Raffi Yessayan - 2 in the Hat

On the drive through the Ted, Connie had thought how there was a lot of information in old yearbooks, most of it useless, until you needed a youthful detail on a person that could only be found in those depositories of nostalgia.

The headmaster was a small, tidy woman wearing the kind of dark suit a politician might wear. Connie flashed his badge and she was on the phone, requesting a copy of the yearbook from Zardino’s graduation year, 1997, the year before the murders began.

“Could you tell me again why you need this yearbook, Mr. Darget?” she asked while they waited. She was so slight she seemed to float when she moved.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. A grand jury investigation is a secret proceeding. To protect the innocent more than anything else. Suppose I tell you I’m looking for information on a Jane or John Doe and my investigation ultimately turns up nothing,” Connie wanted to soften her up, win her over to his side. “You would still know that we investigated that person and it might damage his or her reputation.”

Her assistant appeared with the book, and the headmaster held it close to her chest like armor. She didn’t offer it to Connie. “I understand, Mr. Darget. But I would have to make some calls first.” She still held the book close. “I’m the one getting sued if a student’s privacy is violated.”

Connie reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “What I have here is a grand jury subpoena with your name on it, ma’am. It would require you to appear and bring whatever records I request.” Connie watched the look of concern deepen on her clear face. No makeup, just a hint of shine on her thin lips. Nobody liked going to court to testify. It was an inherent fear in people.

“I don’t think that’s-”

“Why don’t you let me look at the book today, here, on premises. If I find what I’m looking for, you’re all set. No need to testify. If, on the other hand, you feel uncomfortable with that, I can see you up the grand jury tomorrow at One Pemberton Square, downtown.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Darget.” She handed him the book. “Let me find you someplace where you can look through this in private.”

“I may need to make some photocopies if I find anything useful.”

“Of course. Anything you need.”

Ten minutes later Connie was sitting in an empty teachers’ lounge going through the book. He didn’t want to miss anything.

There wasn’t much to miss. Zardino wasn’t the most popular guy. No pictures of him except for his yearbook portrait. Age had carved some measure of distinction into the puffy adolescent face. His features were more defined now, his eyes no longer downcast in teenage angst. The Richard Zardino Connie knew had made the best of his prison years, his face a map of his hard-earned successes. His eye, droopy in the old studio photo, now looked more like a trophy from a prison brawl.

But the text below his photo was what Connie had been looking for.

Nickname: Richie

Activities: Stage crew, Photography Club

Ambition: To marry the girl of my dreams

Favorite Quote: The arms of night restrain both men and immortals.

Connie heard the bell, followed by the sounds of kids shuffling from one class to the next, of shrill screams and laughter, the slamming of locker doors.

That quote. The other kids had things like Life is what you make it and To be half the man my father is. Zardino went for something from a classics class. At East Boston High? And that girl of his dreams. Was she real or imaginary?

Alves waited outside the classroom in Austin Hall until her law students had filtered out. Sonya Jordan stood at the front of the room packing her bag.

“Can I help you?” she asked without looking up.

“I’d like to talk with you about Mitch Beaulieu,” he said.

As she looked up, he saw a flash of recognition in her eyes. Then she went back to arranging her notebooks and textbook in her bag.

“I only need a few minutes of your time,” he persisted.

“I asked for a few minutes of your time three years ago. I tried to tell you about Mitch, to explain that he wasn’t capable of doing the things you believed he had done. I wanted to convince you that he was a good man, his only mistake was trusting whoever it was that set him up. You didn’t want to listen then. You, Detective Alves, treated me like some dumb bitch girlfriend in denial of her boyfriend’s criminal behavior.”

The anger in her voice stunned him into near silence. “I’m sorry,” was all he could manage.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Detective. You and your boss were so hell-bent on closing your case, putting it into the solved column, that you didn’t want to hear the truth. You had your man. All the better, a black man. Mitch Beaulieu was dead, and his suicide was as good as a confession. Now you come in here and think I’m going to speak with you?”

Sonya Jordan had the reputation as a fierce defender of her clients and as a brilliant but difficult lawyer. Alves had to get through to her. “I lost someone, too. One of the victims, Robyn Stokes. My wife Marcy and I grew up with her.”

Sonya Jordan looked away for a moment. “Marisela Alves is your wife?”

Alves nodded. “How do you know Marcy?”

“I represented Richard Zardino in his appeals. He and I make the rounds of the area colleges and law schools, letting students know about the injustices inherent in our criminal justice system. I speak with her classes at UMass Boston every semester. I didn’t know she was married to a cop.”

Alves smarted at the pejorative word. Cop. “Opposites attract.” Alves smiled.

Sonya Jordan didn’t. “What do you want from me?”

Alves knew what he had to say. And he knew that once he said the words out loud, they could never be taken back. No matter what the collateral damage. “I have to ask you to keep this conversation confidential, Ms. Jordan. At least for now. I think I might have been wrong about Mitch.”

It was not overly efficient, but it was the best Connie could manage with his work schedule. A couple weeks ago, after he’d wrestled Zardino’s yearbook away from the prim little headmaster, he’d splurged and gone to Santarpio’s for pizza and a side of hot Italian sausage and peppers for lunch. While he was sitting there in one of the vintage 1950s booths in the dim shop that offered the best pizza in Boston, the idea struck. How close he was to Richard Zardino’s residence. He could easily park somewhere near the house and look for something. He wasn’t sure what, but he was pretty sure he’d know it when he saw it. Riding around with Greene and Ahearn and hanging around with Mooney and Alves had prepared him for the drag of a stakeout-not the take-a-bite-of-your-sandwich-and-there-comes-your-target-right-on-cue of television show stakeouts.

Since that day, any time Connie finished up early in court, he told his secretary that he had a meeting or that he was taking a long lunch. Minus the thirty-minutes-total drive time to Eastie and back, that gave him almost an hour and a half to watch Zardino’s house.

He used his early mornings and free evenings to sit behind the heavily tinted windows of the office ride. He was more than worried about his diet. Short on time, he was eating at every takeout place on the other side of the Mystic River -Spinelli’s, The Italian Kitchen, Katz’s Bagels in Chelsea. But his healthy diet would have to take the hit. Mooney and Alves had spent the last couple weeks chasing down leads and getting nowhere.