Temporary Sanity Page 5

  The Kydd and Maggie are engrossed in animated warfare when I get back to the office at ten-thirty. Their eyes are glued to the TV screen, where flashing multicolored lights erupt in the center of the darkened conference room.

  Harry is slumped in a chair behind them, watching the action, feet up on the pine conference table and hands behind his head. His baffled expression suggests he might as well be reading hieroglyphics.

  “One of you needs to surrender,” I tell them. “Maggie and I have to go.”

  The Kydd looks up from his controller, but Maggie doesn’t. “Hah!” she shouts as the sounds of explosions fill the room. “You’re dead!”

  “Hey, no fair,” the Kydd whines, his Southern drawl thicker than usual. He stares first at Maggie, then at me. He looks like an eight-year-old who wants his mom to intervene.

  “War is an ugly thing,” I tell him.

  Maggie dons her little denim jacket, pats the Kydd on the shoulder, and heads out into the winter night. “Rematch tomorrow,” she calls from the doorway, “if you’re not too scared.”

  The Kydd frowns at her and shuts down the machine. I head out behind Maggie, Harry on my heels.

  “How’d it go?” he asks.

  “She says she didn’t do it.”

  “Maybe she didn’t.”

  “Maybe. I can’t think about it anymore tonight. I need some sleep. Arraignment’s tomorrow morning, before Buck’s trial.”

  Harry stops in the shadows on the porch and pulls me toward him, his big arms pressing me close. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  His kiss is soft and long. I’m warmer than I’ve been all day and I’d just as soon not move, but I pull myself away. “My houseguest is waiting.”

  Harry laughs. “Good luck with that one,” he says.

  She’s already seated in the Thunderbird, her eyes and hoop earrings reflecting the glow from the street lamp. “What should I call you?” she asks as soon as I join her. I realize she hasn’t called me anything all day.

  “Marty.”

  “Okay. Thanks for doing this, Marty.”

  “No problem.”

  “I know what would happen if you didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Social Services,” she says. “If you didn’t let me stay with you, I’d have to go to Social Services.”

  She’s a worldly little thing. “How do you know about Social Services?”

  “Howard,” she says. “He’s always threatening to call Social Services, have them come get me.”

  She leans toward me, poised to share a secret. “And he tells me about all the terrible things that happen to teenage girls at Social Services.”

  Someone should have slapped Howard Davis before he died.

  “He’s a real bully, that Howard,” Maggie adds.

  Her use of the present tense concerns me. “Maggie, you realize Howard’s dead, don’t you?”

  She sits back again, stares at the glove compartment. “Yeah,” she says, “I got that.”

  “And you understand your mom is charged with killing him?”

  “Yeah,” she repeats. “I got that, too. But she didn’t. I was there. He beat her up, but all she did was run away. She didn’t do anything to him.”

  The darkness swallows Maggie’s features as we leave the driveway. “You’ll get her out, won’t you?” she whispers.

  “I’ll do everything I can, Maggie, but your mom’s not coming home anytime soon. You need to know that.”

  She’s silent.

  “It’s been a hard day, Maggie. Tomorrow we’ll talk about the details. For now, just be aware that this process will take months, at best. And it’s not going to be easy. You and your mom are in for some tough times.”

  “That’s not how I see it,” she says.

  “What?” Maybe I misunderstood. I come to a stop at Main Street’s only traffic light and turn toward her. She meets my eyes with a steady gaze, her tears on the verge of spilling.

  “Howard Davis beat my mom whenever he felt like it,” she spits. “On Mondays we knew it was coming. If he didn’t get her before work, he’d get her after.”

  Streams of water pour down her face. “Other times it would happen if he had a lousy day in court, or if traffic was bad, or if dinner wasn’t ready when he wanted it.”

  She wipes her face with her denim sleeve. “My mom’s in jail and that’s awful. But Howard won’t ever hit her again. So the way I see it, the toughest times are over.”

  The light’s green. I face front again but it takes a few moments for my boot to find the gas pedal. I wonder if this young girl is happy about the murder; happy that her mother’s abuser is dead.

  Like a mind reader, she answers my unvoiced question. “I’m sorry Howard got killed,” she says. “But I’m not sorry that we’ll never see him again.”

  Janet is one law librarian who loves to bend the rules. When I headed toward the library’s copying machine with Mr. Justice Paxson’s lengthy decision, she hurried across the room to stop me. “Take it home,” she said, pointing to the dilapidated book in my hands.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. Casebooks aren’t normally available to take home, and that particular casebook looked like it might not survive the trip.

  “Yes,” she insisted. “You should read from the old parchment, not a sanitized copy on cheap paper.”

  She was right, of course. I pulled the book from my briefcase late that night and centered it in the small circle of light on the desk in my bedroom. The deterioration of the volume lent authority-wisdom, even-to the words within it. And I was desperate for wisdom, desperate to understand, and believe in, the only viable defense the law allows to Buck Hammond.

  When I opened to Janet’s bookmark, my eyes fell at once-as if beckoned-on a question posed in the text. It was followed by what would prove to be the first of many attempts by Mr. Justice Paxson to answer it.

  What, then, is that form of disease, denominated homicidal mania, which will excuse one for having committed a murder?

  Chief Justice Gibson calls it that unseen ligament pressing on the mind and drawing it to consequences which it sees but cannot avoid, and placing it under a coercion which, while its results are clearly perceived, is incapable of resistance-an irresistible inclination to kill.

  An irresistible inclination to kill. I found this answer inadequate, unsettling even, and I was disappointed. Because the question, penned more than a century ago by a man long dead and buried, was precisely mine.

  Chapter 11

  Tuesday, December 21

  Maggie Baker is a freshman at Chatham High School. My son, Luke, is a senior and a starting member of the varsity basketball team. When Maggie and I got to the cottage it was close to eleven o’clock, and Luke apparently had abandoned all hope of his mother coming home to make dinner. He was outside paying the pizza delivery boy.

  Maggie all but fainted. “That’s your son?” She looked stunned.

  “That’s him.”

  “Your son is Luke Ellis?”

  “Last time I checked.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she snapped, fixing her hair in the rearview mirror. When she tore her eyes from the mirror, she fired an exasperated glance in my direction. She was genuinely annoyed. I tried not to laugh.

  The next hour was comical. Luke was his usual affable self. He didn’t ask why Maggie was with us; he acted as if we’d been expecting her. He shared his pepperoni pizza as well as his senior-year wisdom. He filled Maggie in on precious details about the upperclassmen in general, the basketball players in particular. She hung on every word.

  Heavy winds kept the cottage chilly in spite of a blazing fire in the woodstove. I gave Maggie a pair of baggy flannel pajamas and an old fisherman’s knit sweater. She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. I made a mental note to arrange to pick up her clothes from Bayview Road.

  At midnight, Luke set up the sofa bed for Maggie and dug two heavy quilts out of our old cedar chest. I
came out to the living room to say good night, then, and Luke headed upstairs with Danny Boy, our elderly Irish setter, on his heels. Maggie Baker had stars in her eyes.

  I dropped them at the high school at seven-fifteen, both of them griping about these last two days of school-full days, no less-before the Christmas break. Three times during the five-minute ride, Maggie mentioned that she’ll turn fifteen in just a few weeks. Each time, Luke wished her a happy birthday. My son doesn’t get it.

  The roads are plowed and sanded, but the radio weatherman says we’ll see another foot of snow by day’s end. Traffic is thin-it’s too early in the day for holiday shoppers-and I reach the County Complex in just half an hour. The parking lot is almost full, even though most county offices don’t open-and most courthouse proceedings don’t begin-until nine. The combination of Sonia Baker’s arraignment and Buck Hammond’s trial has drawn a crowd, winter storm warning or not.

  The District Courtroom is packed. All of the dark brown benches are filled. Those members of the public who were too late to get seats lean against the walls. A dozen court officers stand guard in the back of the room, guns on their hips, prepared to eject any onlooker who might disrupt the proceedings. The building’s ancient steam radiators hiss persistently, and the air is heavy with the smell of damp winter clothes.

  A half dozen benches in front are roped off and reserved for the press. It’s not nearly enough space to accommodate their numbers. Photographers and reporters roam the vast room, their bright lights and microphones in search of targets. Sonia Baker’s defense lawyer seems to be just what they had in mind; I’m blinded as I approach the bar.

  My vision clears when I turn my back on the gallery and, for the first time in my career, take a seat at the defense table. Geraldine is oblivious to the occasion. She’s focused on paperwork on the opposite side of the room, the details of Howard Davis’s demise, no doubt. Once again, she’s covering for Stanley. He’s not a multitask employee, it seems.

  Stanley, I’m certain, is already stationed in Superior Court, the first to arrive for Buck Hammond’s trial. Positioned, no doubt, to greet all witnesses. Prepared to assign seats, if possible.

  I’m tired already.

  Just before eight, Sonia Baker enters the courtroom through its side door, her ankles shackled, her good wrist cuffed to one of the two armed matrons escorting her. Her purple eye is still swollen shut. She keeps the other one focused on the floor, even as reporters hurl questions at her. They jockey for position and call her by name, but she doesn’t look at any of them, doesn’t let on that she hears.

  The orange jumpsuit is far too big for her; I didn’t realize that last night when she was seated. The blouse billows around her thin frame. The tired elastic waistband hangs down on her narrow hips. The frayed hems of the pants drag on the old wooden floor.

  A matron removes Sonia’s solitary cuff but leaves the shackles in place. Sonia drops into the seat next to mine. It’s obvious she hasn’t slept much, if at all. Her open eye is bloodshot. Except for the bruises, her face is a ghastly white. She doesn’t look at me.

  The bailiff shouts “Court!” and we all rise. Judge Richard Gould emerges from chambers and strides to the bench, ignoring the bright lights and flashbulbs trained on him. When the judge sits, the rest of us do too, all but Dottie Bearse, District Court’s veteran clerk.

  Dottie stays on her feet, holding a copy of the criminal complaint, and waits for quiet like a patient grandmother. Only when the room falls silent does she recite the docket number and announce: “The Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Sonia Louise Baker.” Geraldine is on.

  “Your Honor, the defendant is charged with the first-degree murder of one Howard Andrew Davis.”

  Geraldine hands me a thick document with multiple tabbed attachments-the medical examiner’s preliminary report, no doubt-before delivering the identical package to Judge Gould. She remains close to the bench, facing the judge.

  “The deceased was found yesterday on his living-room couch, Your Honor…”

  Geraldine pauses and turns a cold stare on Sonia.

  “…in what can only be described as a bloodbath.”

  I’m on my feet. This is arraignment, for God’s sake. Geraldine is acting as if we’re in trial. She’s performing for the press, of course. The next election is just four years away. Never too early to kick off the campaign.

  Judge Gould is way ahead of me. He bangs his gavel just once, hard. “Attorney Schilling, please. No need for drama. Stick to the facts.”

  I sink back to my chair.

  Geraldine gives me the slightest of smiles before facing the judge again. “Of course, Your Honor. I’ll be happy to.”

  The packed courtroom grows still and silent. The facts are what everyone came to hear, after all. The gory details of Howard Davis’s death are what drew this crowd to the courthouse. And I don’t need the medical examiner’s report to tell me they aren’t pretty.

  “Howard Andrew Davis was stabbed eleven times.”

  Sonia’s gasp is the only sound in the room. She raises her head for the first time today and gapes at Geraldine, horrified. The photographers are busy behind us; they can’t see her expression. But I can.

  I don’t know much about criminal defense work. But I’ve met more than a few criminal defendants over the years. I’ve seen more than a few emotions-real and contrived-displayed on their faces. And I know one thing for sure at this moment. Sonia Baker didn’t kill Howard Davis.

  “Five of the lacerations were to major organs, Your Honor,” Geraldine continues, “not to mention a fatal puncture wound that reached the aorta.”

  She crosses the room to our table. “There’s no question there was a physical altercation between the deceased and the defendant, Your Honor.”

  Geraldine gestures toward Sonia as if she’s Exhibit A. “Howard Davis lost the fight.”

  Once again I get to my feet, but I hold my tongue. Judge Gould isn’t looking at Geraldine. He’s not looking at me, either. He’s reading the medical examiner’s report, his expression troubled.

  The room grows quiet once more, the only sounds Sonia Baker’s small sobs, until the judge looks up. “I remember Mr. Davis, Ms. Schilling. He was an unusually large man.” Judge Gould removes his glasses and taps them on the medical examiner’s report. “Six feet four; two hundred sixty pounds.” The judge looks over at Sonia and shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem physically possible.”

  I sink to my chair again. Never argue with opposing counsel if the judge will do it for you: one of the earliest lessons I learned from Geraldine Schilling.

  Geraldine nods at Judge Gould, apparently having expected his reaction. “Your Honor, if you’ll turn to page four of the report, you’ll see that the victim’s blood alcohol content at the time of death was point three-three. The medical examiner tells us this level indicates he’d had twelve to fourteen drinks during the four hours immediately prior to his demise.”

  Geraldine pauses to stare at Sonia again. “He would have been just about comatose when he was stabbed, Your Honor.”

  Judge Gould’s gaze falls on me while he absorbs this information in silence. “Attorney Nickerson,” he says at last, “how does your client plead?”

  I’m up again. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  I hand my written request first to Geraldine, then to the judge. Neither one of them is surprised. “The defense moves for a psychiatric workup pursuant to Massachusetts General Laws chapter 123, section 15(a).”

  Judge Gould puts his glasses back on and peers first at my motion, then at me, through thick lenses. “Battered woman’s syndrome,” he says.

  I head back to the defense table and stand next to Sonia. She’s quiet now, her head bowed, both eyes closed. “No doubt about it,” I tell him. “There’s no doubt in my mind that Sonia Baker meets all the requirements.”

  Sonia doesn’t look up when I rest one hand on her shoulder.

  “And we reserve the right to raise that defense if ne
cessary. But there’s also no doubt in my mind that she’s innocent. Sonia Baker didn’t kill Howard Davis.”

  Geraldine swivels her chair around and looks at me as if I just announced that the earth is flat after all. The judge stares at me too, but says nothing. There are defense attorneys who routinely proclaim their clients’ innocence, whether they believe it or not. Geraldine looks as if she thinks I might have joined their ranks. Judge Gould’s expression suggests he’s wondering too.

  The judge turns his attention back to Geraldine. “Any objection from the Commonwealth?”

  An objection from the Commonwealth at this point would be futile. Geraldine knows that. She raises her hands in the air as if she couldn’t care less. “None.”

  “All right, then.” Judge Gould reads from my written motion as he rules. “The defendant’s request for a court-appointed expert under General Laws chapter 123, section 15(a) is granted. The defendant, Sonia Louise Baker, will be examined by a mental health professional-at the expense of the Commonwealth-to determine whether or not she suffers from battered woman’s syndrome. If she does, the expert should discern whether she is capable of assisting her attorney with her defense, and whether she has a rational and factual understanding of the proceedings against her.”

  The judge looks out at the crowded gallery and flashbulbs begin popping again. “We’re adjourned until the assessment is complete.”

  He escapes from the bench as the bailiff instructs us to rise. By the time we get to our feet, Judge Richard Gould has already disappeared into chambers.

  The matrons appear at Sonia’s side in a flash.

  “Give us a minute,” I tell them.

  They do, reluctantly. One looks at her watch as if she plans to time us.

  “I don’t want that battered woman thing,” Sonia says, looking at me for the first time today.

  “I know you don’t.”

  “Howard’s dead. Now you want me to trash him?”

  “No, Sonia. It’s not about that.”

  She stares at me, daring me to tell her what it is about.