education. A real success story.”
“And the kid winds up a heroin OD in Central Park?”
“According to the suicide note, it was all too much pressure, trying to keep up with these kids who had everything. He went from being the smartest kid at JHS 151-getting shit from his peers for carrying his books home-to being the poor kid at Casden, getting shit for not being able to afford the restaurants and stores where these kids hang.”
“Damn,” Rogan said as he rang the buzzer marked Moffit. “Life can suck.”
J anet Moffit was waiting for them at the family’s open apartment door. They entered to find the space filled with moving boxes. Discolored rectangles marked the walls where pictures had once hung.
“Watch your step around these boxes. We still have the couch to sit on for now. You said this was about Jason? Should I call my husband? He’s working a shift down at Madison Square Garden-he’s a security guard there- but he can come home if there’s something important.”
“We just have a few questions,” Ellie said. “It’s our understanding you have a lawsuit against David Bolt?”
“Yes. Or, well, we did. I never thought we’d be the kind of people to sue someone, but, that’s correct, ma’am, we did indeed have a lawsuit.”
“ ‘Did,’ as in past tense?” Rogan asked. According to the newspaper article, the suit had only been filed in March.
“That’s right, but we reached a settlement. Wallace and I are still trying to figure out what to do with the money. We’re getting out of here obviously. Too many memories of our son.”
Rogan nodded sympathetically. “Where y’all heading?”
“A little further north, to Mount Vernon. It’ll be my first time having a yard. Wallace grew up down in Georgia, but Jason and I never knew anything but apartment living. It’ll be something to look forward to.”
Certainly not the most affluent New York suburb, Mount Vernon was nevertheless a big improvement over High Bridge. A security guard wouldn’t be able to swing a mortgage for a single-family house in that kind of town. The settlement must have been a good one.
“Had your son suffered from manic-depressive disorder for long?” Ellie asked.
“No, you see, that’s the thing. He never had anything like that, not as far as we knew. I mean, he had hard times, like kids do. But he wasn’t crazy. He didn’t have a mental disease.”
“So why was he in that study?”
She shook her head. Ellie assumed it was a question the woman might never be able to answer.
“And your lawyer was George Langston?”
“Yes, ma’am. He came to us right away. Said he’d worked defending drug companies his whole career and knew how they operated. He offered to represent us pro bono-without charge. His daughter, Ramona, goes to Casden. Jason always told us how nice she was to him. Even came up here once to see the park where he played chess on weekends.”
“Did Mr. Langston tell you that he personally knows the doctor you filed your lawsuit against?”
“We knew he worked for drug companies at his old law firm. Is that what you mean?”
“We think it’s more than a lawyer-client relationship with the drug industry generally, Mrs. Moffit. Your lawyer is very close friends with David Bolt, the doctor overseeing the research.”
“I don’t know anything about that. He said he knew the ins and outs of how these companies worked. That’s how he was able to negotiate a quick settlement for us.”
“Was that the basis of the lawsuit? That your son shouldn’t have even been taking this drug if he didn’t have a mental illness?”
“I’m not sure I should say anything else, Detective. Our lawsuit has a confidentiality agreement. They were very clear about that.”
“It must have been a good amount of money for you to be moving, and, like you said, so fast. Did your lawyer even have enough time to conduct discovery?”
“He thought we’d do best to settle early, and we didn’t want things to drag on. Like I said, ma’am, with all due respect, I think I’m done talking about what happened to my son.”
Ellie had been pulled into this case against her will, but it had finally worked its way beneath her skin and would not leave while there were still more questions than answers.
As they started down the stairs, Ellie could picture Janet Moffit making a phone call to her trusted lawyer, George Langston. They had just wasted nearly a week clearing Casey Heinz, and now it felt like they were on the clock all over again.
Chapter Forty-Five
Ramona held her mother’s hand as they entered the 19th Precinct station house. She felt like a little girl, but having her mother’s hand in hers also felt comforting. She was supporting her mother, her mother was allowing it, and that in itself was comforting.
So was the fact that they were filing a police report.
The two of them had shoveled the maggots back into the shoe box together. Ramona had held the box. Her mother had wrapped her hands with plastic shopping bags and swept them inside, the two of them turning their heads away as if that would stop the urge to gag.
They had secured the box with packing tape, then wrapped it in a garbage bag. Then they put it outside on the terrace. This morning Ramona’s mother decided to file the police report.
It took forever to explain all this to the police officer, along with everything else that had happened. The blog. The threats. Now this crummy old Adidas shoe box filled with maggots feeding on a rotten piece of chicken.
The police officer took one look inside the box and slammed it shut. He was playing it cool, but she could tell he was pretty grossed out. “Any idea who might be doing this, ma’am?”
“No. We already talked to our doorman. He found the package just outside the building entrance yesterday afternoon. The security cameras don’t reach that area. That’s what he told me, at least. Can you run fingerprints or something?”
“We’ll file a report and forward it to detectives. Someone will contact you.”
Ramona could tell he wasn’t taking them seriously.
“You need to take our fingerprints, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, if they’re going to search the box for prints, you’ll need to eliminate us from consideration.” She held up her hands. “We both touched the box.”
As they walked out of the station onto Sixty-seventh Street, wiping their blackened fingertips with paper napkins, she felt that they should be doing more.
“Maybe we should call those detectives on Julia’s case. They at least know the background.”
“The last time they were at our apartment, Ramona, they basically accused me of doing this to myself to attract publicity.”
Part of Ramona wanted to call them, just to remind them once more that they’d obviously been wrong about Julia harassing her mom. But her mother was right. They couldn’t trust them. Those detectives had screwed up everything. Casey’d spent five days in jail because they wouldn’t listen to anyone.
Maybe it was better to start fresh with the cops at the local precinct.
“I’m worried about you, Mom.”
“I know. And as much as I haven’t wanted to scare either you or myself, I’m not exactly comfortable with this, either. It’s going to be okay, though. Thanks for coming with me. I’ll miss you this weekend.”
“Are you sure you won’t stay home?” Her mother had planned to spend the weekend at the beach house to work on her book, though Ramona thought this latest escalation of the threats required a change in plans.
“I’ll be fine, sweetie. Going away for a few days is going to help clear my head. Why don’t you come, too?”
After Ramona had overheard those detectives grilling her mother about her book contract, they had finally
