Temporary Sanity Read online

  She winces at the mention of the name. “Yes,” she says. “We did.”

  “Did you ask your husband why he shot Monteros?”

  Stanley gets to his feet.

  Patty considers the question for a moment. “No,” she says. “I didn’t have to.”

  “Your Honor…” Stanley wants to shut this down. The judge does too, apparently. She has her gavel in hand.

  I nod at Patty, hoping she’ll finish her thought. She turns to the panel, her eyes wide, but says nothing.

  “You didn’t have to?”

  “No. Of course not. I knew why.” Patty’s expression changes while she looks at the jurors, as if she just realized something important. “My husband isn’t a murderer.”

  “Your Honor!” Stanley’s forehead erupts.

  The gavel descends, but I ignore it. Last time I checked, “Your Honor!” was not a valid evidentiary objection.

  The jurors seem to ignore it too. They’re zeroed in on Patty. She stares back and speaks directly to them, as if no one else is in the room. “Buck had to do it. Don’t you see?”

  More than a few heads shake in the box. Maybe they find it all too hard to take in. Or maybe they don’t see.

  “Your Honor!” Stanley’s holding both hands up, palms toward Patty, like a traffic cop. He’s ordering her words to halt. She doesn’t look at him.

  “He didn’t have a choice,” she says, speaking to the jurors as if Stanley doesn’t exist. “He had to help Billy. Had to try.”

  The gavel descends again, on the edge of the bench closest to the witness box.

  Patty jumps. Her eyes leave the jury and she turns to look up at the judge. The jurors do too.

  Beatrice isn’t facing Patty or the jury, though. Her gavel pounds again, near the top of Patty’s head, but she’s glaring at me. “Ms. Nickerson,” she says, almost spitting the words, “this examination is over.”

  She’s right, of course. We’re finished. I couldn’t have scripted better testimony to end the day. Better, though, to let Beatrice think it’s her idea. I force a resigned smile. “Whatever you say, Judge. You’re the boss.”

  Chapter 32

  The holiday shoppers, Luke and Maggie, were in the back row of the courtroom during all of Patty Hammond’s direct testimony. It wasn’t by design. When I asked them to be here at four o’clock-with the Thunderbird-I thought we’d all be ready to leave the courthouse by then. But that was this morning, when Judge Leon Long was in charge. Everything is different now.

  Buck is gone, en route to his cell with the regular prison escorts. Harry and I will meet with him before we go home tonight, review his testimony one last time. We had planned to go back to our office first, to run through it a time or two without Buck. We wanted one last check for holes, one last search for an inconsistency Stanley might see before we do.

  But Judge Nolan just left the bench and it’s almost six o’clock. Harry and I will have to do our consistency check while we prepare Buck. We’re running out of time.

  Patty is at our table, seated in Buck’s chair between Harry and me. The shouting match at the end of the trial day left her flustered. She looks dazed now, exhausted. Her cheeks are flushed.

  Luke and Maggie wait in their seats while the stragglers in the crowd move through the back door. When the center aisle clears, they head up front to join us. They leave their parkas and hats piled on the back bench. They both look damp and windblown. Maggie’s sweater droops down to her knees and the ends of her hair are wet. She’s still wearing her scarf and mittens.

  Geraldine strides through the back door and follows Luke and Maggie down the wide aisle, her eyes following the tracks left on the worn carpeting by their boots. She has her own coat in hand, her briefcase too. She drapes the coat over one arm and sets the briefcase on the edge of our table. “Good news,” she says, “about the judge.”

  “She’s stepping down?” Harry bolts from his chair, looking like he just won the lottery. “Early retirement?” He faces Geraldine and plasters an alarmed look on his face. “Not a health problem, I hope.”

  She frowns at him. “Not that judge. No, she’s not stepping down. And no, there’s no health problem.” Geraldine’s frown flips into a wicked smile. “But Judge Nolan would be touched if she knew you were so concerned.”

  Harry shrugs. “She’s touched, all right.”

  Geraldine turns away from him and faces me, rolling her green eyes to the ceiling. Her expression says she hopes I, at least, will be reasonable.

  “Judge Long,” I prompt. “He’s okay?”

  “Looks like it. The surgeon says the procedure went as well as could be expected. They’re moving him to the intensive care unit now. He’ll be there for a few days, anyhow.”

  Patty leaves her chair and moves in front of our table to hug Maggie. Maggie hugs her back, hard. I’d almost forgotten-they’re neighbors.

  Geraldine watches them for a moment, then turns back toward Harry. She has his attention now. Harry has always thought highly of Judge Long; he’s been worried about him all day. Besides, we represent the accused.

  “The judge is listed in serious condition,” she says.

  Luke joins Patty and Maggie, all three of them facing our table, listening. Patty’s arm is still tight around Maggie’s skinny shoulders. Maggie leans into her, welcoming the support. The beleaguered consoling the beleaguered.

  “But his vital signs are stable,” Geraldine continues. “The doctors expect to move him to a regular surgical unit sometime next week. He should make a full recovery.”

  Maggie and Luke exchange puzzled glances. They don’t know what we’re talking about. Neither one asks, though. Patty leans over to whisper. They stare up at the bench while she talks, and their eyes grow wide. She’s filling them in.

  “That’s great,” I tell Geraldine.

  “He was stabbed twice,” Geraldine continues. “The first wound was deep-it missed a kidney by little more than an inch. The surgeon says it needed extensive repair. That’s what took so long in the operating room.”

  She rests her coat on the briefcase on our table and stares down at me again, her eyes troubled. “The second cut wasn’t, though. It was superficial.”

  Geraldine’s gaze moves to something behind me and her brows knit. I know that look. The information she’s giving us bothers her somehow. Something doesn’t add up.

  “The surgeon says it looks like whoever attacked Judge Long was interrupted,” she says, resting her chin in one hand. “Prevented from finishing the job.”

  Harry sits on the edge of the table and narrows his eyes at her.

  “And it’s your theory that Nicky Patterson did it? That he stabbed the judge twice, stopped when Stanley arrived, then sat calmly in the front row until the rest of us found out?”

  Geraldine doesn’t let on she hears Harry’s questions. “I’m headed to the hospital now,” she tells us, lifting her briefcase and coat from the table.

  “Is he awake?” I can’t quite picture Geraldine keeping a silent vigil by Judge Leon Long’s bedside.

  “Not yet,” she says. “But I want to ask him a few questions as soon as he is. Find out if he saw anything, heard anything.”

  “The nurses might not let you in, though.”

  Geraldine gives me her “Get a brain, Martha” look again. “The nurses and what army?”

  She’s right, of course.

  Luke and Maggie head out as soon as Geraldine leaves. Patty does too. She’ll follow them to Chatham, she says, in case Luke has trouble driving on the snowy highway. Or in case she does, she adds.

  It will be at least a few hours before I can join Luke and Maggie at home. I plan to pay Sonia Baker another visit, see if we can’t have a calmer discussion about Prudence Nelson. After that I’ll meet with Harry and Buck to prepare for tomorrow’s testimony. It feels as if this day will never end.

  Snow falls steadily as Harry and I trudge through drifts in the parking lot, then climb the snow-clogged concrete step
s to the Barnstable County House of Correction. Harry’s arm around my shoulders is the best thing I’ve felt all day. When I lean into him, he rests his chin on the top of my head. If only I could spend this evening with Harry-alone.

  But it’s not in the cards. We part company at the top of the hill. Harry heads to the men’s ward and I turn toward the women’s.

  Harry will start the process with Buck while I spend some time with Sonia. I’ll join them when I can.

  Buck is my witness. I’ll handle the direct as well as the objections during cross. Harry is with me tonight, preparing Buck, only because I insisted. I’m a good enough defense lawyer to know Buck Hammond deserves a better defense lawyer than I am.

  Chapter 33

  The decision to take the witness stand-or not-belongs solely to the accused. A good defense lawyer advises the client of the ramifications of each option: the damning admission of prior convictions if he takes the stand, the unavoidable suspicions of the jurors if he does not. A good defense lawyer also voices an opinion, usually a strong one, about which decision the client should make. But the final call rests squarely on the shoulders of the defendant. And rightly so.

  Defense lawyers admit this truth only when the client testifies. “Mr. Smith has no obligation to take the stand,” the lawyer will announce. “But he wants to. He insists. He plans to tell you people what really happened that night.”

  If Mr. Smith decides to keep quiet, though, his attorney will lay claim to the decision. “The Commonwealth hasn’t proved its case,” the lawyer might say. “No client of mine will take the stand when the Commonwealth hasn’t met its burden. I won’t allow it. And the judge will instruct you that you’re to draw no inference from Mr. Smith’s silence. He’s under no obligation to testify. He certainly has nothing to hide.”

  The truth, though, is that most criminal defendants, even those not guilty of the crimes charged, have something to hide. The neighborhood gang member accused of knocking over the local liquor store didn’t necessarily do it. But if his alibi is that he was closing a crack deal at the time of the robbery, he probably shouldn’t take the stand to say so.

  Even a defendant with no priors runs a risk when he testifies. The stakes are highest when the crime charged is a violent one. If the accused is angry-and almost all of them are-then the prosecutor need only get under his skin, provoke an outburst. One flicker of rage from the defendant during trial and the Commonwealth is one giant step closer to a conviction.

  In Buck Hammond’s case, this is my greatest fear.

  It’s not that Buck is an angry man. He’s not. His manner is calm, resigned. He rarely speaks unless asked a question. Even then, he pauses and thinks-often for an unnaturally long time-before he answers. When he does, his voice is always the same, low and steady.

  I’ve spent dozens of difficult, tedious hours with Buck during the past six weeks. I’ve asked him questions he couldn’t answer, a few that made his eyes fill. But I’ve never seen a trace of anger in him. Not even when he talks about Billy. And that, more than anything, is what worries me.

  I’m afraid Buck has buried his rage, pushed it so deep into himself that no one-not even he-can see it. I’m worried that the stress of testifying, speaking publicly about all that happened to Billy, will be more than Buck can bear. I’m afraid that his fury has been pent up too long, that once it’s tapped it will boil over into the courtroom.

  I’m scared as hell that Buck Hammond will erupt in the witness box.

  Harry’s not worried about buried rage, though. He’s worried about Stanley.

  “You can’t let him get to you,” Harry says as I join them. He and Buck are seated at an old, stained card table in the middle of a small meeting room. They both look comfortable, relaxed.

  “Who? The little guy?” Buck arches his eyebrows. He’s surprised to learn he should worry about the little guy.

  Harry laughs. “Yeah. The little guy-the one with the big head and the mouth to match.”

  Buck looks up to see if I share Harry’s concern. I nod silently as I hang my parka next to Harry’s on the coatrack.

  “Okay.” Buck shrugs. “So I won’t let him get to me.”

  Harry shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. Stanley gets to everybody. Even people who aren’t on the hot seat.” Now it’s Harry’s turn to look my way. He wants backup.

  I cross the small space between us and nod again.

  Four metal folding chairs surround their rickety table. I wipe a layer of dust from one of the remaining two, then settle on it. “Harry’s right, Buck. Stanley would like nothing better than for you to explode in front of the jury. He’ll do everything he can to make that happen.”

  “Explode?” Buck’s expression suggests he can’t fathom such an event.

  “Yes-explode.”

  I lean back in my chair and stare at Buck. He needs to take this to heart. “If you get mad, even for an instant, then Stanley has everything he needs for closing argument. You killed Monteros, Stanley will tell the jury, because you’re out of control.”

  Buck shakes his head, but I keep talking. “You could kill again, Stanley will argue. You could take the law into your own hands yet again. You could become a vigilante. The jurors will worry about that.”

  Buck’s eyes move from me to Harry, then down at his hands on the table. He’s silent.

  “Look,” Harry says, “the bottom line is this: Stick to the script.”

  Buck looks up again. “The script?”

  I’m glad he asked-so I don’t have to.

  “That’s right, the cross-examination script.”

  Buck turns to me and I turn to Harry. I didn’t know we had a cross-examination script. I wonder who wrote it.

  Harry stays focused on Buck. “If Stanley’s question calls for a yes or no answer, give him one. And give it loud and clear. If we don’t like the way it sounds-the way Stanley phrased the particular question-we’ll clean it up on redirect.”

  Harry points his pen at me when he says this, as if it’s certain that I’ll clean up whatever mess Stanley makes.

  “But if Stanley gives you room to talk”-the pen moves from me to Buck-“you only know three topics.”

  “Three?” Buck looks as if this news makes him smarter than he thought he was.

  “That’s right,” Harry says. “You know all about Billy before June nineteenth: the funny kid he was; how he was growing like a weed; the names of his best friends; how he loved fishing and the Red Sox.”

  Buck closes his eyes, sways from side to side on his folding chair.

  “You know what happened to Billy on June nineteenth.”

  Buck stops swaying, but his eyes stay closed.

  “And you know you had to stop Monteros-for Billy.”

  Buck opens his eyes and nods, but says nothing.

  “If Stanley tries to get you to talk about anything else-I don’t care what the hell it is-you steer the discussion right back to the script. Three topics. That’s it. You know nothing about anything else.”

  Buck nods again, but Harry isn’t satisfied. “In particular,” he says, “you know nothing-less than nothing-about the insanity defense.”

  For a few moments all three of us are quiet. Finally, Buck breaks the silence. “I know it’s a crock.”

  “Goddammit!” Harry slams both fists on the table and an overloaded ashtray jumps into the air, three butts slipping over its sides. Its dark green beveled glass is chipped in about a half dozen places. This table has been slammed before.

  Harry leans close enough to Buck to whisper, but he’s almost shouting. “Do you think maybe that enlightened opinion of yours is something you shouldn’t mention in the courtroom?”

  Buck rubs his eyes, then leans forward on his elbows toward both of us. “I’m sorry. Really. I know you’re trying to do your job. And I’m grateful. It’s just…”

  He swallows hard, drops his head and stares at the table. “I won’t say that tomorrow. I swear.”

  “If y
ou do, you’ll regret it. Your wife needs you. Remember that.” Harry waits until Buck looks up at him, then leans forward and lowers his voice. “Maybe-just maybe-these jurors want to let you walk. And maybe they see the temporary insanity defense as the only way they can do that. Take it away from them, pal, and you might throw out your only shot.”

  Unlike me, Harry has always thought the temporary insanity plea was Buck’s best bet. True jury nullification, he says, is rare. And he’s right. For our jurors to return an outright acquittal, they’ll have to be willing to say that the law in this particular case is just plain wrong.

  Rare is the juror willing to adopt that notion. Rarer yet is the juror willing to say so. The odds of an entire panel taking that route are slim. Even I have to admit that.

  If the jurors accept the temporary insanity plea, on the other hand, they can have it both ways. They can send Buck home, spare him an eternity at Walpole, even though they acknowledge he committed the crime. They know he’s not innocent, but they can find him not guilty-the law allows that.

  There is an important distinction between the word innocent and the phrase not guilty. Innocent means they’ve got the wrong guy; the accused didn’t do it. Not guilty is broader than that. It may mean the accused did it but has a legally recognizable excuse. Despite the media’s insistence to the contrary, there is no such verdict as innocent by reason of insanity. Not guilty is as good as it gets.

  “I understand,” Buck says, dropping his hands to his sides.

  “Honest to God. I do.” He leans back in his chair, looks exhausted.

  “Are we finished?”

  “No,” Harry says, “but almost. There’s one more thing I want to talk about.”

  “What’s that?” Buck looks as if he can’t believe there’s a topic we haven’t covered.

  “Your hunting rifle,” Harry says.

  Buck nods. “The rifle…”

  Harry jumps up from his chair, both hands held out toward Buck to silence him. “I said I want to talk about it.”