by Rose Connors
“Ms. Nickerson, whose courtroom is this?” Beatrice is using her special diction for the dull-witted child.
Judge Nolan seems to enjoy spitting out sarcastic questions. I hope she likes listening to honest answers. This is a fact I don’t mind pointing out to the jury. A reminder. An important one.
“This courtroom, Judge, belongs to the citizens of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
Beatrice sprouts a few Rorschach blotches of her own.
“Who is in charge in this courtroom, Ms. Nickerson?”
“Oh.” I smile up at her. “That would be you.”
Chapter 39
Judge Nolan was so pleased with having put me in my place, she called a fifteen-minute recess. To savor the victory, Harry told me. She’s back now, though, erect in her seat. She doesn’t say a word until the jurors settle in their chairs.
“Let me remind you again, Ms. Nickerson. I give instructions in this courtroom. You do not.”
We all know her reminder was for the jury’s benefit.
She swivels her chair completely around to face the jury box. Apparently my read-back suggestion is rejected. And I’m dismissed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you will disregard the witness’s last answer.”
The jurors stare at the judge, their expressions still unreadable. The retired schoolteacher, though, sets her jaw and shakes her head at me. Damn. She thinks I’ve misbehaved.
Judge Nolan turns toward the daredevil stenographer and points at his narrow white paper. “The court reporter will strike the response from the record.”
String Tie leans over his machine again and makes a check mark next to the offending testimony, then keeps his eyes lowered and sighs. A working life spent with Beatrice Nolan would try any man’s soul.
Finally, the judge’s eyes rest on Patty. “Henceforth, the witness will confine her answers to respond to the questions posed. No extraneous comments.”
Patty stares up at the judge, blinking, a puzzled look on her face. It’s an expression I’ve seen her wear before. It’s a bewilderment, I think, particular to those who grieve, an inability to comprehend a person worked up over something trivial.
Judge Nolan takes a deep breath, her eyes still locked with Patty’s. “Do you understand me, Mrs. Hammond?”
The judge’s tone is harsh; she’s misread Patty’s expression. Beatrice thinks it’s her words that aren’t getting through.
Patty shakes her head, still staring up at the judge. “I guess not,” she says.
Judge Beatrice Nolan doesn’t like that answer. She clamps her lips together and leans toward the witness box, eyes protruding, nostrils flaring.
Patty actually recoils.
Beatrice opens her mouth to speak-or perhaps to breathe fire-but Stanley intervenes. “Your Honor,” he says, “I have no further questions for this witness.”
I’m sure he doesn’t. Badgering Patty Hammond in front of the panel would be a big mistake. Stanley doesn’t want it happening on his watch, even if it’s the judge doing the badgering.
Beatrice straightens in her chair and looks at me, her eyebrows knitted into one.
I return her stare. “No further questions from us, Judge. Patty Hammond said it all.”
Beatrice fires a threatening look in my direction before announcing yet another morning recess. I’ll pay for that editorial comment, it says. I wonder if Beatrice is having stomach problems. She never calls breaks so close together. She’s off the bench even before the bailiff tells us to rise.
Harry’s on the move as soon as Beatrice leaves the room. He saunters the length of our table, tapping his pen against his temple, as if coaxing a thought from his brain. He stops when he reaches my chair and points his pen at the bench.
I roll my eyes at him. I have a pretty good idea what’s coming.
“I could be wrong again,” he says, shaking his head, “but I think you’re headed for the cell block.”
Chapter 40
It doesn’t appear that the back-to-back breaks did anything good for Beatrice Nolan’s disposition. She ascends to the bench wearing a sour expression, eyes narrowed, lips in a thin straight line. She swivels her chair toward the empty jury box and studies the wall behind it as the jurors file in and take their seats. Old Beatrice should have dropped a lump or two of sugar in her midmorning coffee.
At least she’s not staring at us. Buck is sitting up straight, composed, hands folded and steady on the defense table. He’s ready to testify. He doesn’t need any last-minute eye contact with our ill-tempered judge.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…” Beatrice leans back in her chair, one hand on an armrest, the other fingering her gavel, just in case. “It’s now time for the attorneys to deliver their closing arguments.”
Harry and I jump up as if choreographed. For a split second we’re both speechless.
Harry recovers first. “Whoa,” he says.
It’s not much of a recovery. Whoa isn’t a word normally bandied about in the courtroom.
Beatrice bolts forward, her eyes no longer narrowed. “Whoa?” She lifts her gavel from the bench and holds it midair, like a tomahawk she might hurl at any moment. “Did you say whoa, Mr. Madigan?”
Harry winces. “I’m afraid I did, Judge. But that’s not what I meant.”
Beatrice lowers the gavel slightly, cupping its head in her hand. “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Madigan.” She stares down at the small hammer, examining its veneer, then glares up at Harry. “Enlighten us, Counsel. What did you mean?”
“What I meant to say was: Excuse me, Your Honor, but the defense didn’t rest.”
“Didn’t rest?”
“We’re not finished.”
“Not finished?” Beatrice looks at me as if I’m Harry’s mother and I ought to control him better.
Harry takes a step toward the bench. “We have one more witness, Judge. Mr. Hammond. He’s our last witness.”
“Mr. Hammond?” Beatrice looks like she’s just been told a potted plant will testify.
“The defendant.” Harry points at Buck and Buck raises his hand, as if the judge might not know who he is.
Beatrice grimaces. “Counsel, approach.”
Stanley and Harry get to the bench before I do, but Judge Nolan doesn’t feel compelled to wait. It doesn’t matter. She’s loud enough to be heard in the far corners of the small courtroom. It’s becoming pretty clear that Beatrice calls these sidebars to keep her comments off the record, not to conduct any sort of private discussion.
“What’s going on here, Counsel?”
The question, of course, is directed at Harry.
“What’s going on here?” Harry leans one hand on the bench, runs the other through his thick, tangled hair. He looks mystified.
“The defendant is ready to take the stand. That’s what’s going on here.”
Beatrice’s nostrils flare again. “What does he plan to say?” She’s bellowing now, not even pretending this is a real sidebar.
“You can’t ask me that.” Harry’s steaming.
“I most certainly can. I’m the judge.”
“I don’t give a damn who you are.”
Uh-oh.
“I’m the defense lawyer.” Harry is booming now. He points a thumb over his shoulder at Buck. “And he’s the defendant. That means he has a right to testify on his own behalf without giving a sneak preview to the prosecutor.”
Harry’s thumb moves from Buck to Stanley and Stanley backs away, as if he thinks it might be loaded.
Beatrice leans forward, suggesting she plans to whisper, but she doesn’t. She’s as loud as ever. “He has no right to commit perjury.”
“Perjury?” The word escapes Harry and me simultaneously.
“And you people have no right to suborn it.”
“You people?” Again, we’re in unison.
“Did you explain the penalties for perjury to your client, Counsel?” Beatrice’s eyes shift from Harry to me. She wants to be sure I realize I�
��m included in her accusation.
Harry’s about to explode, his ruddy complexion as dark red as it gets. I put my hand up to stop him, then turn to face the judge. I wait until her eyes lock with mine.
“Why would we do that, Judge?” I keep my voice markedly lower than hers and Harry’s, barely loud enough for the jurors to hear.
Beatrice stands, leans completely over her bench, and pats the top of Stanley’s television set. She holds my stare, her eyes fierce. “I’ve seen this videotape, Counsel. Pictures don’t lie. If your client plans to contradict the content of this film on the witness stand”-she points to the chair as if I’m unfamiliar with the layout of the courtroom-“then he plans to commit perjury. And I won’t allow it.”
She folds her arms, but doesn’t wait for a response.
“And if he doesn’t plan to contradict the content of the videotape, then his taking the witness stand is foolhardy. Have you so advised him?”
One might expect a pause here. But no.
“If you haven’t advised against his taking the stand, you’re incompetent. I’ll remove you from this case.”
“Remove…?”
“If you have, and he’s not listening, you’re ineffective. I’ll remove you from this case.”
Beatrice has thought this through.
A hundred people are crammed into this room and not one of them moves. The only sound to be heard is Beatrice’s labored breathing. She’s still standing, her torso concave, folded arms pressed against her chest as if she’s cold. Her eyes invite me-dare me-to fight.
On an ordinary day, Beatrice Nolan could outbitch me with little effort. But not today. Beatrice doesn’t realize she’s taken on a woman who got almost no sleep last night. Today I’m every inch the bitch that she is.
I turn away from her and walk toward old String Tie. His eyes meet mine for just a second-leave me out of this, they say-before he stares down at his machine.
“The defense calls Mr. William ‘Buck’ Hammond to the stand.”
No one moves, not even String Tie. I stand still in front of his machine and point my pen at him. “You were supposed to type that.”
He looks from me to the judge-uncertain-then drops his eyes again and starts tapping the keys. She may be the judge, but I’m close enough to hurt him.
“Ms. Nickerson, did you not hear my questions?”
My back is to Beatrice, but I’m certain she’s still on her feet, sprouting icicles. “I did, Judge. I heard your questions and I heard your threats.”
Beatrice takes an audible breath as I turn to face her. She sets her jaw, bracing to deal with the dull-witted child yet again. “There were no threats, Ms. Nickerson, but I’d like to hear answers to my questions, if that’s not too much trouble.”
I take my time walking back to the bench. “You just did.”
She drops into her chair and leans forward, poised to lecture. “Counsel…”
“The defense calls William ‘Buck’ Hammond to the stand.” I signal Buck to his feet and point toward the witness box before fixing my gaze on Beatrice. “That’s our answer, Judge. That’s our answer to all your questions.”
Buck is halfway across the courtroom before Beatrice bellows again. “Just a minute, Mr. Hammond.”
He pauses, looks at me; I tell him with my eyes to continue.
Beatrice bangs her gavel, her Rorschach blotches back in bloom, but Buck pays no attention. He finishes his trip and settles quietly in the box.
“Counsel, what are you doing?”
“I’m calling my client to the witness stand, Judge.”
She glares at me.
I move away and walk toward the jury. “You want to stop Mr. Hammond from taking the stand in his own defense, go ahead and do it.” I lean against the jury box, my back to the panel, and fold my arms. “But I won’t let you do it in a fictional sidebar.”
I pause to check on String Tie, who’s dutifully tapping away, then point at Buck in the witness box, my eyes still focused on Beatrice. “You want to shut this man down, Judge, you’re damn well going to do it on the record.”
Beatrice’s mouth opens, but no sound emerges. If I weren’t so mad I’d enjoy this. I move toward the bench and lower my voice again, still confident that the jurors-and String Tie-can hear. “And you’ll be reversed before you call your next case.”
Beatrice straightens in her chair and purses her lips. “It was never my intention to shut Mr. Hammond down, Counsel.”
This is news. I turn and raise my eyebrows at the jurors, but they don’t react. When I look back at the judge, she’s waiting for me. Her bird eyes fix on mine and her lips arc downward at the corners. They barely move when she speaks.
“The courtroom clerk will swear the witness.”
Beatrice’s eyes don’t move. They speak volumes. She’ll give me this battle, they say, but the war is a hell of a long way from over.
Chapter 41
Everything about Buck Hammond says he has nothing left to lose. He’s allowed to wear his own clothes during trial, but they don’t fit anymore. His gray suit jacket hangs loosely, its cuffs too wide for his wrists. His black pants are baggy, as if he borrowed them from a much heavier man. He’s not permitted a belt; no shoelaces or tie, either. He wears an old pair of scuffed loafers and a white, starched shirt, unbuttoned at the neck.
All male prisoners on trial are given the opportunity to shave each morning, but Buck hasn’t bothered for the last couple of days. A dark shadow of stubble covers his cheeks, chin, and neck. His black hair is neatly parted and combed, but it’s ragged at the edges, in need of a trim. His face is that of a man who has only a distant memory of a good night’s sleep. Dark circles underline his eyes.
Buck could be a physically imposing presence-he’s taller than Harry by a couple of inches and almost as broad-but his approach to other people is cautious, timid even. His shoulders, a match for any linebacker’s, sag as if taxed by a burden the rest of us can’t see. His light gray eyes, wide and moist, reveal little and ask less. It’s not that he has no questions. It’s that the questions-the few that still matter to Buck Hammond-have no answers.
He will ask to go home, though; of that I’m certain. Buck will ask these jurors, in his own muted way, to send him back to his South Chatham cottage, to spare him the void of a lifetime at Walpole. He’ll make that request for Patty’s sake, not his own, but he’ll make it just the same. And it’s my job to give him the opportunity.
The task is simple, really. We’ll start with questions that allow Buck to describe his life before June 19. The jurors will hear about a solid family man who went to work every day and ate dinner with his wife and son every night. They’ll hear about a man born and raised on Cape Cod who, until six months ago, never had a single encounter with the law. And then they’ll hear how all of that changed.
Stanley, of course, is a problem. His forehead vein has been throbbing all morning. He’s perched on the edge of his chair, prepared to pounce, and we’re just getting started. He might object, it seems, before I ask my first question.
Judge Beatrice Nolan, of course, will be all too eager to sustain Stanley’s objections. She’s another problem.
“Mr. Hammond, please state your full name for the record.”
“William Francis Hammond. People call me Buck.”
Stanley’s chair creaks and he clears his throat. When I turn to look at him, he mouths the word hearsay.
He can’t be serious.
Stanley flutters his fingers in the air and leans back in his chair, a small, tolerant smile spreading across his face as his gaze moves up to the judge, then over to the jurors. He’ll let it slide, he’s telling all of us. Just this once. He’s a reasonable guy.
This could take a while.
When I turn away from Stanley and face the witness box again, Buck looks up from his lap, his expression calm. He’s waiting patiently for my next question, oblivious to Stanley, unconcerned with his prosecutor’s posturing.
I
t hits me so hard-the obvious truth-that I have to lean on the witness box for a moment. Buck is right. Stanley is irrelevant. His tiresome objections don’t matter. His petty antics don’t matter. And my preliminary questions don’t matter either.
These jurors know who Buck Hammond is. They know where he lives; they’ve met his wife. They can pretty well guess his age and they don’t give a damn how he makes his living. They know what he did to Hector Monteros. The only thing that matters now is why.
I head back to our table and take two photographs from my briefcase. Eight-by-ten laminated glossies of Billy. One before. One after.
Buck hasn’t seen either one of these photos. He took the “before” shot, but was jailed before it was developed. He has no idea Patty gave it to me, no idea she kept it from him at my direction.
The “after” shot is one of a dozen taken during Billy Hammond’s autopsy. Standard procedure.
Ordinarily, it’s not a good idea to surprise your own witness on the stand. But this was no ordinary murder; it’s no ordinary trial. The rules-most of them, anyway-don’t apply here. We’re in uncharted waters.
Harry sets up an easel where both Buck and the jurors can see it. I tuck the autopsy shot under my arm, careful that only its white backing is visible against my jacket. I set the other photo on the easel and pause so they can take it in: Billy on the beach, beaming, a glorious sunset behind him, streaks of violet against a pale pink sky. He holds a surf-casting rod in one hand, a three-foot-long, shimmering fish in the other.
“Can you identify this photograph?”
Stanley leaves his chair and marches toward the jury box, ostensibly to see Billy Hammond’s picture, in reality to distract the panel. He’s seen all of the photos before. He has his own copies.
Buck stares at the glossy and blinks repeatedly as his eyes fill. He says nothing. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he hadn’t heard the question.
“Yes,” he says finally. “That’s my son. Billy.”
“Who took the photo?”
“I did. We’d been fishing for stripers at Potter’s Landing.” Buck points toward the glistening fish. “Billy caught a few earlier in the season, but they weren’t big enough. This one was his first keeper.”
