by Rose Connors
“Look, Geraldine, I didn’t believe him. Not at first. But when Jim Buckley was so certain, I felt I had to bring the confession and the identification to Rob’s attention.”
“Why, Martha? To undermine the conviction on the Scott murder? To play into your harebrained theory about numbered corpses? Is that why?”
Rob walks around his desk and stops short on the other side of Geraldine, waving one hand in the air to silence her. This is a rare move on his part. “Geraldine, Marty is right. We have a positive I.D. from the survivor of an attempted homicide. And like it or not, we have a confession—real or fictitious—from the man who’s been identified as the shooter. We have an absolute duty to investigate further. You know that as well as I do. I suggest you set up a time to meet with Jim Buckley yourself. If he’s as sure as Marty says he is, then we’ve got to pursue this.”
Geraldine is surprised, to say the least, and with good reason. Rob hasn’t issued a directive to Geraldine since Commonwealth versus Lucas. That calamity ended almost nine years ago, but Geraldine won’t let the memory fade. Not a week goes by that she doesn’t find some reason to mention Collette Lucas’s name. And Rob still flinches every time she does.
I had been with the office little more than a year when thirty-two-year-old Collette Lucas stood trial for the first-degree murder of her fifty-year-old husband, Warren. Geraldine tried the case and I watched every minute I could. Because of the nature of the accusation, so did most of New England. Collette Lucas murdered her husband, Geral dine charged, by dropping a generous handful of amphetamines into his highball, his fourth of the evening. Collette Lucas’s motive was simple: greed.
Warren Lucas suffered from advanced heart disease and had undergone double-bypass surgery little more than a year before his death. His demise was originally attributed to natural causes. But when out-of-town relatives traveled to the Barnstable County District Attorney’s office crying foul play, Geraldine concluded they were on to something.
Collette Lucas, it turned out, stood to inherit all of her husband’s worldly possessions. His estate was modest; it included only their small Cape Cod cottage and about ten thousand dollars in liquid assets. But to Collette Lucas, Geraldine argued, the combination amounted to a veritable fortune.
Herb Wilkins, now retired but then a well-respected criminal defense lawyer, was appointed by the court to defend Collette Lucas. Harry Madigan, already ten years into his career at the Public Defender’s office, was assigned to protect the interests of Collette Lucas’s sixteen-year-old son, Dylan Jackson.
Dylan Jackson was the product of Collette’s teen pregnancy. When the teenaged father disappeared, Collette was forced to abort her education halfway through the tenth grade. Four years later, Collette Jackson and Warren Lucas set up housekeeping. They married the following summer.
Dylan Jackson was present in the home at the time of the alleged amphetamine poisoning. Geraldine believed he assisted his mother in moving his stepfather’s large body from the dinner table to the living room couch, thereby minimizing any connection between his death and the recently drained highball. Collette Lucas, Geraldine contended, was far too small to have moved her overweight husband alone. Though Dylan was not then accused of any crime, he was at least technically vulnerable to being charged as an accessory after the fact.
Geraldine succeeded in obtaining a court order directing that Warren Lucas’s body be exhumed in order to revisit the cause-of-death determination. The body had been embalmed, of course, but at trial Geraldine’s toxicologist testified that he was able to isolate a small amount of body fluid not contaminated by the embalming agents. That sample, he said, tested positive for amphetamines. The amphetamine level in the sample, he testified, indicated that Mr. Lucas had ingested an exceedingly high dose of the drugs just prior to his death.
The Commonwealth’s pathologist testified that Warren Lucas’s remaining natural coronary arteries were almost entirely blocked, but the two bypass arteries were clear and functioning. There was no anatomical explanation, he said, for the trauma the heart had suffered.
Next, the Commonwealth’s expert cardiologist elaborated on the properties of amphetamines. The drugs stimulate the central nervous system, he explained. A dose of the size ingested by Mr. Lucas would send the system into overdrive, forcing the heart to work harder and harder, eventually beyond its limits. Warren Lucas’s death, the doctor opined, was caused by a combination of acute amphetamine poisoning and heart disease. Neither factor alone would have killed him.
Repeatedly during the months leading up to trial Geraldine tried to interview Dylan Jackson. Harry refused. He would not allow Dylan to answer any questions, he told Geraldine. Not before the trial, and not during it. If Geraldine subpoenaed the boy to testify, Harry promised, he would instruct his client to take the Fifth. And that’s exactly what he did.
Geraldine called Dylan Jackson to the stand after all the expert testimony was in. Harry allowed him to state his name and address for the record, and that was it. In response to every question that followed, sixteen-year-old Dylan recited the litany Harry had taught him. “Relying upon the advice of counsel, I decline to answer the question posed, on the grounds that the content of my answer might incriminate me.”
It was at this point in the trial that Rob intervened. He had been watching from the sidelines, but joined Geraldine at the counsel table to suggest that she offer immunity to Dylan Jackson in exchange for his testimony. The boy’s answers were critical, Rob said, to make the factual case against his mother. Without his testimony, the jury might well conclude that Warren Lucas took the popular street drugs voluntarily. And Rob had no interest in pursuing the accessory charge anyway.
Geraldine resisted. She told Rob she could make the factual case through Tyrone Briggs, the teenager who said he sold the amphetamines to Collette Lucas. In exchange for leniency in several drug-related charges pending against him, Briggs was prepared to testify that Collette Lucas told him she intended to use the drugs to kill her husband. Briggs claimed Collette told him she knew the drugs would be deadly, given her husband’s already compromised heart. That would be enough, Geraldine said, to enable the jury to convict. She didn’t need Dylan Jackson’s testimony. Besides, there was something about the boy that made Geraldine uneasy.
Rob was uncomfortable with allowing the Commonwealth’s case to hinge on the jury’s evaluation of Tyrone Briggs. The defense lawyers would parade every detail of his plea agreement before the panel and, after that, Rob said, Tyrone’s credibility would be just about nil. But Geraldine persisted. She did not want to proceed with Dylan Jackson.
In the end, Rob prevailed. The trial judge called a one-hour recess, during which Rob, Geraldine, and Harry hammered out the terms of the immunity agreement in a courthouse conference room. The deal was hurriedly put in writing and approved by the court.
When Dylan Jackson returned to the witness stand, he was cloaked with immunity from prosecution for any misdeed associated in any way with his stepfather’s death. And his immunity was absolute; Harry wouldn’t settle for anything less.
Geraldine moved for permission to treat Dylan Jackson as a hostile witness and the court allowed it. That meant Geraldine could conduct her direct examination of Dylan as if it were a cross-examination. Geraldine asked questions that called for yes or no answers. The boy was obligated to respond accordingly.
But Dylan’s yes or no answers didn’t make any sense. Not one of them fit Geraldine’s theory of the case. Exasperated, Geraldine ultimately committed the cardinal sin of trial practice. She asked a hostile witness an open-ended question. “We know there were massive amounts of amphetamines in your stepfather’s system,” she blurted out. “Did it get there by magic?” She rued those words even before Dylan answered.
Dylan Jackson told the court, in a firm, calm voice, that it was he who dropped the handful of amphetamines in his stepfather’s high-ball. His mother, he said, was in no condition to do so.
Dylan explain
ed that his stepfather had been beating his mother for as long as he could remember. The abuse was almost never severe enough to force her to seek medical attention, but it often sent her to bed bloodied. And it always left her in tears.
Dylan went on to tell a silent—and stunned—courtroom that he had stood by helplessly for too many years. He had watched his mother bleed—and cry—too many times. Since his mother seemed unable to leave her abusive husband, Dylan decided his stepfather should leave—for good.
To this day, Geraldine maintains that Dylan Jackson fabricated his tale, and that Collette Lucas got away with murder. I watched that teenager testify, and I don’t agree with Geraldine. But Rob does. He hasn’t challenged Geraldine’s instincts since. Until now.
Geraldine takes it in stride, though, I’ll give her that. “All right,” she says. “All right. For Christ’s sake, I’ll talk to Jim Buckley.” She pauses for a long drag on her cigarette, shakes her head at me, and lets out a short laugh as she exhales. “Forget Walpole, Martha. We ought to send you up to Bridgewater. Find out why you’ve taken leave of your senses.”
I laugh too. It’s funny she should say that. If only she knew.
CHAPTER 31
Friday, June 11
The Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Bridgewater—commonly called Bridgewater State Hospital—houses the Common-wealth’s criminally insane men. It is the only maximum security forensic hospital in Massachusetts. It has three hundred beds. For the past ten days Eddie Malone has been in one of them.
Every patient admitted to Bridgewater State Hospital is either charged with a crime or convicted of one. The offenses include the worst of felonies. Like Eddie Malone, every patient here is initially the subject of a court-ordered psychiatric evaluation. The length of the observation period is governed by statute and can range from twenty to forty days, depending upon the purpose of the evaluation. At the end of the observation period, the patient may be recommitted for a longer term if the court finds that he needs further treatment or evaluation.
The patients are segregated according to the severity of their afflictions and the heinousness of their crimes. Eddie Malone is housed with the worst of them.
All units at Bridgewater State Hospital are locked, but on Eddie’s unit, each room is locked as well. There are twenty beds on this ward, and at least that many armed guards. The hospital administrator who led Harry and me here consults with one of them before taking her leave without so much as a backward glance at us. The guard takes over, leading us down a brightly lit hall toward a small conference room. Harry made advance arrangements for us to meet privately with Eddie Malone.
The area that would be known as the nurses’ station in an ordinary hospital is more like a command center here. Twenty closed-circuit monitors line the counter, each providing a view of the interior of one patient room. As we pass, I scan the screens looking for Eddie Malone. I feel a sudden need to know how horrific this has been for him.
Some of the patients are bound at the wrists and ankles and cuffed to their beds. Some are similarly bound but cuffed to their chairs. Two are in straitjackets. When I finally spot Eddie Malone, I see that he is not physically bound or restrained in any way. I feel an odd sense of relief.
All patients are restrained, though, when they are removed from the confines of their rooms. No exceptions. Eddie Malone is cuffed and shackled when the armed guard delivers him to the conference room. Eddie turns his back to Harry and shakes hands with him from behind, the only way he can in cuffs. He gives me a slight, gentlemanly bow before he sits down across the small Formica table from me.
In some ways, Eddie Malone looks better than I would have thought possible. He is clean shaven and his eyes are clear. He looks well rested and well fed. Three square meals a day and no booze have made a noticeable difference already.
But his spirit is sapped. I see that at once. When I look across the table at Eddie Malone, I see no sign of the sassy little man who proclaimed his innocence so doggedly in Judge Gould’s courtroom. Instead, this new, watered-down version of Eddie Malone sits quietly, meekly even, waiting for whatever is going to happen to him next.
Harry claps him on the back. “You okay, Eddie?”
“Sure, Mr. Madigan. I’m just fine.”
“Okay. Then let’s do exactly what we talked about yesterday, Eddie. I’m going to ask you to tell Attorney Nickerson everything you can remember about Memorial Day. All right?”
“You goin’ to help me?”
“Sure I will. I’ll ask you the questions. You tell Attorney Nicker-son the answers. If you don’t remember, just say so.”
“All right, then.” Eddie looks over at me and tries to smile, but he looks like a schoolboy about to take final exams.
“Where did you spend the night before Memorial Day, Eddie?”
“At the Nor’easter.”
The Nor’easter is a watering hole frequented year-round by the rough and tumble among Chatham locals. It’s just down the road from Harding’s Beach.
“What time did you leave?”
“Closing time, I reckon.”
“And where did you go, Eddie, when you left the Nor’easter?”
“I went to Harding’s Beach.”
“Do you remember going to Harding’s Beach?”
“Nope.”
“Then how do you know you went there?”
“’Cause I woke up there the next day, that’s how.”
“And how did you wake up the next day, Eddie?”
Eddie looks at me and swallows hard. “Well, I heard screamin’. I jumped up when I heard it. There was a lady and a man there. When they saw me, they started screamin’ louder. Hollerin’ all over the place, they were. So I figured I better get out of there.”
“Where did you go, Eddie?”
“I went to Shirley’s. Figured I’d get some breakfast and some coffee.”
Shirley’s Diner is just across the road from the Nor’easter. It opens at four o’clock each morning, catering to the commercial fishing fleet.
“And what did you do next, Eddie?”
“Well, while I was eatin’, Ricky Sparrow come in askin’ does anybody want to go codfishin’. Just a day trip. The guy that usually fishes with him dint show up.”
“And you volunteered?”
“Yeah, and nobody else did. He wouldn’ta taken me if he coulda taken somebody else. Ricky don’t like me much.”
“So you spent the day offshore, fishing with Ricky Sparrow?”
“Yeah. Made some decent money, too.”
“And what time did you get back to Chatham?”
“I don’t know. After dark.”
I am losing interest. Eddie has already told me he was at the crime scene and doesn’t remember how he got there. What he did later in the day really doesn’t matter. But Harry pushes on.
“Where did you go next, Eddie?”
“I went back to the Nor’easter.”
“Did you sit at the bar?”
“Yup. I always sit at the bar.”
“Eddie, who was the bartender?”
I feel a sudden rush of adrenaline. These questions are irrelevant. Harry doesn’t ask irrelevant questions—ever. I am missing something. Harry sees something here that I don’t. I sit up in my chair and inject myself into this question-and-answer session. “The bartender? What difference does that make?”
Harry stays focused on Eddie. “It matters, Eddie. Try to remember.”
“Oh, I remember. It was Laurie Griffin. But don’t you go draggin’ her into this, Mr. Madigan. She’s the nicest lady on Cape Cod.”
Harry laughs. “She is a nice lady, Eddie. And I’ve been real nice to her. I swear.”
I wonder when Harry had occasion to be nice to Laurie Griffin. He continues. “Did you use the rest room while you were at the Nor’easter, Eddie?”
Eddie chuckles. Even he realizes how far afield the questioning has gone.
“I reckon I did, Mr. Madigan. I was there a long
time—drinkin’ beer and all—I reckon I did.”
Harry nods. “What time did you leave the Nor’easter, Eddie?”
“Closing time, I reckon.”
“And where did you go?”
Eddie chuckles again and shakes his head, as if even he can’t believe the answer he is about to give. “I went back to Harding’s Beach. I must be stupid or somethin’.”
“Do you remember going there, Eddie?”
“I do, Mr. Madigan. I remember hopin’ those screamin’ people would be gone when I got there.”
“And were they gone, Eddie?”
“Oh, they was gone, all right.”
“So what did you do?”
“I went to sleep. I got a spot there—right between two sand dunes—it’s protected from the wind. It gets cold at night with that wind, even in the summertime.”
“Then what?”
“Well, next thing I know, my hands is cuffed behind my back, and some kid in a uniform—looks like he ain’t old enough to shave yet— he’s readin’ me my rights. The whole parkin’ lot’s full of cruisers with their lights flashin’. They even had a couple of state cars there. You’da thought I was Bonnie and Clyde both, if you’d seen it.”
Eddie Malone looks at me with his clear, defeated eyes. “You know the rest, ma’am.”
One look at Harry tells me I don’t know the rest. Not even close.
CHAPTER 32
Harry pulls into the first truck stop we see after leaving Bridgewater State Hospital. “Lunch,” he announces, and winks at me as he grabs his briefcase from the backseat.
Food doesn’t interest me at the moment, but Harry’s explanation for his questioning does. I follow him across the large parking lot. It’s so hot here that the blacktop is melting, and it sticks to the bottoms of my shoes. I see it clinging to the bottoms of Harry’s shoes too, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Geraldine will undoubtedly bring it to his attention next time she sees him.
