by Rose Connors
Rob clears his throat. “Marty, Geraldine is probably right. But we’ll order the trial transcript. That way you can check for yourself.”
“The trial transcript?” Geraldine is beside herself. She leans across Rob’s desk and stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray he keeps there for her use. “Martha’s going to spend her time poring over a trial transcript? We have a murder to investigate, Rob. The tourist season is on top of us. We need this thing solved—fast. Who do you want me to put on it while Martha here reads the trial transcript? The Kydd?”
Geraldine lights another cigarette, collects herself, and speaks to me in a decidedly quieter voice. “Look, Martha, what if you didn’t mention it? What if you just described the location of the wounds, and some nut made the connection to a Roman numeral one all by himself? Then the nut looks at his calendar, sees it’s Memorial Day again, and it’s irresistible. He makes his job as similar as he can—in Chatham, on the beach, young man—and he labels his guy with a Roman numeral two. Now, in his twisted little mind, he’s more than just a nutcase. He’s a nutcase with some kind of link to the first nut-case, who’s already in jail.”
I can’t argue anymore, so I stand up and head for the door. “You’re probably right, Geraldine. Like Rob says, you’re probably right. All I know for sure is I’ve got to go home.”
I am in the doorway when Rob stops me. “Marty,” he says, “until we get a handle on this thing, it’s probably best if you don’t mention this to anyone else.”
“Don’t worry, Rob. I’ll leave the press to you and Geraldine.”
Geraldine moves into the doorway beside me and exhales smoke through her nostrils. Her green eyes are ablaze. “It’s not just the press you should leave to us, Martha. Don’t repeat one word of what you said here to anyone. Not anyone.”
CHAPTER 15
Rodriguez strangles me again and again on the Monday night eleven o’clock news. It’s the lead story. Skippy Eldridge’s murder is second. The Dr. Wu case comes in third.
Luke is silent as he watches his father chat comfortably with reporters upon his arrival at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. Luke is always silent when Ralph is on television. When the interview is over, Luke will utter just one word. It’s the same word after every interview.
“Psychobabble,” he says.
Luke knew Skippy Eldridge only casually, but he is badly shaken by his death, badly shaken by the incomprehensible fact that a young man from Chatham—not Chicago or New York, but Chatham—has been murdered. We’ve spent most of the evening talking about Skippy, but now Luke turns his attention to the footage of Rodriguez’s courtroom attack and takes a closer look at my neck. It’s black and blue.
“Geez, Mom, Rodriguez could’ve killed you. What the heck were the guards doing? Why didn’t they shoot him?”
“Shoot him? There were wall-to-wall people in that room. They couldn’t open fire in there.”
“I’d have shot him.”
Luke has always been quick to dispose of the criminals I prosecute.
“This is the United States of America,” I tell him. “That’s not the way we do things.”
What we will do is charge Rodriguez with assault and battery and assault with intent to murder. I’ll do it personally in the morning. The charges will be meaningless in any practical sense. The murder-one conviction will keep Rodriguez behind bars for the rest of his natural life. But I intend to file them anyway.
I turn my attention back to my renegade son. “I’ll shoot you,” I tell him, “if you don’t get to bed. Tomorrow’s a school day.”
Luke groans, but comes dutifully across the room to kiss me good night.
We exchange a short litany every night. It started years ago, when Luke was seven. It was a frigid day in March and Cape Cod was buried under two feet of snow. Winds were just short of hurricane velocity. The power was out and the roads were closed. Luke and I lit candles and kerosene lamps, and we warmed soup on the wood stove. We read stories by candlelight. It was a magical day.
When I tucked Luke in that night, I thanked him for helping me get through our first Cape Cod blizzard. His dark blue eyes sparkled with the earnestness only little boys own and he said, “Mommy, I’ll always help you. And I’ll always love you. And those two things will always be true.”
I won’t ever forget it. Every night since then, at bedtime, I tell him, “Luke, I’ll always help you. And I’ll always love you. And those two things will always be true.”
In recent years, Luke has been quick to point out that I can no longer help him with his math. But every night he smiles and says it back. Tonight is no exception.
I watch him climb the stairs with Danny Boy on his heels. My heart aches for Sally Scott and Emily Eldridge. They have lost their boys. For them, there will be no more good nights.
CHAPTER 16
Tuesday, June 1
The telephone has been ringing a long time in my dream. I awaken like a diver coming reluctantly to the surface. It’s light already and the birds are chirping; the clock says five forty-five. Luke is standing in my room in a pair of old sweatpants, telling me patiently to pick up the receiver. Phone calls this early are always for me.
It’s Rob.
“Marty, I’m sorry to call so early, but I thought you’d want to know. They’ve made an arrest in the Eldridge murder. The Chief says they picked up Eddie Malone.”
Eddie Malone is a forty-four-year-old shell fisherman who is no stranger to Barnstable County prosecutors. Until now, though, his crimes have been relatively minor—barroom brawls, petty theft, drunk and disorderly. Eddie Malone has never struck me as a man who has the stomach for cold-blooded murder.
“Eddie Malone? This is out of his league, don’t you think, Rob?”
“Two witnesses saw him fleeing the scene. And the forensics are solid. Malone’s got the victim’s blood all over his pant cuffs, socks, and shoes.”
Well, what do you know. Eddie Malone’s gone big time. I underestimated him.
“Anyhow, Marty, you should get here soon if you want to beat the press. They’ll be swarming all over the complex in another hour.”
“I’m on my way.”
I put the phone back on my bedside table and give Luke a thumbs-up. “We’ve got him.”
CHAPTER 17
Harry Madigan is waiting in my office. He’s a good-looking man, six feet or so and powerfully built, with a ruddy complexion and charcoal-colored hair just beginning to gray at the temples. Harry stands and looks at me for a minute—he’s been doing that lately—before he says anything. My cheeks are crimson by the time I reach my desk. The curse of the fair-skinned.
Harry always looks tired and a bit rumpled; his suit coat is usually wrinkled and his tie is always askew. Geraldine claims he sleeps for a few hours in his suit right before coming to work. Harry’s disheveled appearance annoys Geraldine, and she always makes a point of telling him so. I find it somewhat endearing, and that annoys Geraldine even more. Today he looks worse than usual.
“Marty, what’s going on? Eddie Malone? He’s not up to this.”
“That was my first thought too, Harry. But the police have eyewitnesses and the lab’s got matches. Blood. Apparently all over your guy. It looks like your friend Eddie has moved up in the world.”
Malone will be arraigned later today, as soon as we finish with the regular docket. As usual, Harry is right on top of it. He hands me all of the standard defense motions. But he doesn’t leave. He stays planted in front of my desk, staring at me. “Marty, something’s wrong here.”
“What?” My stomach tightens even as I ask the question.
Harry is looking me straight in the eyes, as if he hopes to see a printout of my thoughts in them. “This doesn’t add up,” he says.
“Chatham hasn’t had two murders like this in its history. Now it’s got two back to back. One year apart. Memorial Day. There are brains involved here somewhere. Rodriguez? Maybe. Malone? No way.”
There are defen
se attorneys who come to my office to argue about every case they handle. Harry isn’t one of them. He’s here because he’s genuinely troubled. And he wants to know if I am troubled too.
Images of the two numbered torsos pass before my eyes. I am sorely tempted to tell Harry what I thought I saw at yesterday’s autopsy. I hesitate initially because of Geraldine’s admonition. But my final decision has nothing to do with Geraldine. I decide not to tell Harry for a far better reason.
Harry and I will both receive copies of Jeff Skinner’s final autopsy report. It will probably be on our desks late this afternoon. The report will include a half-dozen photographs, one of which the female technician took at my request, from a height of eighteen inches directly above the torso.
Harry may be inattentive to his wardrobe, but he never misses a detail in his examination of evidence. If there’s a Roman numeral on Skippy Eldridge’s chest, Harry will see it.
I look up at him with what I hope is a blank expression and shrug. “What can I say, Harry? Eyewitnesses. Blood. It’s science.”
CHAPTER 18
The Barnstable County District Courthouse is a drab, plain box of a building. It is as dull as the Superior Courthouse is striking. The Superior Court handles five hundred serious cases each year—murders, rapes, kidnappings, and arsons—while the District Court processes five hundred mundane offenses each week. In addition, all arraignments are held in the District Court, even those on charges that will ultimately be tried in Superior Court. Eddie Malone will be arraigned here later today.
The large waiting area outside the courtroom smells like a bar-room after a weekend with its windows closed. Three nights’ worth of arrestees are here to face their sins. The offenses range from street fights to narcotics possession, with no shortage of drunk driving and domestic violence charges mixed in. Lawyers and clients confer in hushed tones in every available corner.
Like its more elegant sister, the District Courthouse also has only one courtroom. This one, though, is large and dreary. Cheap paneling runs from the floor to the elevated ceiling, where dozens of cylindrical fixtures hold floodlights, a third of which are burned out. There is not a window in the room.
More cheap paneling covers the front and sides of the judge’s bench as well as the courtroom clerk’s desk in front of it. Counsel tables are stained dark brown and each has too many olive green, imitation leather chairs pulled up to it. Spectator pews are also dark brown, and many are adorned with the initials of those enterprising souls who managed to smuggle their Swiss army knives past the metal detector.
Every inch of the large courtroom is needed to contain the sea of humanity that converges here after a holiday weekend. The Kydd and I are handling this morning’s docket together, and it will take both of us the better part of the day to get through the list.
The bailiff calls for order and Judge Richard Gould ascends to the bench. Judge Gould is a no-nonsense, get-the-job-done sort of judge, but he is admirably careful with the rights of the accused, both substantive and procedural. The appearance of his courtroom is not impressive, but the caliber of the proceedings conducted here is. It is Judge Gould who keeps the morning docket from resembling a cattle call. He treats each defendant who stands before him with fundamental fairness and respect.
Dottie Bearse has been the courtroom clerk here for decades, longer than any judge has lasted. She calls out the name of each defendant and, one by one, each walks to the microphone at the front of the room. Court officers are lined up against the back wall, where the doors are, just in case any one of them happens to walk in the wrong direction.
Each defendant who is represented by counsel stands mute as his attorney waives reading of the charges, enters a not guilty plea, and chooses a date a month or so off for a pretrial conference. Between now and then, the defense attorney will call or drop by our offices in an attempt to “work something out.” If the charge is nonviolent and the defendant’s record is halfway decent, a deal usually can be struck. In the meantime, most of these defendants are released on their own recognizance.
Then there are the defendants who are not represented. Judge Gould interrogates each of these individuals to determine whether or not the accused wants an attorney, and if he does, whether or not he can afford one. Each defendant who is able to pay for a lawyer is given a short continuance, during which he is expected to hire one. Those defendants found to be indigent are assigned to the “lawyer of the day”—usually an attorney newly admitted to the bar—who is on hand in the courtroom expressly for this purpose. These cases are held over for a second call, so that the lawyer of the day can confer with his new clients for at least a few minutes before proceeding.
Every once in a while we see a defendant who does not have a lawyer, does not want a lawyer, and intends to plead guilty on the spot. Almost always this is a person with an unblemished record who feels a tremendous combination of embarrassment and remorse over whatever lapse in judgment resulted in his arrest. He wants to face his punishment, and he doesn’t want any delay. When I trained the Kydd to handle the morning docket, I told him to think of these people as kamikazes, catapulting headlong into sentencing without the benefit of counsel. I always recognize a kamikaze when I see one.
Today’s kamikaze is Ernie Thompson, a fifty-year-old landscaper from Chatham who has been in the courthouse only once before, when he was called for jury duty. It seems Ernie arrived home from work a little early on Saturday and found his wife, Bess, in the marital bed with another man. To make matters worse, Bess’s paramour turned out to be a competing landscaper, a young upstart whose business had just underbid Ernie’s for a large job at the Chatham Bard’s Inn, the grand old lady of Chatham’s many fine hotels.
While the youthful Romeo struggled to pull on his pants, Ernie knocked him down and literally kicked him through the house and out the door. Then Ernie kicked him down the front steps, along the full length of his shell driveway, and into the road. As fate would have it, Romeo rolled into the road just as a Chatham squad car drove by.
I hand Ernie Thompson’s file to the Kydd. Ernie and Bess are people I bump into around town every once in a while, at the grocery store or the gas station, and I’d just as soon not be the prosecutor on this one. The Kydd lives in Brewster, two towns away from Chatham; better that he handle it. Besides, Ernie is already mortified, and having a woman read these charges would only make him feel worse.
The Kydd struggles to contain his grin as he reads through the police report. Dottie Bearse calls Ernie’s name and docket number and Ernie walks stiffly to the microphone, hat in hand.
The Kydd stifles his final grin and stands to address the court. “Your Honor, Mr. Thompson is charged with assault and battery with a dangerous weapon, to wit, a shod foot.”
Judge Gould looks up from his paperwork to address Ernie. “Mr. Thompson, do you have an attorney?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you want one?”
“No, sir.”
“Mr. Thompson, you’re charged with assault and battery with a dangerous weapon, potentially a very serious matter. Are you sure you don’t want an attorney?”
“I’m sure, sir.”
“Do you understand that a prison sentence is possible here, Mr. Thompson? I’m not saying it’s a given, just that it’s possible.”
“I understand that, sir.”
“And you’re certain you don’t want an attorney?”
“I’m certain, sir.”
“And how do you intend to plead, Mr. Thompson?”
“Guilty, sir.”
The judge turns a frustrated look on the Kydd. “All right, Mr. Kydd, let’s hear the facts.”
The Kydd has the police report in hand, but he doesn’t read from it. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”
Judge Gould is annoyed at first, but after a moment he relents. “All right, Mr. Kydd. Make it quick.”
The Kydd walks to the bench and hands the police report to the judge, whispering something I ca
n’t decipher. He returns to the counsel table without the report and recites the facts, but only from the driveway forward. “It seems there was an altercation between Mr. Thompson and the victim, during which Mr. Thompson knocked the victim to the ground and kicked him some distance, down a shell driveway and into the road, where Officer Trethaway saw them. You have the officer’s report in front of you, Your Honor.”
Judge Gould peers down at the report through dark-rimmed glasses, runs a hand over his mouth, and looks back at the Kydd.
“Mr. Thompson’s record is clean, Your Honor, and the Commonwealth would be satisfied with a continuance without a finding for six months, if Mr. Thompson is agreeable.”
Judge Gould’s eyes linger on the Kydd a few moments before he looks at me for confirmation. I nod, and the judge turns his attention back to Ernie.
“Mr. Thompson, I’m inclined to follow the Commonwealth’s recommendation here. I’d like to continue your case for six months without making any finding. If, at the end of six months, you haven’t had any other run-ins with the law, these charges will be dismissed, and your clean record will be preserved. Is that agreeable?”
Ernie looks around before answering, as if he expects to see his guardian angel hovering nearby. “Yes, sir, I’ll agree to that.”
“Now I caution you, Mr. Thompson, any infraction during the next six months will result in your being sentenced immediately on this assault charge. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“All right, then, this matter is continued without a finding for six months. Mr. Thompson, you’re free to go.”
Ernie hustles toward the courtroom doors, as if he fears the judge will change his mind if he lingers. The Kydd winks at me as he sits down at the counsel table.
It was humane, what he did. He got the explanation for the assault in front of the judge without uttering a word of it out loud. And he gave Ernie the best deal he could. Ernie wouldn’t have done any better if the best lawyer in New England had defended him.
