I also wish I hadn’t eaten the damned muffin.

Chapter 25

We’re in lockup. We’ve been here for the better part of three hours now: Charles Kendrick, the Kydd, and I. Our client’s mantra hasn’t wavered. “I don’t have any idea,” he tells us again and again. “I don’t know anything about it. I swear.”

“Our District Attorney has been wrong in the past,” I tell him, “but she’s never been sloppy. She had you hauled in here; that means she’s got evidence. If you know what the evidence is—or even what it might be—it would behoove you to give us a heads-up. I’m tired of running this race a lap behind Geraldine Schilling.”

“I don’t,” he says, looking from me to the Kydd, as if the Kydd might back him up. “I swear to God I don’t know what evidence she could have. I would never lift a hand to Michelle. I had nothing to do with her death.”

Maybe politicians are particularly persuasive by nature. Or maybe I’m going soft in my middle age. Whatever the reason, I believe him. Part of me wishes I didn’t. Someone murdered Michelle Forrester. I hate to think of that someone still roaming the Cape.

A series of knocks quiets us and then the door opens. “It’s time,” a uniformed guard says as he and his partner crowd into the small room. Senator Kendrick’s wrists are already cuffed behind his back, as they have been all afternoon, but the second guard through the door approaches him now with ankle shackles. “Is that necessary?” I ask.

The guard looks from me to the Senator, who’s sitting quietly at a small table, his shoulders stooped, his eyes lowered to the floor. Not exactly the portrait of a combative prisoner; not the profile of a flight risk, either. The uniform consults silently with his partner and then shrugs. “I guess not,” he says, dropping the heavy hardware on the table and beckoning his charge with one hand. “Let’s go, Senator,” he says, his tone neutral. “It’s time.”

Charles Kendrick and his escorts enter the main courtroom of the District Courthouse first, the Kydd and I bringing up the rear. The noise in the enormous room escalates as soon as the first trio clears the doorway, before I can even see inside. No doubt the crowd is reacting to the sight of our senior senator in cuffs. I’m startled by the volume, and one look at the Kydd tells me he is too. The place must be packed.

It is. The spectators assembled in Superior Court for the conclusion of the Holliston trial earlier today have moved here en masse, it seems, and they’ve got plenty of new companions. Half the year-round residents of North Chatham are here, Helene Wilson among them, about a half dozen rows back. Her gaze moves from the Senator to me and she shakes her head. Her eyes are worried.

Members of the press corps jockey for the front spots in the side aisles, forced by court officers to stay pressed against the windowless walls in single file. The officers are trying to keep some semblance of an aisle open on each side of the room, but I’m pretty sure a fire in this building now would kill us all.

Most of the reporters call out urgent questions—to Senator Kendrick, to the Kydd, to me—as we approach our table. We ignore them, but they continue shouting at us anyway. They’re wired. The Senator’s arrest isn’t just a scoop; it’s a scandal.

Honey Kendrick is already here, seated in the front row, directly behind our table. Abby sits on one side of her, holding her mother’s hand. Monsignor Davis is on the other, seated sideways and talking quietly with both of them. Mother and daughter are in tears; the Monsignor is undoubtedly doing his best to console them. His job is going to get harder as we proceed. Geraldine Schilling has news to share, a story to tell. None of us wants to hear it, Honey and Abby least of all.

The counsel tables in District Court are normally surrounded by too many olive green, imitation leather, high-backed chairs. Today, when we could use a few, only two are pulled up to the defense table. The Kydd points to the empty seats at the bar, telling me he’ll sit back there.

“Not on your life,” I tell him. “You’re not going anywhere, Kydd. Find another chair and sit right here. You’ve been on this case longer than I have today.” Misery loves company is my real rationale. I’m pretty sure the Kydd knows that, but he retrieves another chair from against the side wall without argument. No sooner does he sit than the room falls abruptly silent. And silence—in this arena, anyhow—is the ultimate attention-getter.

The sudden quiet prompts those of us seated up front to shift in our chairs. Geraldine and Clarence turn to the gallery and the Kydd, the Senator, and I do likewise. The explanation stares back at us. The Forresters—Mom, Dad, and big sister—are just inside the back doors, looking straight ahead at our table, at the Senator, at the man they’ve been told murdered Michelle. Not one of us moves. Even at this distance, their expressions shut us down. They’re stricken. In pain. And it’s physical.

The chambers door opens and the bailiff tells us to rise. I’m surprised when the judge emerges—pleasantly so. All arraignments are held in District Court and most are presided over by District Court judges. The chief judge apparently made a special request on behalf of our senior senator, though. Leon Long is here for this one, and he ordinarily presides in Superior Court.

Judge Long is the only black judge ever to sit in Barnstable County. And no matter which bench he’s on, he’s a welcome sight to members of the defense bar. In his courtroom, the presumption of innocence is real and the prosecution’s burden is steep. He bangs his gavel before he sits—a habit engrained over the course of more than two decades on the bench—but it’s not necessary. The Forrester family has already called this room to order.

The courtroom clerk stands, recites the docket number, and then announces, “The Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Charles Johnson Kendrick.” She looks over at us—not unkindly—and then reclaims her seat.

Geraldine is up instantly. “Your Honor,” she says, “Mr. Kendrick is charged with the first-degree murder of Michelle Andrea Forrester, a murder committed with extreme atrocity or cruelty.”

Some prosecutors might address the Senator as Mister by mistake. Not Geraldine. From this moment until she secures his conviction and sentence, Geraldine Schilling will seize every opportunity she can to diminish Charles Kendrick. Stripping him of his title is just the beginning. It’s nothing personal; she does it to all murder defendants. In her mind, at least, it’s part of the job.

Judge Long looks at me and shakes his head, ever so slightly. The signal is almost imperceptible, but it’s there. And I’ve tried enough cases before him to know what he’s telling me. He doesn’t want to hear the Senator’s plea yet. He wants the District Attorney to put her cards on the table first. “Ms. Schilling,” he says, “let’s hear the facts.”

Most Barnstable County judges will take a simple plea from the defendant—guilty or not—before they call for a recitation of the facts. Not Leon Long. In his courtroom, the defendant need not say a word until the government demonstrates it’s got something real against him. Geraldine doesn’t need to prove her case at this point, of course. But she does need to convince the judge she has one.

She seems ready to do just that. “As you are undoubtedly aware, Your Honor, Ms. Forrester went missing last Thursday, eight days ago. She was last seen at Cape Cod Community College, wrapping up a press conference for her employer.” Geraldine stops and points at the Senator. “Counselor,” Judge Long says, “there’s no need to point. I’m well aware of the defendant’s seat assignment.”