Temporary Sanity

by Rose Connors

“For a man who’s insane.”

  Harry swivels his chair out from the table, meets my eyes, and shakes his head. He’s afraid I might make the objection. He shouldn’t be. I may be new to the defense bar, but I’ve tried a few cases in the past decade. Jurors don’t like sarcasm-from either side of the aisle. We’ll let Stanley’s caustic comment stand.

  Still, Buck says nothing.

  Silence appears to unnerve Stanley. He hurries back toward the witness box, his pointer directed at Buck, the rubber tip almost touching his white shirt. “Is it your testimony, Mr. Hammond, that on the morning of June twenty-first, you drove your truck to the Chatham Municipal Airport, loaded your hunting rifle, took aim, fired a single shot, hit your target, all the while insane?”

  So much for passing on objections. I leave my post against the wall and move toward the bench. “Just a minute, Judge. This witness isn’t an expert.”

  Beatrice doesn’t respond.

  “Mr. Hammond offered no opinion on his own mental state during direct, Judge, and there’s a reason for that. He’s not qualified.

  The prosecutor already cross-examined our psychiatrist. He doesn’t get to put the same questions to a lay witness.”

  “I’ll allow it.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “You heard me, Counsel. I’ll allow it.”

  “On what grounds?”

  Beatrice bangs her gavel and leans forward on her bench. “I’ve ruled, Counsel. I don’t intend to give you a table of authorities.”

  “But the Commonwealth called two experts on this topic, Judge. How can it ask now for a lay opinion?”

  “I’ve ruled, Counsel.”

  Harry’s right. She doesn’t like me.

  Stanley inserts himself between me and the bench, flicking one hand in my direction, shooing me away. I stay put.

  He moves past, sidles up to the witness box again, and leans over toward Buck. “So tell us, Mr. Hammond…” Stanley extends his pointer backward, toward the frozen scene on the television screen. “Your lawyers claim this was a moment of temporary insanity. Was it?”

  Buck’s eyes stay fixed on Stanley a few moments. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move a muscle. Stanley doesn’t either.

  Finally, Buck glances at me, takes a deep breath, then turns to the jurors. “I’m no expert,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve no business agreeing or disagreeing with the doctors who testified here.”

  He shifts in the chair and looks at me again, apology plain in his eyes. He takes another deep breath, then faces the panel. “But I do know one thing.”

  All fourteen jurors sit completely still, their eyes riveted to Buck. Those in the back row lean forward to listen.

  For the first time today, Buck’s voice cracks. His eyes fill as he points toward the TV, his arm parallel with Stanley’s pointer. “If that man were alive today, I’d hunt him down and kill him.”

  Chapter 43

  “Hunt him down and kill him,” of course, was not in the cross-examination script. We passed on redirect. That way Stanley had no opportunity to recross, no chance to get Buck to repeat those words. Stanley will undoubtedly quote them a time or two during his closing. No need for Buck to help the Commonwealth again.

  Stanley finished with Buck at two o’clock, whereupon Beatrice called a one-hour lunch break. Closing arguments would begin promptly at three, she promised the jury. She cast a pointed glance across the room in my direction as she spoke, as if certain I might otherwise linger over a lavish meal. I glared back at her until she looked away.

  Harry looked from me to Beatrice as she left the bench, then reiterated his belief that I’m destined for the cell block. He repositioned the rickety easel and the two photos of Billy Hammond as soon as Beatrice and the jurors were out of the room. We both donned jackets and boots, then, to brave the snowstorm. I went to see Sonia Baker, to reinforce her decision to try to cooperate with Prudence Nelson. Harry went in search of an open deli.

  When I got back to the courthouse, Harry was waiting with two cardboard cups of lukewarm clam chowder and two turkey clubs. Each of us had a chowder. Harry ate the sandwiches. Now, as I stand to face the jurors, I wish he’d eaten both chowders as well.

  The jurors look a little more relaxed after their lunch break. They’re settled comfortably into their chairs, a few with notebooks and pens on their laps. Their eyes, and their attention, are all mine. Still, though, their emotions are well hidden. I stand before them, silent, and wait until the gallery is quiet.

  “There are two sides to our judicial system: the civil and the criminal. And there are important distinctions between the two. Most are differences of degree.

  “The burden of proof, for example. In a civil matter, the complaining party must prove his case by a preponderance of the evidence. But in a criminal proceeding, the burden of proof is far more steep. The complaining party, the Commonwealth, must prove its case-every element of it-beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  Widespread nods. They know this, of course. They read the paper; they watch TV.

  “Punishment is another example. A losing defendant is penalized no matter which system he’s in. On the civil side, we take his assets. But in the criminal justice system, we take something far more valuable, far more precious. We take his freedom.”

  More nods. They know this as well.

  “There is, though, one difference between our civil system and our criminal system that is not a matter of degree. It’s a matter of substance. And it’s important. In Buck Hammond’s case, it’s critical.”

  A few of them straighten in their seats. Some pick up pens and open notebooks. I scan their faces as I walk to the jury box and lean on the railing. They’re focused.

  “In our civil system, it’s incumbent upon the judge to direct a verdict when the evidence is uncontroverted. If the controlling facts of a civil suit are not in dispute, the judge must take the case away from the jury, decide it himself, as a matter of law.

  “Not so in our criminal justice system. In fact, the opposite is true. In a criminal case, the defendant is entitled to a decision rendered by a panel of his peers. Our Constitution guarantees it. The jury has the final word in criminal trials. Always.”

  The jurors with notebooks and pens haven’t written anything, haven’t taken their eyes from me.

  “Most of the important facts in this case aren’t contested. The Commonwealth told you Buck Hammond shot and killed Hector Monteros. Buck Hammond took the witness stand and said the same thing. The Commonwealth told you he intended to kill Monteros. Again, Buck took the witness stand and said the same thing…”

  I turn to the defense table for just a moment, arch my eyebrows at Buck before facing the panel again.

  “More emphatically than Mr. Madigan and I would have liked.”

  Most of the jurors look toward the defense table, at Harry and Buck; a few almost smile. A couple of the men in the back row shake their heads, though. I don’t know what that means.

  I pause a moment before directing their attention to the easel. The few near-smiles disappear.

  “Some of the evidence in this case was difficult to present. And I know it was difficult to receive. It was gut-wrenching to listen to Chief Fitzpatrick’s testimony. It was awful to look at the two photographs of Billy Hammond.

  “And it still is.”

  Their eyes remain on the easel, so I wait. They can stare at those photos until summer, as far as I’m concerned.

  “We had trouble-all of us-listening to the details of Billy Hammond’s unspeakable suffering, his unimaginable death. It’s safe to say that those details made us angry, outraged even. And not one of us ever met Billy Hammond.”

  Their gazes stray from the easel. Some eyes rest on me; others stare across the room again toward Buck. The retired schoolteacher shakes her head in his direction; her face reveals nothing.

  “If the details of Billy’s ordeal-of his suffering and his death-made you and me angry, outraged, what did those details d
o to the child’s father? To decide this case, you must answer that question.”

  Most jurors drop their gazes from me to their laps, considering the question, I hope. Two men in the back row, though, exchange troubled glances, shake their heads again. Maybe they can’t imagine what the details would do to the boy’s father. Or maybe they don’t like their assignment.

  “Dr. Simmons told you that Buck Hammond was in the midst of a psychotic episode-a break from reality-when he pulled the trigger of his hunting rifle on the morning of June twenty-first. Even the Commonwealth’s expert psychiatrists agreed that Buck was in the throes of severe trauma at the time. Was he insane?”

  I pause here, let the question hang for a moment.

  “That’s for you to decide.”

  I turn from the panel and point toward Buck. “Should he spend the rest of his life at Walpole-in the penitentiary-for what he did?”

  Another pause.

  “That’s also for you to decide. And that-”

  I wait until their eyes return to mine.

  “-is as it should be.

  “This, people, is what’s right about our criminal justice system: you, twelve of Buck Hammond’s peers, are the final arbiters of justice. You decide what happens next. You and your consciences.”

  Stanley drums his fingers on the prosecution table. I stare at him until he stops. He shakes his head at me; I’m an unreasonable opponent, it seems. I turn back to the jurors.

  “This is my final opportunity to speak to you. When I’m finished, the prosecutor will address you. I have no way to know what he will say. I get no opportunity to respond. Those are the rules.

  “My guess, though, is that he will spend at least some time discussing the need for you to send a message. He might tell you to convict so that our streets won’t be overrun with men taking the law into their own hands. He might tell you to convict so that other would-be killers will think twice before slaying their victims. He might say your failure to convict will unravel the very fabric of our society.

  “I tell you now, because it’s my last chance to do so, don’t buy it.” I turn from them and cross the courtroom to stand beside Buck’s chair.

  “Your verdict is about one man and only one man. This one. You are seated in that jury box for one reason and one reason alone. Not to send a message to the masses. Not to predict the future of crime control. Not to theorize about the fabric of our society. You’re here because you are Buck Hammond’s peers.

  “It’s an awesome thing, people, to sit where he sits, to face the machinery of the Commonwealth as it moves systematically against you. This is his trial. He’s entitled to it. Don’t let the prosecutor convince you to make it about anyone-or anything-else.”

  Not one juror moves as I leave Buck’s side and cross the silent courtroom toward them.

  “In recent weeks I’ve spent more than a few evenings in the Hammonds’ living room, talking with Buck’s wife, Patty. We talked about Billy, and about Buck. We talked about Hector Monteros. And we talked, a lot, about this trial, about all that would happen in this courtroom.

  “At the time, I thought I was preparing Patty Hammond for this ordeal, for this public rerun of her little boy’s tragic end. But I see now that I was wrong. Patty was already prepared. She’d already been through much worse. She’d lived through the real thing. And she knew I hadn’t. She was preparing me.

  “One night about two weeks ago, just before I left their cottage, Patty asked a question she’d never raised before. It was a question I’m sure she’d thought about often during the past six months. But until two weeks ago, she’d never said the words-not out loud, anyway.

  “Patty asked, that night, if I’d be able to send Buck home, if I could give them the opportunity to piece together the shards of their shattered lives. She asked if I could bring a close to this seemingly endless tragedy, if I’d be able to make at least this chapter of their pain-filled saga end the way it should.

  “I was honest with Patty Hammond that night, people. I told her I couldn’t do that.

  “But you can.”

  Chapter 44

  “Convenient, isn’t it, this temporary insanity plea? Love it or hate it-believe it or not-you have to admit it’s convenient.” Stanley steps out from behind his table and shoves both hands in his pants pockets. He saunters across the front of the courtroom, head down, his back to the jury. When he reaches our table, he stops as if he hit a brick wall.

  For a moment, he says nothing, stares at the tassels of his shiny black shoes. He looks sideways, then, and sneers at Buck before pivoting to face the jury. “It’s not only convenient. It’s clever.”

  He takes his hands from his pockets, folds his arms across his chest, and stands perfectly still in front of our table. “Yes, it’s downright clever for this man to claim he was temporarily insane when he took a human life. Insane at that moment, mind you, but not now.”

  Stanley smiles at the jurors, as if they share a secret. “That’s the part that’s so clever-the temporary part. It’s perfect. There’s no need to commit him, you see, no need even for psychiatric care. Just send him home. As if it never happened.”

  Stanley shakes his head at the jurors, lets out another hiccup, another almost-laugh. “Don’t fall for it.”

  He moves so close to our table that the hem of his suit coat brushes the edge. His gaze remains focused on the panel as he raises one arm and points into Buck’s face. “Because if you fall for it, he gets away with murder.”

  Buck leans as far back in his chair as he can without tipping. Still, Stanley’s index finger is only a few inches from Buck’s chin. “Don’t let him. Don’t let him get away with murder.”

  Prosecutors point. I know this; I was a pointer too, in my day. Even so, I have a powerful urge to push Stanley’s arm away, to get his hand out of our space, so we can breathe.

  I don’t have to, though; his visit to our table is mercifully brief. He hustles across the room toward the jury box, all the while pointing backward at Buck.

  “Judge Nolan will instruct you that this man is guilty of first-degree murder if he acted with malice aforethought. And this-”

  Stanley bangs the top of the TV, and a few of the jurors jump yet again.

  “-is malice aforethought.”

  He flips off the lights and simultaneously presses his remote control.

  Harry and I both leap up in the dark.

  “Hold on.” My voice is so loud it startles me. My word choice is somewhat surprising as well. It wasn’t whoa, but it wasn’t much better. Even in the dark, I know Beatrice isn’t happy.

  “Hold on?” She’s more than unhappy. Maybe whoa would have been better.

  Harry’s already at the bench, way ahead of me. The outline of his silhouette joins Stanley’s in the glow from the screen. Mutt and Jeff.

  “He’s already run the videotape twice, Judge. He doesn’t get a third shot.” Harry flips off the TV set as he speaks. Now everyone’s invisible.

  “Says who?” Beatrice’s voice booms from the blackness above the bench.

  “This was decided during pretrial motions, Judge. There’s an order.”

  “Whose order?”

  “Judge Long’s.”

  Silence.

  “Judge Long no longer presides over this trial, Attorney Madigan. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed.” Beatrice’s diction is its best yet when she utters Harry’s name.

  Stanley flips the TV back on.

  Harry turns it off again. “It doesn’t matter who presides over this trial, Judge.”

  “Doesn’t matter?” Beatrice doesn’t like being told she doesn’t matter.

  “No. This issue was decided on motion-before trial. The defendant relied on the court’s ruling. And he had every right to rely on it. It doesn’t matter which judge signed the order.”

  “Tell me, Counsel, what difference does it make?”

  I can’t see Beatrice at all, but I’m confident she’s enjoying this.

  “Wha
t difference?” Harry’s baffled.

  “What would you have done differently, Counsel? Changed your strategy somehow?”

  “That’s not the point, Judge. The issue here is prejudicial impact. Probative value versus prejudicial impact.”

  “Your partner used photographs during her closing.” Beatrice says the words partner and her as if both have lascivious connotations.

  “But this videotape was the subject of a pretrial motion, Judge. There’s an order.”

  “I’ll vacate it.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “You heard me, Counsel. The order is vacated.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I just did. The prosecutor is entitled to use demonstrative evidence during closing, Counsel. Just as your partner did.”

  Again, partner sounds lewd.

  Stanley hits the button and the blue glow from the screen illuminates his satisfied smirk. He shoos Harry away.

  Harry gives up, and he should. Fighting too long about this won’t sit well with the jury. He returns to our table, drops into his chair, and shrugs an apology toward Buck.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Buck whispers. “They’ve already seen it. They won’t see anything this time they haven’t seen before.”

  I hope he’s right.

  Stanley stops the videotape soon after it starts. Buck isn’t even on-screen yet.

  “One can only assume,” Stanley says, “that Mr. Hammond was in the throes of what his lawyers now call temporary insanity at this point in time, a minute or so before he shot and killed Mr. Hector Monteros.”

  Stanley retrieves the long stick from his table and points its white rubber tip at the hangar’s shadow. “And what was Mr. Hammond doing at this particular moment? Acting insane, perhaps? Ranting like a lunatic?”

  Stanley’s footsteps move toward the jury box. “Why no, not at all. He was hiding, lying in wait. Quietly. Patiently. Sound insane to you?”

  Stanley hiccups again, just barely. “Sounds like a plan to me. A calculated plan. The plan of a man thinking clearly.”

  He presses the button and the screen comes back to life. He points his stick at the lower right corner and freezes the action again when Buck steps into view.