She unraveled a paper clip, straightened it out, and bent a second one at a ninety-degree angle to make a rough lever. So far, so good. Taking a deep breath, she inserted the flattened paper clip into the keyhole on the top drawer of Nancy’s desk. There should be pins in there that she could locate by probing. But she couldn’t feel a thing, probably because there wasn’t enough tension with just one clip. Inserting the second clip on top of the first was supposed to ratchet the tension. Okay, yeah, there we go. She felt it now. She could turn the bent clip like a key. A little more, a little more. Click.
Surprise. It worked.
Pulling open the desk drawer, the first thing she saw was a gun. She stared at it for a second. It seemed strange for a bureaucrat to keep a gun in her desk, even one as paranoid about threats as Nancy. It supported the conclusion that Nancy was implicated in the corruption. Better get what she came for and get out of this office before she got caught. Ignoring the gun, she lifted up the plastic pencil tray and found a set of keys to the filing cabinets. Starting with “A,” she reviewed file after file of legal documents for the cases assigned to Judge Conroy. Indictments, guilty pleas, sentencing reports, case dispositions. Duplicates of every paper Nancy sent to the Clerk’s Office for recording. A place for everything, everything in its place—the woman was a marvel of organization. Under “C,” she did find one unexpected item, a file called “COMM AVE HOUSE” containing the deed to Judge Conroy’s town house on Commonwealth Avenue. Except, turned out it wasn’t the judge’s house. Judge Conroy didn’t own her home in her own name. The town house was held by something called Gloucester LLC. Madison had learned about limited liability corporations in school. They shielded owners from liability for taxes, debts, criminal acts, you name it. It could be virtually impossible to find the man behind the curtain of an LLC, which made it the perfect form of ownership for people with something to hide. It was suspicious that the judge’s house was owned by an LLC, but not proof of a crime in and of itself.
Why did Nancy have the deed in her files?
Just in case it was of interest to the feds, she snapped a photo before moving on. It was all a big nothing burger until “P” for “Pe?a,” the file on Danny’s case. At first glance, everything looked neat and tidy like the rest, with the level of organization she expected from Nancy. Documents on each defendant organized alphabetically by last name, and chronologically by date of filing with the court. Except that where Danny’s documents began, an oversized manila envelope protruded, marked “Rivera Photos” on the front in thick black marker.
Were there surveillance photos of Danny? The official documents from the case hadn’t mentioned any.
She fanned the sheaf of photos on the desk and gasped. These were not photos of Danny. They had nothing whatsoever to do with any drug case. They were of Madison herself, going about her life, in Boston and Cambridge. Getting coffee. Walking to class. With Ty. With her law review mentee. With Judge Conroy.
The night they went for sushi, the judge had been on edge, looking over her shoulder the whole time. For good reason, it turned out. They were being followed. One photo showed them running into the sushi place in the rain, another getting into Judge Conroy’s car. There were multiple photos of Madison entering Judge Conroy’s town house through the back gate.
Why? And where the hell did Nancy get these?
That question was answered by photos of Madison, all dressed up on the night of the reception, the night Wallace followed her home. There were shots of moments when she knew he’d been there. Her getting on the subway across from the museum. Walking with Hannah and that other girl when she felt him behind her. Accessing her dorm with the card key. She’d looked out the window and seen him there. He wasn’t just following her. He was taking photographs. And he’d started earlier than she knew. There were photos of Madison inside the event. Talking to Douglas Kessler. And that prosecutor, Andrew Martin.
Those photos could be used to incriminate her.
She’d come here looking for evidence against the judge. And ended up finding evidence against herself.
The envelope wasn’t empty yet. And the horror wasn’t over. Another photo was stuck inside. Pulling it out, she held it up, staring at the middle-aged woman with graying dark hair getting into an old Toyota on a rainy night, in her well-worn winter coat.
Mom.
That asshole wasn’t just stalking her. Her mother was in his crosshairs, too. She recognized that parking lot. The building in the background was the nursing home where her mother worked. He didn’t just catch a picture of Mom by accident while tailing Madison. He’d purposely followed her to work. She turned over the photo. There was writing on the back. “Yolanda Rivera, aged 52 years, works at Sunrise Senior Living, home address…”