Temporary Sanity

by Rose Connors

  Harry laughs. “That’s a shock,” he says. “So what’s he got?”

  “Half. He borrowed it from his parents. That’s all they had.”

  “His parents?” I steal another glance at Nicky. “He has parents? How old are they?”

  The Kydd rests his chin on his hands. “Old.”

  Harry lets out a soft whistle. “Stealing from the elderly to give to the children-all the while patronizing Zeke’s.” He leans forward on his elbows and shakes his head. “I don’t see a happy ending here, Kydd. Judge Leon Long isn’t going to like this version of Robin Hood.”

  The Kydd waves him off with both hands, then points his pen at the empty bench. “Speaking of Judge Leon Long, where the hell is he?”

  Harry grins. “Think, Kydd. And take a look at your calendar.”

  The Kydd pulls a monthly planner from his briefcase, opens to December, then laughs out loud. “Damn,” he says, “I wanted to watch.”

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Geraldine will memorize the details, and she’ll share them-a hundred times-with anyone who will listen. It’ll be May before she stops raving about Judge Leon Long’s annual obstruction of justice, his blatant disregard for the county’s coffers.”

  As if on cue, Geraldine blasts through the back doors and strides down the center aisle, sending men and women alike fleeing from her path. She opens the gate to the inner sanctum and slams it shut behind her. The room falls silent.

  Stanley jumps to his feet, but Geraldine doesn’t acknowledge him. Instead, she stops at the defense table and points out the window, toward the District Courthouse. “I need a judge.”

  Harry leans back in his chair, smiling at her. “Get in line.”

  “I’m not kidding,” she says. “If he’s going to play this little game every year, he needs to show the hell up.”

  “He’s already over there,” I tell her. “He’s not here. He’s probably waiting for you.”

  “He’s not over there,” she snaps. “I just left. It’s standing room only in that courtroom and there’s no goddamn judge. He told the magistrate to stay home, and now he hasn’t shown up.”

  Harry straightens in his chair, his smile erased. My stomach tightens and I get to my feet, though I’m not sure why.

  Geraldine heads toward chambers, Stanley on her heels like a nervous poodle. She pounds on the door. No answer. She looks toward Joey Kelsey and arches her eyebrows. Joey checks his cheat sheet-even he doesn’t know what he expects to find there, I’m sure-then shrugs.

  Geraldine opens the door and disappears, but Stanley doesn’t follow. He freezes in the doorway and screams.

  I’m in chambers before I realize I’ve moved. The judge’s desk chair is swiveled toward the door. Judge Leon Long is sprawled on the floor in front of it. Facedown on the plush carpeting. A knife in his back.

  Chapter 26

  Geraldine slams the phone into its cradle. Simultaneously, it seems, screaming sirens fill the air. The fire station is adjacent to the Barnstable County Complex, just on the other side of the parking lot. Help should be here in minutes.

  Harry and the Kydd stand side by side in the doorway to Judge Leon Long’s chambers, forming a human blockade against the press corps. Even so, bright lights from television cameras and erupting flashbulbs flood the room. Photographers strain against one another for a shot of Judge Long’s prostrate form, more than a few of them standing on chairs. From behind them, faceless reporters shout questions to Geraldine and me.

  “Is the judge dead?”

  He’s not, but we don’t say so. I am unable to speak. Geraldine, I think, simply chooses not to.

  “Is he breathing?”

  He is. I’m on my knees beside him, holding his hand in both of mine, forcing myself to find words, to urge him to hang on. His pulse is weak but detectable, even to an amateur like me. “You’re going to be okay,” I whisper. I don’t recognize my own voice. “Help is coming. You’re going to be fine.”

  I hope I sound more certain than I am.

  Court officers shout directions above the chaos in the courtroom, and Harry and the Kydd abandon their post. Seconds later, four emergency medical technicians appear, three men and a woman. They crowd into the small chambers, two of them steering a stainless steel gurney, the others carting sacks of equipment into the room, unpacking as they move.

  Geraldine and I back up against the wall and inch along it toward the doorway, careful to avoid the working technicians and their gear. We emerge into the courtroom to find Harry, the Kydd, and Stanley lined up in front of the judge’s bench in stunned silence. Joey Kelsey is backed against the jury box, eyes glazed. All four of them look paralyzed.

  A barrage of Barnstable police officers has already arrived and they’ve pushed the throng of noisy onlookers-press corps included-behind the bar and into the gallery. The crowd is worked up, almost panicked, and the photographers continue shooting, random pictures of utter chaos, it seems. The reporters are still pelting Geraldine and me with questions. We’re still mute.

  Two court officers lead Buck Hammond toward the side door, his cuffs and shackles back in place. Buck’s expression tells me that someone, probably one of his escorts, has filled him in. His gaze meets mine as he approaches the doorway. His eyes ask his questions before the door closes behind him. Why Judge Long? And why now?

  The police clear a path down the center aisle just in time. The EMTs hustle through, one at each end of the gurney, the others on either side of it, holding IV bags above their shoulders. One of the bag holders, the woman, relays information into a two-way radio as she runs down the center aisle beside Judge Long’s motionless body. They disappear into the hallway and the courtroom’s back doors slam shut behind them.

  Abruptly, the room is silent, its occupants still.

  Stanley is the first to emerge from paralysis. He walks slowly from the judge’s bench toward the gallery, stepping on the plush carpeting carefully, as if precariously balanced on a high wire. His lower jaw hangs slack and his breathing is quick, shallow. His mud brown eyes bulge from their tiny sockets. He raises one hand and points a stubby index finger at Nicky Patterson.

  “You,” Stanley whispers.

  Nicky is still in his original front-row seat. His eyes grow wide as Stanley approaches, and he clutches his envelope, as if he thinks Stanley might take it from him.

  “It was you.” Stanley’s voice is louder now. He continues to point at Nicky, but his eyes dart around the room.

  A Barnstable police officer materializes at Stanley’s side. Sergeant D. B. Briggs, his badge says. Geraldine joins the pair, her pale green eyes fixed first on Stanley, then on Nicky Patterson.

  Nicky turns and looks at the faces in the second row, as if he’s certain Stanley is speaking to someone else.

  “Officer,” Stanley calls out to the cops in general, “arrest this man.”

  Nicky stands but he can’t go anywhere. A half dozen uniforms surround him, all looking at Sergeant Briggs for direction.

  The Kydd snaps out of his trance next. He rushes toward the gallery, glaring at Stanley. “Arrest him? For what?”

  “For murder.”

  Stanley’s arm is still outstretched. And his index finger is closer to Nicky than it should be. If Nicky’s a murderer, that is. Stanley doesn’t seem to realize.

  “For the murder of a Superior Court judge who was about to put him behind bars.”

  “Judge Long isn’t dead,” I say, still frozen to my spot outside the chambers doorway. No one pays attention.

  Men and women in the first few rows-newly informed of a murderer in their midst-scramble from the benches into the aisle and head for the back of the room. No one leaves, though. Instead, they huddle in small groups against the back wall to watch. They’re not sure what’s going to happen next, but they are sure they don’t want to miss it.

  The Kydd grabs Stanley by one elbow and spins him around. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “He was the only
one here.” Stanley’s answer isn’t directed toward the Kydd. He’s speaking to Geraldine and Sergeant Briggs, no one else.

  The Kydd doesn’t take kindly to being ignored. He inserts himself in the center of the law enforcement trio. “What do you mean?” He gestures to the crowd. “There are a hundred people in this room.”

  Stanley shakes his big head, his forehead vein working overtime again. “Early this morning,” he says, still addressing Geraldine and Sergeant Briggs, “I found him sitting on this bench in the darkness when I arrived. Alone. He was alone with the judge-the same judge who told him to bring his toothbrush, I might add-and now the judge has been murdered.”

  I’m surprised to hear Stanley mention the toothbrush. He was paying more attention yesterday than I thought. “Judge Long isn’t dead,” I repeat. Still, no one seems to hear.

  Stanley wheels back toward Nicky, pointing again. “You don’t have it, do you? You don’t have the twenty-two thousand dollars. Judge Long was going to put you away and you knew it.”

  Nicky shakes his head and parts his lips, but no sound comes out.

  The Kydd raises both hands to cut him off. “Shut up,” the Kydd orders. “Don’t say a word.”

  Nicky’s face says there’s no danger of that.

  The Kydd towers over Stanley. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, looking down at Stanley’s comb-over. “Even you can’t believe that.” The Kydd’s drawl is more pronounced than usual. “If he’d murdered the judge, he’d have gotten the hell out of here. He wouldn’t have sat on the front bench waiting for the rest of us to find the body.”

  I consider announcing again that Judge Long isn’t dead, but it seems futile.

  Stanley doesn’t look at the Kydd. He faces the uniforms surrounding Nicky, his eyes darting from one cop to the next. “What are you waiting for? Didn’t you hear me?”

  Stanley points at Nicky yet again, as if he thinks the officers don’t know who he’s talking about. “I just told you people that this man attacked a Superior Court judge. Arrest him. Now.”

  Nicky gapes at the cops. The cops stare at Sergeant Briggs. The sergeant turns a questioning eye toward Geraldine. No one’s taking orders from Stanley.

  “You people,” Stanley says to no one in particular, folding his thick arms across his chest.

  Geraldine remains silent for a moment, staring at Nicky. She presses two fingers against her lips, no doubt wishing there were a cigarette between them. Finally, she takes a deep breath and returns Sergeant Briggs’s stare. “Take him in,” she says.

  “You can’t be serious.” The Kydd faces Geraldine, his eyes wide. This is his first battle with our former boss, but he and I have both seen Geraldine at war. It’d be easier to take on the armed forces of a medium-sized country.

  Geraldine stares up at him and almost smiles before she narrows her green eyes. “Your client had motive, Mr. Kydd.”

  The Kydd’s eyes open even wider. Geraldine never called him “mister” when he worked for her.

  “He had opportunity. And his opportunity was exclusive.” Geraldine turns to Nicky, who’s now cuffed, then looks back at the Kydd. “I’m quite serious, Mr. Kydd. Quite.”

  Chapter 27

  Judge Beatrice Nolan was appointed to the Superior Court bench fifteen years ago. She brought along a fiery temper. And it’s not just lawyers and litigants who bear the brunt of her outbursts. She abuses her courtroom staff as well.

  Beatrice Nolan is a narrow woman-truly. Her shoulder-length, dark gray hair is the texture of steel wool. Severe features-pinched eyes and anemic lips-punctuate her long face. Her complexion, though, is uncommonly smooth for a woman her age. Not a laugh line in sight.

  The chief judge called upon Beatrice this morning to preside over the remainder of Commonwealth versus Hammond. He postponed a civil suit that was scheduled to begin in her courtroom today. I’m certain she didn’t appreciate his meddling with her schedule. There’s one thing every lawyer in the county knows about Beatrice Nolan. She doesn’t like criminal cases. They’re messy.

  The chief judge gave Beatrice our trial briefs and the list of exhibits already admitted into evidence. He asked her to spend the balance of the morning reviewing them. Then he directed the court reporter to begin printing the transcript of the testimony received so far. And he told the rest of us to stay put. I didn’t, though.

  Harry stayed behind to oversee the transition while I ran through the parking lot in the snow to the House of Correction. I wanted to check on Sonia Baker, find out how her meeting went with Prudence Nelson. One look at Sonia answered the question. It didn’t go well.

  “What a bitch!” Sonia shouted into the telephone.

  “She can help you,” I countered.

  “I don’t care.” Sonia was as worked up as I’d ever seen her. “I don’t want her help. I don’t want to answer any more of her nosy questions. I don’t want to listen to any more of her arrogant lectures. I don’t want to see her again-not ever. She’s a condescending bitch.”

  I stayed with Sonia for almost an hour, trying to calm her, trying to convince her to meet with the doctor again, to give it another shot. She refused. I wasn’t entirely surprised. Prudence Nelson isn’t known for her bedside manner.

  I returned to the Superior Courthouse, searching my brain for an alternate expert on battered woman’s syndrome, but I came up empty. Then I began searching my brain for a way to convince Sonia to change her mind. Prudence isn’t the only Massachusetts psychiatrist well versed in battered woman’s syndrome, and I don’t particularly like her myself. But as expert witnesses go, she’s the best.

  When I got back to the courthouse, Harry assured me I hadn’t missed a thing. He’d spent the time pacing the hallway, he said, phoning Cape Cod Hospital more often than he should have. The exasperated unit secretary gave him the same message each time: The judge is in surgery and won’t be out anytime soon; no word yet on his condition.

  When he wasn’t busy bothering hospital personnel, Harry was lamenting the appointment of Judge Leon Long’s replacement. Judge Beatrice Nolan is bad news. She’s especially bad news for Harry.

  After lunch the chief judge moved our entourage, TV cameras and all, into Judge Nolan’s cramped courtroom. It’s a former storage area, windowless and dank, at the back of the first floor. The only real courtroom in the building-the main one upstairs-is off-limits because it’s a crime scene.

  Stanley, of course, rolled his TV table into our new venue at once. He positioned his star witness against the judge’s bench, facing the jury box, front and center in the dingy room. Stanley can barely wait to show his videotape again. He actually patted the box when he was done-stroked it-as if it were a pet.

  Judge Nolan emerges from chambers in a huff, and her bird eyes dart around the room before settling on our table. They confirm what Harry and I already know. She’s not happy about her new assignment. And she knows we’re not, either.

  Harry and Beatrice have a history.

  When young Harry Madigan arrived in Barnstable County fresh out of law school, Beatrice Nolan took notice. That was twenty years ago. Beatrice was already ten years into her private practice. She offered to take the young Harry under her wing. Give him guidance. Show him the ropes.

  The problem-one of them, anyway-was that Harry had been hired by the Barnstable County Public Defender’s office. From day one, he was a criminal defense lawyer. Beatrice Nolan’s practice was limited to trusts and estates. The only ropes she could show him, the civil side of the law, had nothing to do with Harry’s job.

  Besides, Harry says, she scared the daylights out of him. Even then, when her hair was brown.

  Turns out the ropes Beatrice wanted to show Harry had nothing to do with the practice of law, civil or criminal. She began cornering him at County Bar Association meetings. She started monopolizing him at the local watering hole, the Jailhouse. She stood too close, Harry says, touched him too often. She draped her arm across the back of his chair, set her hand on his kne
e on one occasion.

  Twenty-six-year-old Harry Madigan was mature about it, of course. He hid.

  Harry quit going to County Bar Association meetings, even though he’d barely begun. At the Jailhouse, he switched chairs as soon as Beatrice sat down. He stood if he couldn’t see both of her hands. One night, he says, he jumped up so fast he knocked the table over, and a half dozen people lost appetizers and drinks.

  But Beatrice Nolan was not deterred. She left messages with his secretary, proposing coffee, lunch. She began parking her car next to his in the courthouse lot. She plastered notes on his windshield, suggesting after-work cocktails, a movie, perhaps. Her phone number, Harry says, turned up in the damnedest places.

  He admits he panicked. And not only because Beatrice scared him. He was having difficulty meeting anyone else. Younger women fled, he says, when Beatrice made a beeline for him. She scared the daylights out of them, too.

  Harry also admits-most of the time-that he didn’t handle it very well in the end.

  He went to the Jailhouse one night after a long day in trial, looking for nothing more than a cold beer and a burger. He scanned the place for Beatrice, as he always did then, before he went in. He didn’t see her. So he settled on a stool at the bar.

  Another newly graduated attorney, a young woman Harry had noticed around the courthouse more than once, sat a few stools away. She smiled at him when he arrived, then looked down at her glass of wine. He was planning his opening line-and it would have been brilliant, he swears-when Beatrice approached from behind. He didn’t hear her coming.

  Beatrice latched on to his shoulders and massaged, Harry says, until he squirmed off the stool and out from under her grasp. The young attorney who had smiled at him left her stool too, then, and disappeared into the crowd.

  That’s when he lost it.

  Harry claims not to remember his exact words, but he’s pretty sure they were graphic. In essence, he says, he told Beatrice Nolan to keep her hands to herself. Then he told her to get lost-for good. And he wasn’t quiet about it. The bar crowd hushed. Beatrice froze. He blasted her.