by Rose Connors
Judge Carroll is standing, banging his gavel randomly on the bench. “Mr. Madigan, you’re out of line.”
“Am I, Judge? Am I out of line by pointing out to this court that whoever killed Michael Scott last Memorial Day also killed Steven Eldridge this Memorial Day? Why is that out of line, Judge? Because you don’t want to hear it?”
Harry thrusts his fist toward the gallery. “Or because you don’t want them to hear it?”
“That’s enough, Mr. Madigan.”
“No, it’s not, Judge. It’s not enough. There’s more you don’t want them to hear. You don’t want them to hear that the victims have numbers carved on their chests.”
The crowd’s steady murmur turns into a roar. Harry raises his voice to be heard above it. “You don’t want them to hear that Michael Scott had the number one etched into his body and that, even though no one ever pointed it out publicly, Steven Eldridge is in the morgue right now with the number two carved into his.”
Harry draws the Roman numerals in the air with his index finger as he speaks. The crowd is out of control. So is Judge Carroll. I’ve never heard him shout before.
“Mr. Madigan, one more word and I’ll hold you in contempt.”
It’s too late. Harry is at full boil.
“I hold you in contempt, Judge. I hold you in contempt for not giving a damn. When will you give a damn, Judge? Next Memorial Day? When the body in the morgue has a three on it?”
Judge Carroll signals the guards and all four of them surround Harry. They take his arms and he drops to his knees on the plush floral carpeting. If they want him out of the courtroom, they’re going to have to drag him.
“Or maybe it’ll be sooner than that, Judge. These sorts of people need to kill more and more frequently, don’t they? Isn’t that what the experts say? Maybe we’ll see number three sometime soon.”
Everybody is standing now. And everybody is yelling. But Harry is louder than anybody. He is bigger than any one of the guards, and they are having difficulty removing him.
“In the meantime, Judge, keep Manuel Rodriguez locked up like a dog. It makes everybody feel better.”
Harry jerks his arm away from a guard who is trying to cuff him and thrusts his fist toward the gallery again. “That way these guys won’t go nosing around where they shouldn’t. Right, Judge? Protect that jury verdict, Judge, no matter what. Otherwise the whole god-damned system will unravel.”
The guards drag Harry through the side door, and his words grow muffled and distant when it closes.
The reporters and photographers are gone, following Harry down the hallway, shouting questions at him. The courtroom is silent. Charlie Cahoon looks like he’s a hundred years old. I am paralyzed.
Judge Carroll takes his seat and waits for the stenographer to regain her composure before he speaks. He is ashen. He looks at me without seeing me as he delivers his rulings. His voice is brittle.
“Mr. Madigan is in contempt of this court and will be held in custody until further notice. The motion to set aside the jury’s verdict in Commonwealth versus Rodriguez is denied. Sentencing will go forward as scheduled on Monday, June seventh, at one o’clock. Until then, we are adjourned.”
The judge is in chambers before a dazed Charlie Cahoon tells us to rise. Charlie disappears through the side door. Those spectators who remained after Harry was dragged away are filing out the back, whispering as if they just witnessed something holy.
My head is pounding. I sit down and lower it onto my arms on the counsel table. I look up when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Geraldine.
“Congratulations,” she says. “You won.”
CHAPTER 23
Charlie Cahoon agrees to let me into Harry’s cell, but he isn’t happy about it. “It’s bad enough he’s in there, Miss Marty. Now you want to go in there too?”
Charlie has called me “Miss Marty” since I was in elementary school with Jake.
“I just want to keep him company, Charlie.”
“For how long? You gonna sit in there all night?”
“We’ll both be out in an hour. Harry’s office is working on it. Judge Carroll will release him as soon as everybody calms down.”
Charlie pauses in the hallway in front of one of the empty cells and searches my eyes. His expression is pained. “Why did he do that? Harry’s never done anything like that before. Why now?”
“He just lost his temper, Charlie. That’s all.”
“He believes what he said in there, doesn’t he? About the numbers. He believes that.”
“Yes,” I tell him. “He believes that.”
“And what about you, Miss Marty? Do you believe it?”
I lean against the bars of the empty cell and return his stare. “I don’t know, Charlie. I don’t know what to believe.”
He shakes his head and resumes a slow shuffle toward Harry’s cell. He puts his key in the lock and opens the door for me. Once I’m inside, he closes it slowly and locks it behind me. He wears a sad look as he turns away.
The truth is, there are a couple of questions I need to ask Harry. And a Superior Court holding cell is as safe a place as any to hear the answers. The other three cells are empty. The information won’t go anywhere it shouldn’t.
Harry is seated on a small cot that hangs from steel hinges attached to one concrete wall of the cell. His suit coat is rolled in a ball on the floor next to his feet, and his white shirt is drenched with sweat. He laughs when I sit down beside him.
“You know, Marty, I’ve been thinking about inviting you over to my place. But I didn’t picture it quite like this.”
I laugh too, my cheeks instantly on fire.
“Harry, I have a couple of questions for you.”
“Shoot,” he says.
“One of the things you said in court was that no one ever publicly mentioned that the Scott boy’s wounds looked like a Roman numeral one. Are you sure about that?”
“Am I sure?”
“Are you sure I didn’t say anything about that during the trial?”
“Marty, I had zero to work with in that case. If I’d had any clue that those cuts looked like a number, I’d have made something of it. Trust me.”
He looks sideways at me and raises his eyebrows. “Next question?”
“This one’s harder,” I tell him. “I’m going to ask you to break a client confidence.”
Harry closes his eyes, laughs again, and leans back against the concrete wall. “Do I look like a guy who would break the rules?”
He stays pressed against the wall, but eventually he turns his face toward me and opens his eyes. They’re bloodshot.
“I wouldn’t ask, Harry, if it wasn’t important.”
“Go ahead and ask. But I’m not promising an answer.”
“I need to know why you made the theft argument.”
“What?”
“The theft argument. Was that your story or your client’s? You argued that Michael Scott was already dead, that Rodriguez just stole his watch and money. Did you raise that argument because it’s all you could come up with? Or is that what Rodriguez told you?”
Harry doesn’t hesitate. “That’s what he told me, Marty. That’s what he told me the first time I interviewed him, right after he was picked up. And he stuck to it. He never changed his story.”
“Did you believe him, Harry?”
Harry leans forward again and stares at his shoes for a few minutes. He raises his head and meets my eyes.
“I do now,” he says.
CHAPTER 24
Friday, June 4
Rob, Geraldine, and the Chamber of Commerce guy disappeared behind the closed door of Rob’s office shortly after I got to work this morning. They were still there when the Kydd and I left to cover the morning docket. They emerge just as we return, a few minutes before twelve. The press conference is scheduled for high noon.
The Kydd and I head into the lunchroom, pour some coffee, and flip on the old television set that extends from the
wall on a mechanical arm. News at Noon begins with a live shot in front of our building. Geraldine is front and center, with Rob and Norman Richardson on either side. She is smiling as if the events of the past twenty-four hours were all part of her plan, and she is eager to let those assembled in on her strategy.
Geraldine leans into the microphone, still smiling, but she doesn’t say a word. After several minutes, the reporters fall silent, realizing she won’t tell them anything until they do.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to make a very brief statement about yesterday’s unfortunate display, and then the District Attorney, Rob Mendell, will address you.
“I’m quite sure that Mr. Madigan did what he did yesterday because he thought it would help his client. After all, that’s Mr. Madigan’s job. Fortunately for the rest of us, Judge Carroll did his job too.
“The awful truth here is that two young men were brutally murdered in a town that is unaccustomed to such atrocities. The good news is that both killers were apprehended quickly and both remain incarcerated. They no longer pose any danger to the law-abiding citizens of Chatham.
“Manuel Rodriguez murdered Michael Scott in cold blood, and this office saw to it that Rodriguez was convicted of that crime. He will be sentenced on Monday, just as he should be, regardless of Mr. Madigan’s dramatic attempt to prevent that.
“Edmund Malone murdered Steven Eldridge in the same barbaric manner, and we’ll make sure Malone is brought to justice too. As we speak, he is being evaluated at Bridgewater State Hospital. I’m sure you are all aware that Malone’s own attorney, the very same Mr. Madigan who performed for us yesterday, requested that psychiatric assessment.
“If Malone is competent to stand trial, we assure you we will secure his conviction. If he is incompetent, he will remain institutionalized at Bridgewater or some comparable facility. Under no circumstances will Edmund Malone return to the streets, or the beaches, of Cape Cod.
“Both Michael Scott and Steven Eldridge died as the result of multiple stab wounds. Mr. Madigan’s antics notwithstanding, the similarities end there.
“Now I’d like to turn the microphone over to our District Attorney.”
“What about the Roman numerals, Ms. Schilling?” It’s Woody Timmons from the Cape Cod Times, the front-row recipient of Harry’s written motion with photos.
Geraldine had stepped aside to make room for Rob, but she moves back toward the microphone. “There are no Roman numerals.”
Woody holds up the photographs. “Sure look like Roman numerals to me,” he says.
The reporters grow noisy again; Rob takes the microphone from its stand and walks closer to them. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention, please. I have a rather important announcement to make.”
I turn to the Kydd. “Here it comes.”
“Here what comes?”
“Rob’s stepping down.”
“He’s what?”
“Not now. In December, at the end of his term. But he’s going to tell them now. And he’s going to endorse Geraldine as his successor.”
The Kydd looks a little bit hurt. “How come I never know what’s going on around here?”
Rob has the crowd’s attention.
“It has been my great honor to serve as the District Attorney of Barnstable County for three consecutive terms.”
The reporters buzz. They weren’t expecting this.
“I am proud of the work we’ve done in the past twelve years. I am proud of the role we’ve played in keeping the villages of Cape Cod safe for all who live and vacation here. But it’s time for me to move on to the next phase of my life, to make way for my successor in this important office.”
Rob gestures toward Geraldine and flashes a winning smile. “And I just happen to know who wants the job.”
Everyone laughs at this, even Geraldine.
“Ms. Schilling has been my right-hand man”
More laughter.
“…for the past twelve years and I heartily endorse her candidacy for this office. There is no one more qualified; no one more experienced in the administration of justice; no one more committed to fighting the good fight.”
It’s brilliant. The timing of this announcement is nothing less than brilliant. Last night’s news was dominated by scenes of Harry. Harry announcing that the victims are numbered; Harry asking Judge Carroll when he’s going to give a damn; Harry dropping to his knees and predicting we’ll see victim number three sometime soon. The viewing public might have thought no one else spoke yesterday in all of New England.
That won’t happen again tonight. Between Geraldine’s statement and Rob’s surprise announcement, Harry will get a lot less airtime.
But Woody Timmons refuses the detour. “Ms. Schilling,” he shouts above the ruckus, “Martha Nickerson from your office never said a word yesterday. What does she have to say about Roman numerals?”
Geraldine smiles indulgently at him. “Ms. Nickerson is a very capable trial attorney. She knows a red herring when she sees one.”
“But what does she say about Roman numerals?”
Geraldine’s smile grows tight at the corners. “She says what every rational person says. There are no Roman numerals.”
The Kydd has been watching me instead of the television. “She’s lying, isn’t she, Marty?”
I punch him lightly on the arm, but I don’t answer.
CHAPTER 25
Sunday, June 6
Ralph flew into the Chatham Municipal Airport this morning in a small chartered plane. He’s here to take Luke to lunch. He’ll fly out again this afternoon to Logan International in Boston, where he’ll catch a commercial flight back to Seattle. His direct testimony in the Dr. Wu trial ended Friday. The prosecution will begin cross-examining him tomorrow.
Luke isn’t happy. It’s a crisp, sunny day and he’d rather be on the beach with Justin, Jake Junior, and the other guys than in a restaurant with his recently surfaced father. To make matters worse, Ralph announced when he called yesterday that he expects to finish up in Seattle later this week, and he wants to take Luke to a Vincent van Gogh exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston next Sunday. Luke has been begging me to intercede.
In spite of his efforts during the past year, Ralph doesn’t seem to know Luke much better now than he did when his visits began. Luke is an outdoors guy. In the winter, he plays basketball and goes skiing. In the summer, he plays baseball and goes fishing. Spending a June Sunday in Boston instead of on Cape Cod is a penance. Spending it indoors is unthinkable.
Luke is still in the shower when Ralph arrives. I hand Ralph a mug of coffee and move the Sunday paper from the couch so he can sit. The television is tuned to Cape Cod Sunday and Geraldine is the featured guest. She is outlining the tenets of her campaign, her vision for minimizing violent crime in Barnstable County.
“Ralph,” I begin, “about next Sunday.”
Ralph sips his coffee. “The museum?”
“Right. I was thinking. Maybe instead of taking Luke to the museum, you could take him to a Red Sox game at Fenway Park. I checked the schedule. The Sox are playing the Yankees at five o’clock next Sunday.”
Ralph scoffs at the idea. “Marty, you know I’m not a sports fan.”
I want to tell him this isn’t about him, but I don’t. “I know that, Ralph, but Luke is. He’s really much more of a ballpark kid than a museum kid.”
Ralph wears a dark look as he considers this.
“Blame it on my side of the family,” I tell him.
Luke clamors down the stairs and gives Ralph an awkward hello. Danny Boy is close behind, growling before he even sees Ralph.
Ralph frowns at Danny Boy, puts his coffee mug down, and looks up at Luke. “Luke, your mother tells me you’d rather go to the Red Sox game next Sunday. Is that right?”
Luke’s face brightens and he gives me a surprised look. I hadn’t mentioned the game to him. I didn’t know if I’d be able to sell the idea to Ralph.
It takes
a few moments for Luke to realize that Ralph is waiting for an answer. “Well, yeah, of course I would.”
“Okay, then that’s what we’ll do.”
Ralph stands and heads to the kitchen with his empty mug. As soon as he is out of sight, Luke gives me two thumbs up, a grateful smile, and a stage whisper. “Hey Mom, you’re okay.”
When Ralph returns, his eyes are drawn to the television screen, where the discussion has turned to the inevitable. The host questions Geraldine about the Chatham Memorial Day murders. Geraldine denies the existence of any evidence to suggest the two are related, after which the host, of course, shows footage from Thursday’s scene in Judge Carroll’s courtroom. Harry on his knees, giving the warning that most of the viewing public must have memorized by now.
“…maybe it’ll be sooner than that, Judge. These sorts of people need to kill more and more frequently, don’t they? Isn’t that what the experts say? Maybe we’ll see number three sometime soon.”
Ralph shoves both hands into his pants pockets and juts his bearded chin out toward Harry. “He’s right, you know.”
“Right about what?”
“About the killer striking sooner next time. He’s gotten away with it twice. He’s feeling empowered now.”
I have always marveled at the certainty with which Ralph predicts the behavior of others. His words make me shiver.
“You’re assuming these murders are the work of one killer.”
A small smile crosses Ralph’s lips, as if he just remembered my role in all of this. “That’s right,” he says. “I’m assuming these murders are the work of one killer.”
CHAPTER 26
Monday, June 7
The fact that I own a gun startles me every time I think of it. It was not something I wanted. Geraldine insisted. I’d spend the rest of my days handling misdemeanors, she told me, unless I learned how to pack a piece.
