Mission Hill by Pamela Wechsler Read Free Book Online Page A

takes out his cell, and dials.
    â€œThis is Detective Kevin Farnsworth, Boston Police. I’m outside. I was wondering if we could talk for a minute.”
    There’s no buzzer or entry system, so Jackie has to come downstairs to open the door and let us in. She greets us wearing a cheerful pink dress and matching hat. When she extends her hand, I’m half expecting to see white gloves like the ones I wore to Miss Pringle’s ballroom dance classes in fourth grade at the Park School.
    We follow her up two flights of creaky wooden stairs. The inside of her apartment is as tidy as the outside is messy. I hand her the flowers.
    â€œThese are lovely.” She arranges them in a glass vase. “I was getting ready for court. Mr. Mooney said I should be there this afternoon.”
    â€œThat’s why we’re here,” I say.
    â€œWhere’s Mr. Mooney?”
    Worried that my voice will crack, I sit quietly and let Kevin take over.
    â€œThere was a shooting last night.”
    â€œOh, goodness, I hope everyone is okay.”
    â€œTim, Mr. Mooney, was the one who was shot,” Kevin says. “But we don’t want you to worry—you’re in good hands.”
    â€œShot? Is he okay?”
    â€œI’m sorry to tell you, he passed away,” Kevin says.
    She stops and bows her head. “He was a kind soul.”
    I clear my throat. “Yes, he was.”
    Jackie crosses herself before looking back up at me. “When is the service? I’d like to pay my respects.”
    â€œWe’re not sure yet.”
    She gestures to a brown plaid sofa, still wrapped in its protective cover even though she’s probably had it for years. “Please have a seat.”
    When Kevin sits, the stiff plastic crinkles and bends. I walk over to a table lined with photographs in a hodgepodge of frames.
    â€œThis one is from her first communion.” Jackie picks up a fading black and white in an ornate gold-colored frame. “I was saving the dress for when she had a girl of her own.”
    She tears up. I put my hand on hers.
    â€œThis was her high school graduation. And this is when she left for her tour of duty in Afghanistan. She had nothing to do with gangs or drugs. She was outside on the porch, talking with her friends.”
    Every mother swears that her child was an innocent bystander, but in this case, it happens to be true.
    â€œThe jury isn’t going to think Jasmine did anything wrong,” I say.
    â€œI’m not worried about the trial. My baby is gone, the Lord will take care of the rest. Mr. Mooney, he was such a nice man. I’m sorry for your loss.”
    Jackie Reed, a woman whose daughter was murdered two days before her twenty-sixth birthday, wraps her arms around me and rubs my back. I let my shoulders drop and accept the warmth of her hug. I want to hold on to this moment, remember it next week when I’m face-to-face with Orlando Jones.
    A woman who looks eerily like Jasmine enters the room. “Mom, did you hear what happened to the prosecutor?”
    She’s surprised when she sees us. Kevin stands, extends his hand, and introduces us.
    â€œYou must be Jasmine’s sister,” he says.
    â€œTiffany,” she says.
    â€œTwins?”
    â€œYes.”
    Jasmine had a twin sister. My heart breaks a little more.
    â€œI heard about your colleague. I’m sorry,” she says. “We’ve been waiting a long time for this trial. He needs to pay for what he did.”
    Tiffany is not as generous as her mother. I don’t blame her, but I want to warn her, tell her not to expect too much from a conviction. The verdict will only start a new phase of grief. She won’t have a trial to focus on anymore. There will only be the emptiness.

 
    Chapter Eleven
    Denny Mebane is Orlando’s second casualty. Before he was shot in the head with a sawed-off shotgun, Denny was a sophomore at Bunker Hill Community College, studying