by Rose Connors
The judge is wise again. Harry is nodding once more.
“Finally, not only should jurors in the minority reexamine their positions, but jurors in the majority should do so as well. Ask yourselves whether you have given careful consideration to, and placed sufficient weight upon, that evidence which favorably impresses the persons who disagree with you.
“I am instructing you now to go back and resume your deliberations.”
With that, Judge Carroll removes his bifocals and nods to Charlie.
Charlie leads the silent jurors out the side door. They are resigned. Resigned to spending Memorial Day weekend sequestered. Resigned to observing the holiday with virtual strangers instead of family and friends. Resigned to reexamining their positions, even those who have drawn clear lines in the sand.
I am resigned too. My son is spending this weekend in Boston with his father, and I am resigned to a long weekend of waiting— alone.
CHAPTER 7
My ex-husband is Ralph Ellis, a well-known forensic psychiatrist. He is retained as an expert witness by criminal defendants in cases where their sanity—or lack thereof—is an issue. His offices are on the third floor of a trendy renovated warehouse on Boston Harbor, but he travels all over the country to testify. In the past decade he has appeared in at least a dozen highly publicized trials on behalf of Hollywood celebrities, rock stars, and professional athletes. Only the wealthiest of criminal defendants can afford him.
Ralph and I met when he guest lectured at a forensic evidence seminar during the first semester of my third year at Yale Law School. I was swept off my feet. He was the most brilliant man I’d ever met. And he still is.
We married on the Saturday after I graduated. When our son, Luke, was born thirteen months later, we called ourselves the luckiest— and happiest—people on earth. Ralph brought Luke and me home from the hospital in a brand new Thunderbird convertible—baby blue.
On Luke’s sixth birthday, Ralph left. He married his receptionist, a glamorous young thing called Holly, as soon as our divorce was final. It was then that Luke and I moved from Boston to Chatham, the town where I was born and raised. And we took the Thunderbird with us.
Cape Cod is an arm-shaped peninsula and the town of Chatham is its elbow. Luke says living in Chatham is a lot like living on a ship. The town is surrounded on three sides by the salty waters of Nantucket Sound and the Atlantic Ocean. Its year-round population of six thousand enjoys more than eighty miles of breathtaking coastline. With the exception of the summer months, Chatham is quiet.
Until last Memorial Day, random violence was unheard of in Chatham. It’s fair to say that the town’s innocence died along with Michael Scott last year. My neighbors lock their doors now.
In the decade that followed our return to Chatham, Ralph largely ignored Luke. He made his child support payments on time, and sent an expensive present each Christmas, but otherwise seemed to forget he had a son. That has changed during the past year, though. Ralph and Holly are in the midst of a bitter divorce, and Ralph has been trying to forge a relationship with his only child. It hasn’t been easy.
Luke has always been furious with his father for leaving us. After our move to Chatham, he refused to come to the telephone on the rare occasions when Ralph called. When Luke started school, he told his teacher he didn’t have a father and didn’t think he’d ever had one. Even now, he is curt and short-tempered with Ralph, traits I never see in him with anyone else.
It takes forty-five minutes to drive the old Thunderbird the thirty miles from my office in Barnstable to my home in Chatham. The holiday traffic has arrived. Ralph is pacing in the kitchen when I get home.
“For Christ’s sake, Marty, where’ve you been?”
I’m wearing a gray suit and carrying a briefcase. I wonder where he thinks I’ve been. “Out dancing,” I answer.
“Very funny.”
Ralph is annoyed, standing still now. “I get here. It’s seven o’clock. You’re nowhere to be found. And Luke isn’t even packed.”
“You were supposed to be here at six,” I remind him.
“Marty, he wasn’t even packed by seven.” Ralph raises his hands to the heavens to show me how exasperated he is.
Luke appears in the kitchen with Danny Boy, our nine-year-old Irish setter, on his heels. Danny Boy stops short when he sees Ralph. His ears stiffen and he growls. I had never heard Danny Boy growl at anyone—not even a stranger—before Ralph started coming to the house. He’s been coming here almost every week for about a year now, and Danny Boy growls at him every time. I have to admit—it makes me laugh.
Luke is wearing the expression of a convicted felon at sentencing. He is dreading this weekend with his father. “I’m packed. I’m packed. Geez, I’m only going for two nights.”
“Three,” I correct him. But he shakes his head.
“Dad has to work Monday. I’m coming back Sunday night.”
I turn to Ralph, who has managed to calm down a bit, and is keeping a wary eye on Danny Boy. “You have to work on Memorial Day?”
“I’m flying out of Logan first thing in the morning. I’m scheduled to testify in Seattle on Tuesday.”
Seattle. The prosecutors in the infamous Dr. Wu trial rested their case this afternoon. It was all over the radio news on the drive home. The defense must be opening with Ralph. Not a bad strategy.
The self-proclaimed “Doctor” Wu is a Chinese herbalist accused of murdering five of his female patients. The first victim was found with a metal spike through her heart. The second was bludgeoned with a wooden beam, and the third was drowned in a shallow pond. The fourth woman was burned beyond recognition. The fifth was buried alive.
Turns out that Dr. Wu is neither a doctor nor a Wu. His real name is Willie Chung. The word wu means “five” in Mandarin, and the Chinese character represents the five elements of herbal medicine: metal, wood, water, fire, and earth.
According to the press, Ralph’s psychoanalysis of the good doctor reveals that he suffers from “DID”—Dissociative Identity Disorder— a condition mere mortals might call a split personality. Willie Chung doesn’t know anything about these murdered women. But Dr. Wu does.
It takes some effort to resist the urge to cross-examine Ralph, but I manage. Instead, I hug Luke. “See you Sunday night, then. Maybe we’ll hit the beach on Monday.”
Luke is tall and angular like his father, but he has my fair skin, black hair, and dark blue eyes. At six feet one, he is a good seven inches taller than I am. He has to stoop to return my hug. “Bye, Mom” is all he says.
They are out the kitchen door. I stand on the back deck with Danny Boy and wave until the taillights of Ralph’s BMW are out of sight. Luke doesn’t realize that I dread this weekend more than he does. The house is far too quiet.
CHAPTER 8
Sunday, May 30
The Kydd is an American history buff, a fact that drives Geraldine crazy. “With all that useless information crammed into your brain,” she routinely berates him, “how much space is left for the law?” The Kydd never answers. He usually grins, recites another obscure fact, and waits patiently for her to lambaste him again.
Because he’s a first-year lawyer—a neophyte, Geraldine calls him—the Kydd’s cases are not the kind that require weekend attention. He has been here both days, though, cleaning out his single file cabinet, archiving closed matters, and stopping by my office every hour or so to share some little-known detail about the Civil War or the First Continental Congress. I appreciate the moral support. I also know he is eager to be here when the jury comes back. We’re not likely to see another case like this one in Barnstable County for a long time.
Typically, sequestered jurors are brought from their hotel to the courthouse to deliberate each day from nine to five. These jurors, though, have requested longer hours and Judge Carroll has allowed it. They arrived here at eight on Saturday morning and did not retire until twelve hours later. They were back promptly at eight this morning and now, ten hours into
it, they ask Charlie to have dinner delivered to the jury room again so they can continue working.
The Kydd is back in my doorway. “Marty, let’s go to Jeff’s. They can call us there if anything breaks.”
Every year Jeff Skinner throws an elaborate Memorial Day weekend barbecue. He’s a superb host. Jeff is a highly decorated veteran who served two tours of duty in the Marine Corps during the Vietnam War before he went to medical school. Maybe that’s why he spares no expense on his Memorial Day feast. In addition to the usual hot dogs, hamburgers, and watermelon, Jeff always serves great appetizers from the Cape’s best restaurants. He lives on Morris Island, an island that is part of the town of Chatham, connected to the mainland by a mile-long dike.
The Kydd is right; we may as well go. I’m tired of staring at my office walls. Besides, Luke will be home by now, and we can pick him up on the way. Jeff lives just up the road from Rob Mendell, Barnstable County’s incumbent District Attorney, and Rob’s younger son, Justin, is Luke’s best friend. Each boy will go willingly to Jeff’s barbecue—or to any office gathering, for that matter—only because he expects the other one to be there.
The traffic is awful—no surprise the night before Memorial Day. The Kydd and I caravan to the small cottage he rents in Brewster, so he can abandon his car in the driveway and ride the rest of the way with me. A full hour after leaving the courthouse, we reach Chatham Center, where the streets and the restaurants are jammed. We continue eastbound, toward Coast Guard Station Chatham and Chatham Light, whose beacon failed to rescue Michael Scott a year ago.
The Kydd, of course, knows a bit of history about this place. Pointing offshore, where I see nothing but whitecaps, he seems to recognize a particular spot in the waves. “At sunrise on June 20, 1782,” he lectures, “crew members from a British privateer were discovered here, in Chatham’s East Harbor, trying to steal three unmanned vessels. They wanted them as prizes of war.”
The Kydd always assumes a professorial tone when he shares historical trivia.
“The alarm cannon alerted the town militia, which gathered on the beach quickly and opened fire. Their efforts drove the largest of the three coveted vessels aground, and soon thereafter the British gave up. They boarded small boats and hightailed it back to their own ship, anchored offshore. The Chatham militia gave chase in a fleet of small privately owned boats. The would-be thieves escaped, but the Chatham vessels were recovered. The incident became known as the Battle of Chatham Harbor, Chatham’s only active participation in the Revolutionary War.”
The Kydd tears his eyes from the surf and looks at me silently, a professor awaiting his student’s evaluation. “Thank your lucky stars,” I tell him, “that Geraldine isn’t here.”
“But you live here,” he protests. “You should know these things.” I roll my eyes at him.
After passing Chatham Light, we bear left on Morris Island Road, a road that seems to lead to the end of the earth. Just before land disappears, Morris Island Road turns right. We turn left instead, onto Windmill Lane, where Luke, Danny Boy, and I share a small shingled cottage left to me by my parents. Their only valuable asset, they used to say, besides me. It sits just a few yards from the ocean at high tide.
If we had turned right with Morris Island Road, it would have led us to the dike, or the causeway, as it’s called by the locals. After picking up Luke, we head back in that direction. As usual, the causeway is alive with the sounds of seals and shorebirds. The marsh on either side of the two-lane road is teeming with snowy egrets, Canada geese, and long-legged great blue herons.
Morris Island is home to part of the Monomoy National Wildlife Refuge, a jewel of the National Wildlife Refuge System. Designated a Wilderness Area in 1970, it is 2,750 acres of federally protected raw beauty.
Most of the Monomoy Refuge is on North and South Monomoy Islands, two islands south of Morris Island, both accessible only by boat. But forty acres of it are here, on Morris Island, and Luke knows every inch of these forty acres—every sand dune, mudflat, and salt-water marsh—by heart. This refuge is famous for its shorebird migrations and, thanks to Luke, I can identify most of the species that come and go throughout the year. Two endangered species, the piping plover and roseate tern, nest here during the spring and summer. During the fall and winter, the refuge is home to thousands of eiders, scoters, and red-breasted mergansers. Hundreds of harbor seals spend the winter here.
All year long, in all sorts of weather, we walk these beaches. Luke never comes home without a story. He almost always spies red-tailed hawks perched on the treetops. Every spring, he watches through binoculars as osprey pairs feed their young in nests built atop man-made elevated platforms. On rare occasions, he spots a bald eagle or two soaring overhead. Once, he saw a gray seal give birth to pups on the sandy beach.
Jeff Skinner’s house is the second one from the refuge. Only Rob Mendell’s house is closer. Morris Island Road turns into Tisquantum Road when we leave the dike. We pass the refuge entrance and Rob’s cobblestone driveway before climbing the small hill and parking the Thunderbird where dozens of familiar cars are already parked, on the road in front of Jeff’s gated estate.
The Town of Chatham is an affluent one—its dump plays Chopin on Sunday afternoons—but Morris Island is especially so. Those who own homes here also own the island itself—the Quitnesset Association, they call themselves. The homes of the Quitnesset Association are old mansions and their owners come from old money, Jeff and Rob included. Jeff’s enormous home sits high on a bluff, with perfectly manicured grounds and sweeping views of the Atlantic from every room.
Jeff divorced a while back, and his grown kids live off-Cape somewhere near his ex-wife. He doesn’t talk about them much. He’s a quiet man, a voracious reader, and an accomplished pianist in addition to being a fine pathologist. I know he’s probably as eager as I am to hear the jury’s verdict. He saw what Rodriguez did to Michael Scott.
Jeff hurries toward the Kydd and me as soon as we reach his oceanside patio. “Any news?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“They’re still working, though,” the Kydd adds. “They must be making progress.”
Jeff signals to a waiter, who hurries toward us with a tray of drinks. “Progress? They should have convicted inside of an hour.”
“They’ll convict,” I tell him. “I have a good feeling about this panel.”
Jeff arches his eyebrows at me. I don’t usually make predictions.
Soon after we arrive, the glorious May evening begins to surrender to a thick cold mist rolling in from the Atlantic. “Chatham fog” we call it, a frequent summer visitor. Most of Jeff’s guests move inside, and soon the fire in the huge stone fireplace is beginning to crackle.
The living room is impressive. It’s two stories high and elegantly furnished, Jeff’s baby grand piano its focal point, built-in bookcases on every wall. The room is filled with an assortment of people from my office, Jeff’s lab, and the courthouse. Even Charlie Cahoon’s grandson is here, I’m glad to see, planted in front of the food table with Luke and Justin. He’s taller than they are, thinner, too. “Hey, it’s my lawyer,” he says, pointing his fork at me.
Jake Junior has been calling me his lawyer since he got his driver’s license. Just in case, he says. The fact that I’m a prosecutor doesn’t seem to bother him.
“What have you done?”
“Nothing yet.” He grabs another hot dog. “But I’m young. I’ve got time.” Jake Junior has a small gap between his two front teeth and a dimple on his chin. His lopsided smile always makes me laugh.
“I’m still waiting for that retainer,” I tell him.
He winks at me, as if we both know the check’s in the mail.
The Kydd and I find Geraldine and Rob Mendell, the man whose job she wants, by the fire. Luke, Justin, and Jake Junior inhale a few hot dogs each, fill paper plates with desserts, and head out to shoot hoops at Rob’s house. The Kydd begins a little-known anecdote about the Boston Tea Party, s
trictly to annoy Geraldine. She launches into her usual tirade which, oddly enough, he seems to enjoy. Rob and I move away from them and watch through the street-side window as the three boys dribble down the slope toward Rob’s house, in and out of the fog.
Luke and Justin played varsity basketball this year after spending two years on the junior varsity squad. Jake Junior, who is a class ahead, took them under his wing, becoming a mentor of sorts. Lucky for them. Jake Junior is a basketball legend in Chatham. He’s just been awarded a full scholarship to play for Duke University next year. Jake Junior had planned to join the army to finance his college education—his grandfather doesn’t earn enough as a court bailiff to pay the tuition at Duke—but that won’t be necessary now.
Jake Junior saw to it that Justin and Luke were assigned team shirts with their chosen numbers: Justin’s three; Luke’s four. The numbers honor their back-to-back birthdays, Justin’s on July third and Luke’s on July fourth. A couple of firecrackers, I call them.
Rob Mendell was divorced from Justin’s mother before I met him. He has an older son, the product of his first marriage, who lives somewhere in California and visits rarely. Rob is a devoted father to Justin—like me, he never misses a basketball game—but I’ve never learned how he came to have sole custody of his younger son. Luke says he and Justin have an unspoken understanding: Justin doesn’t talk about his mother and Luke doesn’t talk about his father. Someday, for Luke at least, I hope that will change.
The three tall boys and their plates full of brownies and cupcakes disappear completely in the fog. Rob and I laugh about our growing boys and our mounting grocery bills and, for just a little while, I actually forget about the Rodriguez jury. That’s how charming Rob Mendell is.
