Chapter 9 - The Trial of Edward Fitzgerald
Spring came late to Massachusetts that year, but by May, the ice on the river had broken into long green floes that drifted south toward the bay.
The trial of Edward Fitzgerald and Dr. Arthur Harrison began on a rainy Tuesday morning at the Middlesex County Courthouse in Cambridge.
The courtroom was packed with news crews, corporate executives, and curious onlookers who had followed the story for six months.
Edward sat at the defense table in a navy suit that looked two sizes too large for him. His face was gaunt, his dark hair streaked with dull grey at the temples, his hands resting motionless on the mahogany rail.
The prosecution’s star witness was not the corporate lawyers or the state police detectives.
It was Abigail Miller.
She stood on the witness stand in a simple dark blue dress, her pale hair pulled back in a silver clip that Henry had given her for her eighteenth birthday three weeks ago.
The defense attorney—a high-priced corporate defender named Sterling—stood before her, trying to break her testimony with forty years of legal tricks.
“Miss Miller,” Sterling said, his voice dripping with smooth, patronizing doubt, “you claim that on the night of December 14th, my client intentionally abandoned his father at the bus shelter on Harrow Street?”
“Yes,” Abigail said, looking Sterling straight in the eye.
“Is it not possible,” Sterling suggested, leaning closer to the jury box, “that Mr. Edward Fitzgerald simply pulled his vehicle into the alley to wait, and that in the heavy snow, he lost sight of his father?”
“The GPS log from his Mercedes showed he was traveling at forty-five miles per hour on the interstate three minutes after he left the shelter,” Abigail said, her voice clear and carrying through the silent courtroom. “And the audio recording from Dr. Harrison’s office phone—the one pulled from the server by the state police—has your client saying at six-0-four p.m.: ‘The old man is where nobody will bother him.’”
A low murmur ran through the jury box. Sterling’s jaw tightened, but he pressed on.
“You were seventeen at the time, Miss Miller,” Sterling said, trying another angle. “A high school student with severe financial difficulties. Is it not true that your family was facing eviction on the very day you found Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“Objection,” the prosecutor barked. “Relevance.”
“Overruled,” the judge said. “The defense may establish context.”
Sterling smiled at the jury. “So, Miss Miller... you saw an elderly man wearing a four-thousand-dollar cashmere coat, and you realized that helping him might be... lucrative for a girl with three unpaid bills on her kitchen table?”
Abigail didn't look at the lawyer. She looked across the courtroom at Henry Fitzgerald, who sat in the front row of the gallery, wearing his silver acorn pin on his lapel, his hand resting on his ash-wood stick.
“When I saw him,” Abigail said, her voice dropping into a deep, quiet sincerity that held every person in the room spellbound, “I didn't see his coat. I saw that his hands were purple because he’d dropped one of his gloves in the snow. I didn't know he had a dime. I thought he was just somebody’s grandfather who had been forgotten in the dark.”
She looked back at Sterling.
“My mother taught me that kindness isn't something you buy when you’re rich,” Abigail added. “It’s something you give when you have nothing else left to offer.”
The courtroom remained totally silent for three full seconds after she finished speaking.
Two hours later, the jury returned with their verdict.
Guilty on all counts: Attempted Elder Endangerment, Grand Larceny, Corporate Fraud, and Conspiracy to Administer Controlled Substances without Informed Consent.
Edward Fitzgerald was sentenced to twelve years at the Cedar Junction maximum-security facility without possibility of parole for eight years.
Dr. Arthur Harrison surrendered his medical license permanently and was sentenced to six years.
As Edward was led out of the courtroom in heavy iron shackles, he turned to look at his father one last time.
Henry stood up slowly, using his ash-wood stick for support. He didn't look at his son with anger, or revenge, or triumph.
May you like
He looked at him with a deep, quiet sadness that was far more terrible than hate.
“I pulled you out of the harbor when you were eight, Edward,” Henry said quietly as the guards pulled his son through the side door. “I’m sorry I couldn't pull you out of yourself.”
