Outlaws (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard)

by George V. Higgins

  “Well,” Richards said, “I get this goddamned open-shut thing — three guys with records longer’n RCA Victor’s decide they didn’t like the food, this fancy joint, Cohasset, so they go in with guns to get everybody’s money back. And we got tipped. So, we’re waiting for the cocksuckers, and when they come out the door we do the classic ‘Get ’em up.’ And they did. Now, I guess Frank figures Dave’s taken in so many toughies he is due for a free ride. So here I have got this dead-to-rights sure winner, and Dave and I’re walking arm and arm through life, singing songs from The Student Prince, and doesn’t the fuckin’ jury stay out seven fuckin’ days? It was awful. ‘Where did we go wrong, Lord?’ That is what we’re saying. ‘Red-handed, Lord, You got that in mind? Red-fuckin’-handed. The hell’s the matter?’

  “Well,” Richards said, “it turned out all right. They got hooked, all three of them, and the judge was old Rosie, Bill Rose, and if you had a gun in your hand when you got caught doing it, and old Rosie drew the case, well, forget about vacation plans because you went away. But Dave and I’re curious, even after we finally win, and we go sneak around to one the jurors, and we ask her some questions. And she says it’s eleven to one, guilty, five minutes after the instructions. The rest the seven days they hadda spend just wearin’ out this one obstinate young bitch that took a dislike the foreman, the first day of the trial, and wasn’t gonna do anything he said, no matter how many other people said it, too.

  “So,” Richards said, “that is probably what we got. There is some stinker in that draw that’s got a hair across his ass about something or other, that the person who did it probably even doesn’t remember, and that bastard’s gonna make everybody sit there until he makes his point. And all we can hope is the other folks don’t weaken. Don’t just get sick of it, give in so they go home.”

  Gleason sighed. “John,” he said, “I hope you’re right. But I doubt you are. I think for once Fred’s probably right. Partly right, at least.”

  “Well,” McNeil said, “that’d hike your average, Fred.”

  Gleason snickered. “ ‘An ill wind that blows nobody,’ ” he said.

  “Should’ve done what I told you,” Consolo said stiffly. “Wouldn’t have this problem now.”

  “On another point,” McNeil said. “She called me again. Said she really has to see you.”

  “This would be Christina Walker,” Gleason said.

  “Don’t do it, Terry,” Richards said. “There be dragons there.”

  “She isn’t going to stop, I think,” McNeil said.

  “After,” Richards said. “After the verdict, after it’s over, you wanna jump inna shit? Go ahead and jump inna shit. But do not see this cupcake until the fuckin’ trial is over.”

  At 10:20 A.M. on Friday, September 22nd, Gleason received a telephone call from Bart’s clerk. “We have a verdict,” the clerk said. At 11:10 Carolyn Veale completed the array of lawyers. The defendants entered the courtroom and were seated. Behind them, Christina Walker, and Walter and Ellen Tibbetts entered and sat down in the spectators’ section. Judge Bart came out of chambers and said: “Harry, bring the jury down.” The jury was seated at 11:21. “Jury will please rise,” the clerk said. They stood up. “Madame Forelady,” the clerk said, “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, you have reached a verdict?”

  Mabel Wright looked stern. “We have, your Honor,” she said. She handed documents to the clerk. The clerk scanned them. He handed them up to the judge. Bart scanned them. He scowled. He looked at the jury. He handed the documents back to the clerk. “Ask ’em,” he said.

  The clerk cleared his throat. “Members of the jury,” he said, “hearken to your verdicts as you have recorded them. To so much of the indictment charging James Walker with seven counts of murder in the first degree, you have recorded that the defendant is guilty.” He looked up. He looked down. There was no sound from the back of the courtroom.

  “To so much of the indictment charging the defendant Samuel Tibbetts,” he said, “with seven counts of murder in the first degree, you have recorded that the defendant is not guilty, by reason of insanity.” A soft moan came from Ellen Tibbetts. Christina Walker gasped.

  The clerk looked up again. He looked down. “To so much of the indictment charging Katherine Fentress with seven counts of murder in the first degree,” he said, “you have recorded that she is guilty, and to so much of the indictment charging Jill Franklin with seven counts of murder in the first degree, you have recorded that she is guilty.” He looked up again. “So say you, Madame Forelady?” Mabel Wright nodded. “So say you all?” he said. The other eleven jurors nodded. He handed the papers back to the judge.

  Bart raised his eyebrows as he accepted the papers. “Madame Forelady,” he said, “Ladies and Gentlemen. It is customary at this time for the Court to express the thanks of a grateful Commonwealth for your unselfish service. I do so now. The jury system is the cornerstone of our liberty. To serve in it is always a burden — especially when, as in your case, that civic duty completely isolates those discharging it from their daily lives. We, all of us, thank you. And you are dismissed.” The jury filed from the room.

  “Counsel,” Bart said, flipping through a calendar on his desk, “I’m putting this down for sentencing … ten A.M., October nineteenth. That bother any of you?”

  Gleason shook his head dejectedly. Morrissey stood up. “Your Honor,” he said, “respectfully move that disposition in Mister Tibbetts’s case be deferred, that bail be set, and that he be released pending psychiatric evaluation of his current mental state.”

  “Nice try,” Bart said. “Motion denied. Off the record. You’ve dodged another bullet here, John. Heard it said, many times: ‘Morrissey could walk through a rainstorm ’thout getting wet.’ Appears to be true. Back on the record. Court orders defendant Samuel Tibbetts be committed, forthwith, to Bridgewater State Hospital, and there confined for psychiatric evaluation for a period not to exceed.… Off the record. What the hell’s the longest stretch I can order here, anyway?”

  “It’s indeterminate, your Honor,” the clerk said.

  “Would’ve looked the damned thing up,” Bart said, “I had the faintest inkling this was gonna happen. Back on the record. For such period as the superintendant of the institution thereof shall deem adequate and necessary for determination, the defendant’s mental state. And, until such time as the superintendent thereof shall certify to this Court that the defendant, in his opinion, is not a danger to himself, or to society. When a hearing shall be held. But in any event, not to exceed ten years.”

  He looked at the lawyers. “That sound about right?” he said.

  “Well,” Morrissey said, “naturally, I want to object.”

  “Your rights are protected,” the judge said. “Mister Gleason?”

  Gleason stood up. “I’d like to object too, your Honor, but the people I’d like to object to’ve left the room.”

  “I know, Mister Gleason,” the judge said, “but you have to look at it this way: you rode a lame horse a good race, and you won most of it. Be grateful for successes, however partial they may be.

  “Now,” he said, “while the rules require I have to be punctilious about allowing the probation officers time to compile their reports, nothing in them says you folks have to be surprised when the day comes that I formally act. So, barring the discovery of some really astonishing fact in the pre-sentence reports, I now inform counsel of my intentions on the nineteenth.

  “As to defendant Walker,” he said, “defendant Walker will be sentenced to life in prison upon his conviction of the crime of murdering Joseph Abbate, and to life in prison on each of the other counts of murder whereof he’s been convicted. Said terms to be served concurrently at the Massachusetts Correctional Institution, Walpole. Defendants Franklin and Fentress will be sentenced to life in prison at the Massachusetts Correctional Institution, Framingham, on their convictions of murdering Joseph Abbate, and to life in prison on each of the other counts whereof they’ve be
en convicted. All said terms to be served concurrently with one another.”

  Gleason stood up. “Your Honor,” he said, “may I ask that the Court consider, that the terms be made consecutive?”

  “You may ask,” Bart said, “but I won’t do it. This was one enterprise. These people were kind enough to take seven.… Off the record. These people were kind enough to take seven skunks out of the garden. Fourteen or fifteen years in the joint are probably enough. Back on the record. Court therefore will deny Commonwealth’s motion for consecutive sentencing.” He stood up. “Counsel for the defense may file motions to reconsider sentence within ten days of formal imposition, and request hearing. Bail in each case to remain the same, pending actual sentencing. Defendants remanded to custody as previously ordered. Court will be in recess.”

  THREE

  MAY 2, 1985

  24

  Judge Bart emerged from chambers at 2:05, sneezing twice as he approached the bench. The bailiff called for order and directed all to sit. Richards and Gleason took chairs at the prosecution table. John Morrissey sat alone at the defense table. Samuel Tibbets in a dark grey suit, white shirt and knitted blue necktie sat by himself with his hands folded in the chair behind the rail. There were no spectators in the courtroom. The jury box was empty.

  “Matter of Samuel F. Tibbetts,” the clerk said. He gave the docket number. He handed papers to the judge, who sneezed again.

  “God, I feel awful,” he said. He fumbled under his robes and produced a handkerchief. He blew his nose loudly. He thumbed through the papers quickly. He looked up. “Who knew, thirty-one years ago, that the woman I’d picked to marry’d turn out to be a rose fanatic, and that I’d recapture the lost days of my childhood when my allergy to roses came back and I’d be miserable each spring?” He blew his nose again. “Damn those indoor plant lights.” He coughed. “Counsel will please identify themselves for the record. Moving party?”

  Morrissey stood and gave his name and Tibbett’s. Gleason stood and said: “Terrence Gleason,” he said, “Special Assistant Attorney General. For the Commonwealth.”

  “And the gentleman beside you?” Bart said.

  “John Richards,” Richards said, standing. “Retired.”

  The judge grinned. “Congratulations, Lieutenant,” he said. “Record will reflect that time in all its tuneful turning has taken Mr. Richards from his former grace as Detective Lieutenant Inspector, Massachusetts State Police. And Mister Gleason, as far as that goes, from his as full Assistant Attorney General of the Commonwealth, each being here as a courtesy and service to Attorney General Peter Mahoney, they being the gentlemen who prosecuted the criminal case underlying today’s civil matter.” He sneezed again. “Mister Morrissey,” he said.

  Morrissey stood. Behind him, Cpl. Fred Console, Massachusetts State Police, entered the courtroom and sat in the back row of the spectators’ section. “Honor please,” Morrissey said, nodding toward the clerk, “defendant has received and is informed that certified copies have been provided to the Court and counsel for the Commonwealth, documents containing findings by competent physicians on the staff of the Bridgewater State Hospital. Said documents representing that in the unanimous opinion of all physicians and psychologists inquiring into the present mental condition of Samuel F. Tibbetts, Mister Tibbetts is of sound mind. That he presents no danger either to himself or the community. And that he is unlikely to return to his former disturbed state in view of which he was formally sentenced October nineteenth, Nineteen-seventy-eight.

  “Whereupon, as counsel for Mister Tibbetts, I have filed the appropriate petition that pursuant to the terms and conditions of said formal commitment, that he has satisfied all burdens imposed by the Court upon the jury’s finding in the underlying criminal matter, and have moved that the Court enter an order directing the superintendent of said institution to discharge him forthwith.” He sat down.

  The judge frowned and nodded. He suppressed a sneeze. “Mister Gleason,” he said. “As you are aware, the Commonwealth has a right to call for a full evidentiary hearing on this application for discharge and permit you the opportunity to examine fully and completely all or any of these doctors, and Mister Tibbetts himself, if you so choose.” He grimaced. “And take up days and days doing it, too, if that happens to be your mood.”

  “I am, your Honor,” Gleason said.

  “I must warn you, though,” Bart said, “that if you so elect, you will face two more hard choices. My calendar is ’way behind. This wretchedness involving my breathing apparatus has forced me to suspend the afternoon sessions of the very complicated multi-defendant rape case I have underway three times in the past two weeks. My calendar, in other words, is not getting shorter, but longer. And I’m scheduled to open a criminal sitting in Barnstable the first of next month.

  “So, Mister Gleason,” he said, “if the Commonwealth wishes to exercise its right to a full hearing, it will have to decide whether it wants me to preside at it, some time in late June, early July, down on the Cape, or wishes to have the matter reassigned as promptly as possible to some other judge sitting here.”

  “Your Honor please,” Gleason said. “The prospect of recreating in a new judge your Honor’s detailed knowledge of the case is not a pleasant one. The Commonwealth notes for the record, as well, that in no instance within the memory of any member of the Department of the Attorney General has any judge found that the expert opinions of doctors in such matters, that they were so clearly erroneous as to warrant the court in substituting its own for theirs and overruling their recommendations. And finally, I might add, both Mister Morrissey and I’re held for trial in United States v. Ianucci, et al, a long case before Judge Reese in the federal court, beginning at the end of this month. So neither of us’ll be available, in all likelihood, until well after Labor Day. So, I’ve discussed the likelihood of this issue coming up today with Attorney General Mahoney, and I represent to this Court that I have his full permission and approval to waive the Commonwealth’s right to full hearing and to join in my brother’s request that the matter be disposed of, forthwith.”

  The judge nodded. “Record will so reflect,” he said. “Record will reflect further that the Court has made a detailed examination of the documents forwarded by the superintendent, Bridgewater State Hospital, regarding and pertaining to treatment and examinations of Samuel F. Tibbetts. Reference is made to criminal case cited, Commonwealth v. Tibbetts, et al, and incorporation by said reference of that proceeding is herewith made.

  “Court finds there is adequate evidence to conclude that defendant-petitioner is now of sound mind, represents no danger to himself or the community, and that there is therefore no reason to confine him further at said facility. Mister Morrissey,” Morrissey stood. “Mister Morrissey,” the judge said, “do you know, are you aware of any other process currently outstanding on your client?”

  “I do not,” Morrissey said. “I am not.”

  “Mister Gleason?” the judge said. “Have you made, or caused to be made, diligent search to determine whether any process in any other matter exists, whereby Mister Tibbetts should be held to answer it?”

  “I have, your Honor,” Gleason said, “and I have found none.” He sat down.

  The judge nodded. “Mister Tibbetts,” he said. Tibbetts stood. “Mister Tibbetts,” Bart said, “the gist of what you have heard is the consensus of those of us on this side of the fence — excluding, of course, your capable counsel — that you have managed to fool a total of at least eighteen total strangers — the jury who decided your case, and the six doctors who determined your fate. We are aware that jurors are often inexperienced persons, unsophisticated, and that sometimes they are misled, to the detriment of justice, by slick and crafty guys like you.” Tibbetts remained expressionless.

  “In other words,” the judge said, “you have beaten the rap. Not entirely, not entirely, but still you’ve managed it.

  “We know how you’ve managed it,” the judge said. “We are aware t
hat the doctors at State hospitals are underpaid, overworked, and often in despair at the number of patients they confront. So that they not only sometimes make mistakes, but sometimes do so on purpose, just to move the folks along. That was probably not the case in this instance, of course. I for one have no doubt whatsoever that you’re as sane as an angel now, and that notwithstanding your virtuosity in applying your manipulative skills to the jury, with the same success you enjoyed among your loyal followers, you have in fact always been.

  “Nevertheless,” the judge said, clearing his throat, “the system that you so disparage — perhaps in the cynical but understandable belief that anything allowing you to escape full punishment, for heinous acts, must have much wrong with it — nevertheless, it is the system that we have. And it says you go free. I hope we never see you again, sir, and you’d better hope so, too. Because if there is a next time, sir, things will be different.” He nodded towards the clerk.

  The clerk stood and informed Samuel F. Tibbetts that unless further process was outstanding against him, he was “free to go without day.”

  Bart stood up. “Court will be in recess,” he said. The bailiff chanted, ending with: “God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and this honorable Court.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Bart muttered, and vanished into chambers.

  Consolo waited by the elevators in the corridor outside. The muscles in his jaw were bunched, and his eyes glittered. When Gleason and Richards came out of the courtroom, he slowly turned his back. Gleason looked at Richards, who shrugged. A car arrived containing an operator, one small pimp, two black whores and one white one — they were laughing about bail. “You know somethin’?” one of the women said. “You wanna bet some night some girl that he sets bail on’s gonna make it back from him?” Gleason and Richards got into the car and faced front. The door slid closed. “Or maybe these guys, Charlotte,” one of the other whores said. “They might like a date.”