the people in the Square, he wondered if Sonya was right. people-pa.s.sing through Dudley Square. He wished he could talk to Sonya. He needed to figure out if he was doing the right thing working as a prosecutor. As he looked down at the booking photos in front of him, then back at the people in the Square, he wondered if Sonya was right.

"Hey, Red." Connie's voice startled him. "I meant to tell you earlier. You left your gym bag in the trunk of the Response car last week. I can give it to you now or in the morning."

"Tomorrow's fine," Mitch said, distracted. Connie and Nick were walking toward the door with their briefcases. Brendan had just stood up to put on his jacket. "Hey, guys," said Mitch. "Tell me something. What do you think of when you see these mug shots every day?"

"I think they're criminals that broke the law and need to be punished," Nick said.

"What about the ones who haven't done anything all that bad?" Mitch asked.

"No matter how minor the crime, they should be held accountable," Nick said. "I believe that whole 'broken windows' philosophy. If you don't prosecute the quality-of-life crimes, you end up with drug dealing and shootings."

"That's not what I mean," Mitch said. "Focus on the people, people, not the crimes. What do you think when you see all those black faces, day after day?" not the crimes. What do you think when you see all those black faces, day after day?"

"C'mon, Mitch," Nick sighed, "don't make it a race thing. People get arrested for the crimes they commit. It's not about race."

"Jesus, Nick, you're so white-bread," Connie said, putting down his briefcase and sitting on a corner of the nearest desk. "Of course it's about race. Everything's about race in this city."

"What do you mean, I'm I'm white-bread?" white-bread?"

"You're a white kid who grew up in a white neighborhood and went to all-white private schools."

"Are you calling me a racist?"

"No, but don't tell Mitch it's not about race. Most of the people arrested in this city are black. Our society has a history of persecuting all all people of color." people of color."

Mitch nodded his head, relieved that Connie understood.

"You've had such an isolated life you can't see there's racism everywhere."

"And you're an expert?" Nick asked.

"More of an expert than you'll ever be. I went to the Boston Public Schools. I got bused all over the city. I went to an elementary school in Mattapan, where I was one of ten white kids in the whole building."

"I know what that's like," Brendan said, fixing his collar and joining the argument. "They shipped me from Southie to Roxbury. The Condon School was only a block away from our apartment, but I got a.s.signed to a school halfway across the city. Luckily, I know how to take care of myself. But it was tough for some of the smaller kids."

For the first time Mitch realized that his educational experience was more like Nick's than it was the people in the booking photos. Aside from black skin, Mitch had nothing in common with the people in the photos or those outside in Dudley Square.

"A lot of good kids ended up with criminal records," Connie said. "They weren't bad then and they're not bad now. They're good guys who got caught up in bad situations."

"Knock it off, Connie," Nick said. "You're making excuses for them. A lot of people grow up in tough situations and don't commit crimes."

"Until you've seen the arrest photo of a kid you grew up with, you won't understand what I'm talking about. One time I picked up a case file at a pretrial, and it was one of my best friends from second grade. He had a ten-page BOP. Mostly armed robberies."

"So I've never seen a booking sheet for a kid I grew up with. So what?"

"How would you feel if a hundred Greek guys got arrested every day?"

"If they committed crimes, I'd have no problem with it."

"What if the government arresting all these Greeks was a Turkish government?"

"Wouldn't matter."

"Give me a break," Connie laughed. "If you saw booking photos of Greeks day after day in a society dominated by the Turks, you'd say that the Greeks were being persecuted and you know it."

Nick shook his head as he headed toward the door. "Screw this. I'm not going to win a three-on-one argument. I'm out of here." The door slammed behind him.

"Thanks for understanding," Mitch said.

"Don't mention it," Brendan said as he tossed a bunch of color-coordinated files in his bag. He was notorious for highlighting his notes, using different colors for different witnesses. Despite all the teasing Brendan caught, Mitch envied his organizational skills.

"You're the one that has to decide what you're going to do about it," Connie said. "Me, I think you're doing the right thing. If the system is ever going to change, it's going to change because of people like you fighting to make changes."

"But is this the best way?"

"As a prosecutor, you're in a position of power and you can change the system from the inside. If you see someone who's being persecuted, you have the power to do something about it. You can give that person a second chance and make things right."

"It's not that easy."

"Nothing's easy," Connie said. He picked up his briefcase. "You should talk to Liz. She's had to deal with the same things. She worked it out. She can help you do the same."

Connie patted Mitch on the shoulder as he and Brendan walked past him and out the door. Mitch sat staring out the window as darkness set in on the streets of Dudley Square.

CHAPTER 21.

Mooney was anxious to leave as soon as he stepped into the VFW hall. The hall was decorated with pink streamers and a Happy Birthday banner printed off a home computer, and he was surrounded by people he didn't know. Parties were a waste of time, especially when there was work to be done. Sure, if it had been a party to raise money for a cop who was out injured, he wouldn't mind kicking in a few bucks, grabbing a sandwich off a deli platter and downing a couple of cold ones, but this was just a birthday party. Whoopee s.h.i.t, you survived another year. The hall was decorated with pink streamers and a Happy Birthday banner printed off a home computer, and he was surrounded by people he didn't know. Parties were a waste of time, especially when there was work to be done. Sure, if it had been a party to raise money for a cop who was out injured, he wouldn't mind kicking in a few bucks, grabbing a sandwich off a deli platter and downing a couple of cold ones, but this was just a birthday party. Whoopee s.h.i.t, you survived another year.

Alves led Mooney across the floor to where Marcy was sitting with some older women, probably family. "Happy Birthday, Marcy." Mooney forced a big smile. "Twenty-five, right?" He would be pleasant, for Alves's sake.

"Why do I have the feeling you guys aren't staying long?" She gave a look to her husband.

"Because we're not," Mooney shot back before Alves could say anything. "It's not Angel's fault, but we have to get back to the office. You understand, don't you?"

"No, I don't," she said, still looking at Alves. "Angel, you promised."

"I'm sorry, honey, but we'll stay for a while," Alves said. "I'll be sure to walk around and say h.e.l.lo to everyone."

"You'd better be quick about it," Mooney said. "I'll give you an hour tops. We've got a lot to do tonight." He could see that Marcy was angry, but she was going to have to live with it.

Mooney watched as a woman snuck up behind Marcy and covered her eyes. "Guess who." Mooney didn't care who she was, as long as she distracted Marcy.

Marcy didn't appear to be in the mood to play games. She turned her head immediately to see who it was. "Robyn." She jumped out of her chair to hug the woman. "Oh my G.o.d, Angel, it's Robyn Stokes. It's been so long," Marcy said. "You look terrific."

"So do you, Marcy. Who would guess that you're the mother of four-year-old twins?"

Alves stepped between the two women to give Robyn Stokes a hug. "You really do look great," he said. "Robyn, this is my boss, Sergeant Wayne Mooney."

"Pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Mooney."

"Likewise," Mooney managed.

"Wayne," Marcy said, "Robyn's a Mission Hill girl like me. We all grew up together."

"That's nice," Mooney said.

"She's done so well for herself. She graduated from Northeastern, top of her cla.s.s."

"Marcy, you're embarra.s.sing me," Robyn said. "How do you know all this?"

"My mother keeps me up on all the dirt from the neighborhood. Sergeant Mooney went to Northeastern too. Didn't you, Wayne?"

Mooney smiled.

"You're a Husky?" Robyn asked. "What year did you graduate?"

"A long time ago," Mooney said. Marcy was starting to sound like a used-car salesman. She was playing matchmaker and he didn't appreciate it. The last thing he needed right now was a new woman in his life. He was too busy and women always complicated things. Mooney turned to Alves. "I'm starving. Where's all that great food you promised me?"

"This way," Alves said. "I'll be right back, honey."

"Could you feed the kids too?" she asked. "They keep going over to the table, sticking their fingers in everything."

Alves nodded and smiled, leading the way to the buffet table.

"What was that?" Mooney asked. "She was trying to fix me up."

"I know. And don't think this is the end of it. She'll probably bring Robyn over while you're eating so you guys can have some nice dinner conversation. Marcy's a very smart woman."

"What does setting me up have to do with being smart?"

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Sarge. She has us here at the party, now she just needs to find a way to keep us here. If that means setting you up with one of her friends, so be it. If it means making me feed the kids, then I'm feeding the kids. That's why I brought you with me. If you want to do some work tonight, it's your job to get us out of here."

"Hi, Daddy," the kids ran up and hugged Alves's legs.

Alves bent down, took one of them in each arm and lifted them up. "Iris, Angel, can you guys say h.e.l.lo to Sergeant Mooney?"

"h.e.l.lo, Uncle Wayne," they said.