MacMillan Wharf

MacMillan Wharf: Chapter Twenty-Two

MacMillan Wharf: Chapter Twenty-Two

by Richard Gifford

District Attorney Mark O’Neil was buzzed through the secure doors at Cape Cod Hospital’s Psychiatric Facility. The low-slung building was separate from the main part of the Hospital, where those with a high risk of suicide were monitored under twenty-four hour care while also having their illnesses or injuries treated.

“I’m Mark O’Neil and I’m here to see Mary Ellen Johnson,” he said to Attendant Donna Gomes at the front desk.

“Oh, right. You called about an hour ago. Just sign in and we’ll bring her to Room 3. You can wait for her there. It’s the second door on the left.” Donna pointed down the hall.

“Thanks.” Mark walked down the hall to another secure door and waited for Donna to buzz him through. He entered the undecorated room through a shatter-resistant glass door and sat down at a round wooden table. After nearly ten minutes, Mary Ellen, wearing only a hospital gown and slippers, entered, escorted by a nurse.

He stood to greet her as she entered the room. “Hello, Ms. Johnson, I’m District Attorney Mark O’Neil, please have a seat.”

“I understand. You’re completely right; you don’t have to talk to me. But I think you should.” Mary Ellen averted his eyes as she shuffled in and sat on the wooden chair. Mark wondered if she had been sedated.

“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” the nurse said.

“So, how are you feeling?” Mary Ellen just sat in the chair, staring down at the table. “I understand you’ve been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours. Chief Souza showed me your criminal record, but he also said that you haven’t been in any trouble since you moved to Provincetown, until this morning, that is. How long have you been living in P-Town?”

“About three years,” Mary Ellen muttered. Mark was pleased that she talked.

“And before that, you were incarcerated in Florida, right?”

“Yeah. Look, I don’t have to talk to you without a lawyer here.”

“I understand. You’re completely right; you don’t have to talk to me. But I think you should.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if you give us full cooperation in finding out who killed Linda Hanscomb, Chief Souza and I are willing to drop the firearms charges against you.”

“So I don’t go back to prison?”

“You don’t go back to prison, but, we need you to cooperate with us 100%. If we find that you are withholding any information, we’ll file the firearms charges, as well as obstruction of justice, and anything else that we can think of. Do you understand?”

Mary Ellen finally looked up and met Mark’s gaze. “I understand. I’ll tell you everything I know. Believe me, nobody wants to find who killed Linda and our baby more than I do.”

“Good, so long as we understand each other. Let’s start with Florida. You killed a man and served 10 years for manslaughter. Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t want to talk about Florida.” Her head drooped again.

Mark slammed his briefcase shut and started to stand up. “That’s what I thought. I’ll see you in front of the judge in a few hours.” He was playing hardball and both of them knew it.

“Wait. OK, I’ll tell you what happened.”

Mark sat back down in his chair.

“I did the best I could to raise my little brothers. I was barely eighteen when we had to move out of my aunt’s house. It was fine at first, but I think we wore out our welcome. I got an apartment with the money I’d saved waiting tables, but it wasn’t enough to buy food, clothes, and pay the utilities. I answered an ad for a bar that was looking for dancers. They were promising $500 a night. I was young, pretty and stupid, so I did it.  After a few weeks, the owner, Jimmy, told me that I wasn’t bringing in enough money, and he was going to fire me. I begged and pleaded, because I really needed the money. He said OK, but he wanted me to do him some favors.”

“What kind of favors?”

“He was selling coke on the side. A lot of the girls were buying it. He asked me to let him keep a stash at my apartment. Jimmy said the cops were on to him, but if I let him keep it at my place, I could keep my job, and he’d give me an extra $50 a night.”

“So you did it?”

“Yes, I did. I didn’t know what else to do. After a while, I started using cocaine myself. Jimmy accused me of stealing from his stash, which I was. He threatened to kill me and my brothers if I didn’t turn tricks for him. Nothing was ever good enough for him. He beat me almost every night, telling me that I didn’t bring in enough money, or that I was stealing his coke. One night, I came home and I found Jimmy sitting in the living room with Wendell, my youngest brother. It was obvious that he had gotten Wendell high and he was trying to recruit him to sell drugs at his middle school. I freaked out. I’d bought a gun not long before to keep in my purse after I got beat up pretty bad by a john. I didn’t even think twice. He’d already ruined my life and I wasn’t going to let him ruin my brother’s. I shot him three times in the chest. By the time the police got there, he was dead.”

“You don’t sound very remorseful.”

“I’m not. I did the world a favor by getting rid of a piece of trash like Jimmy.” “I’m not. I did the world a favor by getting rid of a piece of trash like Jimmy.”

“Was it worth going to prison? That was ten years of your life taken away.”

“You don’t understand Mr. O’Neil, those prison years were the ten best years of my life. I had a clean bed every night, food to eat, doctors if I needed them. I got sober, I got an education, I figured out who I really was. In some ways going to prison was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Mark nodded. He’d heard other people say the same thing before, but he could still never comprehend it fully.

“How about your brothers?”

“They’re both fine. Wendell’s a firefighter in Winston-Salem and Tony went to Morehouse on a football scholarship. He’s practicing law now in D.C. They both learned from my example, what not to do.” Mary Ellen almost smiled at the thought.

“So, how did you end up in Provincetown?”

“Same way a lot of people do. It’s the end of the road, there isn’t any further you can run. The day I got out of prison I headed north. The south is no place for a black lesbian with a degree in art history. I ended up in Boston and worked at a couple of galleries. I spent a weekend in P-Town and that was it. I went back to Boston, quit my job, packed my things, and never looked back. I had some help to get a business loan and I leased the gallery building on Commercial Street. I met Linda not long after that.”

The D.A. paused to process her story, and decided to believe her before pressing further. “I have some questions about Linda.”

“OK,” she mumbled.

“Was she still married to Bruce Waters when you met her?”

“She was, but she wasn’t happy. We were friends at first, but became more than that after a few months.”

“How did Bruce take it?”
“He was furious, hurt, depressed. I felt bad for him, but you can’t help who you fall in love with.”

“Did he ever threaten Linda, or you?”

“No. I think they knew that they still needed to work together, so they tried to be friendly.  Bruce doesn’t like me much, I’m sure, but he’s never threatened me.”

“Is he the father of Linda’s baby?” Mark was hoping to catch her off guard.

Mary Ellen looked shocked, and then laughed. “Bruce? No, Bruce and Linda tried to have kids when they were married, but it turns out he has a really low sperm count. We used to joke and call him O.B.B., One Ball Bruce. Linda and I went to a clinic up in Cambridge. We don’t know who the donor was, probably some Harvard student.”

“So, did Bruce even know that Linda was pregnant?”

Mary Ellen’s eyes welled up with tears. “No, I don’t think so. But she was going to tell him the night she was killed. She just never got the chance.”

Or did she? Mark thought to himself.

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