Rizzoli & Isles 05 - Vanish Page 3

  “I do,” said Jane Rizzoli.

  “Thank you. You may be seated.”

  Jane felt all eyes in the courtroom watching her as she settled heavily into the witness-stand chair. They had stared at her from the moment she’d waddled into the courtroom, her ankles swollen, her belly bulging beneath the voluminous maternity dress. Now she shifted in the seat, trying to get comfortable, trying to project some semblance of authority, but the room was warm, and she could already feel perspiration beading on her forehead. A sweating, fidgeting, pregnant cop. Yes, quite an authority figure.

  Gary Spurlock, the assistant DA for Suffolk County, rose to conduct the direct exam. Jane knew him to be a calm and methodical prosecutor, and she had no anxiety about this first round of questions. She kept her gaze on Spurlock, avoiding even a glance at the defendant, Billy Wayne Rollo, who slouched beside his female attorney and stared at Jane. She knew Rollo was trying to intimidate her with the evil eye. Rattle the cop, throw her off balance. He was like too many other assholes she’d known, and his stare was nothing new. Just the last resort of a loser.

  “Could you tell the court your name and spell the last name, please?” Spurlock said.

  “Detective Jane Rizzoli. R-I-Z-Z-O-L-I.”

  “And your profession?”

  “I’m a detective with the homicide unit, Boston Police Department.”

  “Could you describe your education and background for us?”

  She shifted again, her back starting to ache in the hard chair. “I received my associate’s degree in criminal justice from Massachusetts Bay Community College. After my training at Boston PD Academy, I was a beat patrolman in both the Back Bay and Dorchester.” She flinched as her baby gave a hard kick. Settle down in there. Mama’s on the stand. Spurlock was still waiting for the rest of her answer. She continued. “I worked as a detective in vice and narcotics for two years. Then, two and a half years ago, I transferred to the homicide unit, which is where I am currently assigned.”

  “Thank you, Detective. Now I’d like to ask you about the events of February third of this year. In the course of your job, you visited a residence in Roxbury. Correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The address was 4280 Malcolm X Boulevard, correct?”

  “Yes. It’s an apartment building.”

  “Tell us about that visit.”

  “At approximately two thirty P.M., we—my partner, Detective Barry Frost, and I—arrived at that address to interview a tenant in apartment two-B.”

  “In regards to what?”

  “It was in regards to a homicide investigation. The subject in two-B was an acquaintance of the victim.”

  “So he—or she—was not a suspect in that particular case?”

  “No, sir. We did not consider her to be a suspect.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “We had just knocked on the door to two-B when we heard a woman screaming. It came from the apartment across the hall. In two-E.”

  “Could you describe the screams?”

  “I guess I would characterize them as screams of severe distress. Fear. And we heard several loud bangs, as though furniture was being overturned. Or someone was being slammed against the floor.”

  “Objection!” The defense attorney, a tall blond woman, rose to her feet. “Pure speculation. She wasn’t in the apartment to see that.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Detective Rizzoli, please refrain from guessing about events you couldn’t possibly see.”

  Even if it wasn’t just a frigging guess? Because that’s exactly what was happening. Billy Wayne Rollo was slamming his girlfriend’s head against the floor.

  Jane swallowed her irritation and amended her statement. “We heard a loud banging in the apartment.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “Detective Frost and I immediately knocked on the door to two-E.”

  “Did you identify yourselves as police officers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what happened—”

  “That’s a fucking lie,” said the defendant. “They never said they were cops!”

  Everyone looked at Billy Wayne Rollo; he was looking only at Jane.

  “You will remain silent, Mr. Rollo,” the judge ordered.

  “But she’s a liar.”

  “Counsel, either control your client or he will be ejected from this courtroom.”

  “Shhh, Billy,” the defense attorney murmured. “This is not helping.”

  “All right,” the judge said. “Mr. Spurlock, you may continue.”

  The assistant DA nodded and turned back to Jane. “What happened after you knocked on the door to two-E?”

  “There was no answer. But we could still hear the screaming. The banging. We made the joint decision that a life was in danger, and that we needed to enter the apartment with or without consent.”

  “And did you enter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They kicked my fucking door down!” said Rollo.

  “Silence, Mr. Rollo!” the judge snapped, and the defendant slouched back in his chair, his gaze burning on Jane.

  Stare at me all you want, jerk. You think you scare me?

  “Detective Rizzoli,” said Spurlock, “what did you see inside that apartment?”

  Jane turned her attention back to the assistant DA. “We saw a man and a woman. The woman was lying on her back. Her face was severely bruised, and her lip was bleeding. The man was crouched over her. He had both his hands around her neck.”

  “Is that man now sitting in this courtroom?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please point him out.”

  She pointed to Billy Wayne Rollo.

  “What happened then?”

  “Detective Frost and I pulled Mr. Rollo off the woman. She was still conscious. Mr. Rollo resisted us, and in the scuffle, Detective Frost received a heavy blow to the abdomen. Mr. Rollo then fled the apartment. I gave chase and followed him into the stairwell. There I was able to apprehend him.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes, sir.” She paused. Added, without any attempt at humor: “After he fell down the stairs. He appeared to be quite intoxicated.”

  “She fucking pushed me!” said Rollo.

  The judge slammed down his gavel. “I have heard enough out of you! Bailiff, please remove the defendant.”

  “Your honor.” The defense attorney rose. “I will keep him under control.”

  “You haven’t done a very good job of it so far, Ms. Quinlan.”

  “He’ll be quiet now.” She looked at her client. “Won’t you?”

  Rollo gave a resentful grunt.

  Spurlock said: “No further questions, your honor,” and sat down.

  The judge looked at the defense attorney. “Ms. Quinlan?”

  Victoria Quinlan rose for the cross-examination. Jane had never before dealt with this particular attorney, and she was not sure what to expect. As Quinlan approached the witness stand, Jane thought: You’re young, blond, and gorgeous. What are you doing defending this creep? The woman moved like a fashion model on a catwalk, long legs emphasized by a short skirt and pointy high heels. It made Jane’s feet hurt just to look at those shoes. A woman like Quinlan had probably always been the center of attention, and she was milking it now as she strolled to the witness stand, clearly aware that every man sitting in that jury box was probably staring at her firm little ass.

  “Good morning, Detective,” said Quinlan. Sweetly. Too sweetly. Any second now this blonde was going to sprout fangs.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” said Jane, utterly neutral.

  “You said that you are currently assigned to the homicide unit.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And what new cases are you actively investigating right now?”

  “At the moment, I have no new cases. But I continue to follow up on—”

  “Yet you are a Boston PD detective. And at this moment, are there no murder cases that require vigorous investigation?”

  “I’m on maternity leave.”

  “Oh. You’re on leave. So you’re not currently with the unit.”

  “I’m performing administrative duties.”

  “But let’s be clear on this. You’re not an active detective.” Quinlan smiled. “At the moment.”

  Jane felt her face flush. “As I said, I’m on maternity leave. Even cops have babies,” she added with a note of sarcasm, and immediately regretted it. Don’t play her game. Keep your cool. That was easier said than done in this oven of a courtroom. What was wrong with the air-conditioning anyway? Why didn’t anyone else seem to be bothered by the heat?

  “When is your baby due, Detective?”

  Jane paused, wondering where this was going. “My baby was due last week,” she finally said. “It’s late.”

  “So back on February third, when you first encountered my client, Mr. Rollo, you were—what? About three months pregnant?”

  “Objection,” said Spurlock. “This is irrelevant.”

  “Counsel,” the judge said to Quinlan, “what is the point of your question?”

  “It has to do with her earlier testimony, your honor. That Detective Rizzoli was somehow able to subdue and arrest my clearly able-bodied client in the stairwell all by herself.”

  “And the state of her pregnancy has what, exactly, to do with this?”

  “A three-months-pregnant woman would have a difficult time—”

  “She’s a police officer, Ms. Quinlan. Arresting people is her job.”

  Way to go, Judge! You tell her.

  Victoria Quinlan flushed at the setback. “All right, your honor. I withdraw the question.” She turned, again, to Jane. Regarded her for a moment as she considered her next
move. “You said that you and your partner, Detective Frost, were both at the scene. That you and he made a joint decision to enter apartment two-B?”

  “It wasn’t apartment two-B, ma’am. It was apartment two-E.”

  “Oh yes, of course. My mistake.”

  Yeah, right. As if you aren’t trying to trip me up.

  “You say you knocked at the door and announced that you were police officers,” said Quinlan.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And this interaction had nothing to do with why you were originally in that building.”

  “No, ma’am. It was just a coincidence that we happened to be there. But when we determine that a citizen is in danger, it’s our duty to intervene.”

  “And that’s why you knocked at apartment two-B.”

  “Two-E.”

  “And when no one answered, you burst through the door.”

  “We felt a woman’s life was in jeopardy, based on the screams we heard.”

  “How did you know they were screams of distress? Couldn’t they have been the sounds of, say, passionate lovemaking?”

  Jane wanted to laugh at the question, but didn’t. “That was not what we heard.”

  “And you know that for a fact? You can tell the difference?”

  “A woman with a bloody lip is pretty good evidence.”

  “The point is, you didn’t know it at the time. You didn’t give my client a chance to answer the door. You made a rush to judgment and just broke in.”

  “We stopped a beating.”

  “You’re aware that the so-called victim has refused to press charges against Mr. Rollo? That they are still together as a loving couple?”

  Jane’s jaw squared. “That’s her decision.” Dumb though it is. “What I saw that day, in apartment two-E, was clearly abuse. There was blood.”

  “Like my blood doesn’t count?” said Rollo. “You pushed me down the stairs, lady! I still got the scar here, on my chin!”

  “Silence, Mr. Rollo,” the judge ordered.

  “Look! See where I hit the bottom step? I needed stitches!”

  “Mr. Rollo!”

  “Did you push my client down the stairs, Detective?” asked Quinlan.

  “Objection,” said Spurlock.

  “No, I did not,” said Jane. “He was plenty drunk enough to fall down the stairs all by himself.”

  “She’s lying!” said the defendant.

  The gavel banged down. “Quiet, Mr. Rollo!”

  But Billy Wayne Rollo was just building up a head of outraged steam. “She and her partner, they dragged me into the stairwell so no one would see what they were doing. You think she could arrest me all by herself? That little pregnant girl? What a crock of shit she’s telling you!”

  “Sergeant Givens, remove the defendant.”

  “It’s a case of police brutality!” Rollo yelled as the bailiff hauled him to his feet. “Hey, you people in the jury, are you stupid? Can’t you see this is all made-up shit? These two cops kicked me down the fucking stairwell!”

  The gavel slammed down. “Let’s take a recess. Please escort the jurors out.”

  “Oh yeah! Let’s take a recess!” Rollo laughed and shoved away the bailiff. “Just when they’re finally hearing the truth!”

  “Get him out of here, Sergeant Givens.”

  Givens grabbed Rollo’s arm. Enraged, Rollo twisted around and charged, his head thudding into the bailiff’s belly. They both slammed to the floor and began to grapple. Victoria Quinlan stared, openmouthed, as her client and the bailiff flopped around just inches from her high-heeled Manolo Blahniks.

  Ah, Jesus. Someone’s gotta take control of this mess.

  Jane heaved herself out of the chair. Shoving aside the stunned Quinlan, Jane snatched up the bailiff’s handcuffs, which he’d dropped on the floor in the confusion.

  “Assistance!” yelled the judge, banging on his gavel. “We need another bailiff in here!”

  Sergeant Givens was lying on his back now, pinned beneath Rollo, who was just raising his right fist to deliver a blow. Jane grabbed Rollo’s raised wrist and snapped on one of the cuffs.

  “What the fuck?” Rollo said.

  Jane rammed her foot into his back, twisted his arm behind him, and shoved him down against the bailiff. Another click, and the second cuff closed around Rollo’s left wrist.

  “Get off me, you fucking cow!” Rollo screamed. “You’re breaking my back!”

  Sergeant Givens, trapped at the bottom of the pileup, looked like he was about to suffocate beneath the weight.

  Jane took her foot off Rollo’s back. Suddenly a gush of hot liquid flooded from between her legs, splashing down onto Rollo, onto Givens. She stumbled backward and looked down in shock at her soaked maternity dress. At the fluid dripping from her thighs onto the courtroom floor.

  Rollo twisted onto his side and stared up at her. Suddenly he laughed. He couldn’t stop laughing as he rolled onto his back. “Hey,” he said. “Look at that! The bitch just peed in her dress!”

  FOUR

  Maura was stopped at a traffic light in Brookline Village when Abe Bristol rang her on her cell phone. “Did you watch TV this morning?” he asked.

  “Don’t tell me the story’s already made the news.”

  “Channel six. Reporter’s name is Zoe Fossey. Did you speak to her?”

  “Only briefly last night. What did she say?”

  “In a nutshell? ‘Woman found alive in body bag. Medical examiner blames the Weymouth Fire Department and state police for misdiagnosing death.”

  “Oh Jesus. I never said that.”

  “I know you didn’t. But now we’ve got a pissed-off fire chief down in Weymouth, and the state police aren’t too happy either. Louise is already fielding calls from them.”

  The traffic light turned green. As she drove through the intersection, she suddenly wished she could turn around and go home. Wished she could avoid the ordeal to come.

  “Are you at the office?” she asked.

  “I got in at seven. Thought you’d be here by now.”

  “I’m in my car. I needed a few extra hours this morning to prepare that statement.”

  “Well, I’ve gotta warn you, when you get here, you’re going to get ambushed in the parking lot.”

  “They’re hanging around out there?”

  “Reporters, TV vans. They’re parked on Albany Street. Running back and forth between our building and the hospital.”

  “How convenient for them. One-stop shopping for the press.”

  “Have you heard anything more about the patient?”

  “I called Dr. Cutler this morning. He said the patient’s tox screen came back positive for barbiturates and alcohol. She must’ve been pretty loaded.”

  “That probably explains why she took a tumble into the water. And with barbs on board, no wonder they had trouble finding her vital signs.”

  “Why is this turning into such a feeding frenzy?”

  “Because it’s prime National Enquirer stuff. The dead rising from the grave. Plus, she’s a young woman, isn’t she?”

  “I’d say she’s in her twenties.”

  “And attractive?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Come on.” Abe laughed. “You know it makes a difference.”

  Maura sighed. “Yes,” she admitted. “She’s very attractive.”

  “Yeah, well, there you go. Young, sexy, and almost sliced open alive.”

  “She wasn’t.”

  “I’m just warning you, that’s how the public’s going to see it.”

  “Can’t I just call in sick today? Maybe catch the next flight to Bermuda?”

  “And leave me with this mess? Don’t you dare.”

  When she turned onto Albany Street twenty minutes later, she spotted two TV vans parked near the front entrance of the ME’s building. As Abe had warned her, reporters were poised to pounce. She stepped out of her air-conditioned Lexus, into a morning already thick with humidity, and half a dozen reporters scurried toward her.

  “Dr. Isles!” a man called out. “I’m from the Boston Tribune. Could I have a few words with you about Jane Doe?”

  In response, Maura reached into her briefcase and pulled out copies of what she had composed that morning. It was a matter-of-fact summary of the night’s events, and how she had responded. Briskly she handed out copies. “This is my statement,” she said. “I have nothing else to add.”

  It did not stop the flood of questions.

  “How can anyone make a mistake like this?”