Raffi Yessayan - 2 in the Hat

Figgs leaned back against the sculpture in front of the DA’s office. He didn’t know what it was supposed to be, but it looked like a giant tooth, a huge white molar maybe. He’d figured Conrad Darget to be an early bird, but it was almost eight o’clock and there’d been no sign of him yet.

He’d wait another half hour then head over to the firing range. See if he could still hit the ten ring from twenty-five yards with the two-inch Smith. It was more satisfying with the old targets, silhouettes of bad guys, instead of the giant, politically correct milk bottles they used today. He just needed to concentrate, get back to the basics. Steady hand, look through the rear sight-front sight sharp like the fin of a shark, target blurry.

The door to the DA’s office opened and Darget stepped out.

“How’d you get in there without me seeing you?” Figgs asked. “I’ve been out here close to an hour.”

“I was in here before you hit the snooze button.”

“You got a minute?”

“Can we walk and talk? I’m heading over to superior court. I’ve got some witnesses coming in to the grand jury this morning, and I’ve got to do some prep first.”

Figgs walked with Darget as they crossed Sudbury and Cambridge Streets toward Center Plaza. “Let me get to the point. I went out to Townsend Street and knocked on some doors. I’ve got a witness says you leaned into Stutter Simpson’s car.”

“Who’s your witness?”

“Let’s just leave it that I have a witness who saw you lean into the car. Is my witness lying?”

“No, your witness isn’t lying.”

“Why did you go into that car?”

“To turn it off,” Darget said. “Stutter crashed the car and took off running. He left the car in gear, up against the curb. Greene and Ahearn went after him. I walked up, threw it into park, and shut it off.”

“Did you put on rubber gloves?”

“Of course. Latex. I always carry a pair when I’m on a ride-along. I was careful not to leave prints or contaminate the car in any way. I knew we’d be dusting, especially with a murder suspect like Simpson.”

The prosecutor had an answer for everything. “That’s all for now. I’ll see you later.” Figgs turned and started toward his car, then stopped. “Darget, one more thing.” He waited for the prosecutor to turn and face him. “Why didn’t you tell any of this to the PS on scene who took your statement?”

“I didn’t think it was important. The car was in gear. I put on a pair of gloves and turned off the engine before someone got hurt.” His gaze was steady, no blinking, no glancing away.

Darget was good. It didn’t matter if there was a witness who saw him messing around that car. Darget claimed he had to turn off the engine. And that he had to use the gloves to do it. Neat. Clean. And neither the witness nor the Shot Spotter said anything different.

It was chilly for an early fall evening. Connie sat on a bench by the Boston Harbor, looking out at Marina Bay, outside the new UMass Boston Student Center. He was there a good half hour before the start of the lecture, situated in a good position for watching cars as they arrived and parked in the North Lot.

Ten minutes before his lecture was scheduled to start, Zardino pulled up. Connie watched him park in the lot, climb the stairs to the bus drop-off and enter the building. Connie took his time crossing the perimeter road and driveway. Zardino would be speaking in the large function room on the third floor of the Student Center. Connie waited a few minutes before heading for the stairs. He didn’t need to hear Zardino speak. He knew his shtick.

What was more interesting was the audience. He found a spot outside the door that gave him a view into the lecture hall. From his vantage point, he scanned the crowd, a surprising mix, older students, professor types in baggy cotton clothes, younger students, bored already and sneaking looks at their text messages. And up on stage, sitting next to Zardino, was Sonya Jordan.

At the podium was Marcy Alves, giving introductory remarks. Connie had forgotten that she taught here. Marcy was introducing, “My esteemed colleague and good friend, the best lawyer anyone could have-Sonya Jordan.” The crowd clapped. “And let’s also welcome back to our campus a remarkable man who has endured and prevailed-Richard Zardino.”

The crowd erupted in applause as Zardino stepped up to the podium. Connie scanned the crowd. At the back, nearly concealed by a group of students who looked ready to bolt the second the lecture was over, backpacks on their laps, jackets still on, was Zardino’s sidekick, Luther. He was the only one in the room not clapping for the guest of honor. Why wasn’t Luther front and center, showing support for his buddy during his big presentation?

Connie surveilled the crowd. Tight little groups of classes sitting together, couples holding hands, students taking advantage of the warm lecture hall to catch up on some sleep. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then he saw her. Second row, staring up at the stage, transfixed by Zardino. And right next to her, a boy mesmerized by her every move. She was not the prettiest girl in the room, but there was something about her that held his attention. Her intensity maybe. Her curiosity. He wasn’t sure if she measured up to Zardino’s standards, but she was dark-haired, small, pretty. She would do.

Connie remembered girls like her from college, girls who would sit up front and make a beeline for the professor the second class had ended. Connie knew she would do that tonight. She would be the first one up to the podium. She would have a personal question, lean in close as Zardino answered her, listen intently to every word. Just the idea that she was talking, standing so close to a semi-celebrity would have her in a near-frenzy. Her boyfriend hoped to carry that excitement over to his private after-party in his car or his apartment.

The boyfriend would work out nicely because he was kind of scrawny. When you had something so special planned for a couple, you didn’t need to be dealing with a big hero.

Luther slumped back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. Why was Richard freezing him out, not telling him what was going on, disappearing on him, not answering his phone? Richard hadn’t been honest about what he was doing tonight. He was letting the kids down. For a lot of them, Richard was the first white dude they had trusted.

A look at the crowd and he understood what was going on. Hadn’t Richard stated it clearly enough a couple months ago? These speaking gigs were a way for him to meet young women. A way to pump up his social life after prison. A way to make himself look like a rock star in front of a bunch of suburban white kids longing to make a difference in the world.

Luther felt the familiar fire of anger flare up in his stomach-and it would burn, he knew, till he took some kind of action. All the good Luther had tried to do. Working with the kids. Hanging at night on street corners. The endless meetings at the Crispus Attucks House with folks who didn’t really understand his kids, didn’t really care beyond their empty words and their sappy smiles-all of it lasting just long enough to take out their checkbooks. Then, consciences appeased, they could go back to their apple-polished suburbs thinking they’d made a difference.

Richard Zardino was no different.

That wasn’t quite true. Richard Zardino was worse. Back in the day, Luther would have put a cap in his ass.

Luther had seen enough. He excused himself, wove his way out of the pack of students half-listening to Zardino’s hard luck story, and slipped out the door.