Temporary Sanity (13 page)

“Huh?” Nicky is thrown by the question. He stares at the judge, then looks down at the Kydd for help. The Kydd shrugs at him.

Judge Long leans forward on the bench, his half glasses perched on the end of his nose. “What did you have for dinner last night, sir? What did you eat?”

“What did I eat?”

“That’s right. What did you eat?”

Nicky stares at the Kydd, desperate for advice now.

“Mr. Patterson, did you have dinner with Mr. Kydd last night?”

Harry laughs out loud beside me, then covers his mouth and fires an apologetic glance toward the judge. I don’t dare look at either one of them.

Nicky bites his lower lip and shakes his head. “Naw, I didn’t have dinner with him. I don’t even know him.”

“Well, then, he can’t help you with my question, can he?”

Nicky stares at the judge, blank.

“Dinner, Mr. Patterson. What was it?”

Nicky gives up on the Kydd. His eyes dart around the room for a few moments, as if he might find someone else to come to his aid. Finally, he faces front and looks up at Judge Long. “You want me to, like, name the foods?”

The judge sits back in his chair, smiling at Nicky. But anyone who knows Judge Leon Long can see it’s an ominous smile. His voice is still barely more than a whisper. “That’s right, sir. Name the foods.”

“Well…I…uh…I ate at Zeke’s.”

Laughter erupts in the gallery. Harry leans forward and lowers his head to his knees, his shoulders shaking. I turn away from him and cover my mouth with both hands; I might have to leave the room.

The Kydd buries his face in his arms on the defense table. He’s digesting one of the many cruel realities of practicing law: No matter how bleak a case may look, it can always get worse.

Zeke’s is a strip joint in Hyannis.

Judge Long sits perfectly straight in his leather chair and bangs his gavel again. The laughter stops. But Harry’s shoulders keep shaking.

“The food, Mr. Patterson. I don’t want to hear about anything but the food.”

The hissing steam radiators have barely begun to heat this room, but Nicky is sweating. “I…uh…I got the special.”

Judge Long leans forward again. “And what was the special, Mr. Patterson? Remember, just the food.”

“Meat loaf,” Nicky says, “with mashed potatoes.”

The judge nods. “Vegetable?”

Nicky swallows. “Green beans.”

“Beverage?”

Nicky swallows again. “I had a beer.”

The judge glares at him.

“Two.”

Judge Long stands and paces behind the bench, his arms folded across his pleated robe, his eyes on the floor. Minutes pass. The room is silent. Nicky, it seems, isn’t breathing. Finally, the judge stops pacing, removes his glasses, and glares at Nicky again. “What did your children have for dinner last night, Mr. Patterson?”

Nicky freezes. “I dunno.”

“You dunno?” The judge isn’t whispering anymore. “You dunno?”

“No.”

“You ate your meat loaf and your mashed potatoes and your green beans-all the while not knowing what your little girls had to eat, Mr. Patterson?”

Nicky opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You drank your beer and then ordered another-not knowing what they had to drink?”

Nicky stares at his shoes.

“Do they have milk in the house, Mr. Patterson? Do they have orange juice?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Prob’ly? Prob’ly’s not good enough, Mr. Patterson. Not good enough for those two little girls.”

The judge sits down again and picks up the Kydd’s proposed payment plan. He puts his glasses back on, skims the proposal for less than a minute, then sets it on the bench and leans toward Nicky.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do, Mr. Patterson.” Judge Long’s voice is low again-and threatening. “We’re going to send you home.”

Nicky is stunned.

“We’re going to send you home with a new payment plan.”

Nicky wears the smile of a man who can’t quite believe his good fortune.

“Here’s the plan.”

Nicky leans forward, eager to please.

“You’re going to be back here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, Mr. Patterson, with a bank check for twenty-two thousand dollars.”

Nicky swallows his smile. “I ain’t got it, Judge. I ain’t got that kind of money. Honest.”

“Then get it, Mr. Patterson. After you deliver the bank check, I’ll enter an order that allows you to pay off the interest over time.” The judge takes his glasses off again and points them at Nicky. “Provided, of course, that you make your future payments on schedule.”

The Kydd is on his feet, trying to bring an end to this session. They’ve got twenty-four hours. They may as well take it. But Nicky won’t budge. He’s shaking his head at Judge Long. “Get it where?”

“You drive, Mr. Patterson?”

“Yeah, I drive. Course I drive.”

“What do you drive?”

“Chevy pickup. Two-fifty diesel.”

“Old?”

Nicky hesitates. “Not really. A year.”

“Sell it.”

The Kydd elbows Nicky Patterson out from behind the table and shepherds him toward the center aisle.

“Nine o’clock sharp,” the judge says to Nicky’s back. “Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Patterson.”

The Kydd and Nicky are almost at the back doors, but they turn and face Judge Long.

“You show up without that check,” the judge says, “you’d better bring your toothbrush.”

Sequestered jurors seem to meld. Fourteen strangers, with nothing in common but the case before them, somehow take on a single personality as soon as they are quarantined. It happens almost every time. Some panels are reserved and distant. Some are angry. Others are warm, sympathetic.

Ours is worried. Worried about convicting a man who has already suffered so much. Equally worried about not convicting a man who shot another in cold blood. It’s all written on their faces.

They file through the side door, wrapping up whispered conversations, their expressions tense, sober. Judge Long greets each of them, his radiant smile back where it belongs. He invites them to take their seats, and the crowd in the gallery sits as well. Every bench in the courtroom is full. Even the aisles are jammed.

Chief Tommy Fitzpatrick reclaims the witness box, hat in his lap. The judge reminds him that he is still under oath and the Chief nods his understanding. He’s been in the witness box a few times before. He knows the rules.

The jurors have had all night to reflect on the damning testimony Stanley elicited yesterday. No doubt Buck’s words-
I wish he’d get up, so I could kill him again
-echoed in their minds throughout the night. Now it’s my job to make the jurors understand those words. It’s my job to make them feel what Buck felt that morning. None of us can, of course. Not completely. But we’re sure as hell going to give it a shot. And the Chief of Police is going to help.

“Chief Fitzpatrick, tell us about Billy Hammond. What happened to him?”

I just broke the cardinal rule of cross-examination. Questions posed during cross should never be open-ended, should always call for yes or no answers. But that rule doesn’t apply here. Not in this case. Adverse witness or not, Chief Tommy Fitzpatrick can talk all day as far as I’m concerned. As long as he’s talking about Billy Hammond.

Stanley clears his throat and stands, then heads for the bench. “Your Honor, this isn’t about the Hammond boy.”

“It most certainly is.” I respond to the jurors, not to Stanley. A few of them look startled. It’s the first time they’ve heard me raise my voice.

I turn to the judge. “It is about the Hammond boy, Your Honor. That’s
all
it’s about.”

Judge Long puts his hands in the air to silence both of us. “I’ll allow the testimony,” he says, “but I’m going to give them a limiting instruction.”

I return to my seat. A limiting instruction is fine with me as long as the facts come in. By the time the Chief of Police tells the story of Billy Hammond’s death, the limiting instruction should be a distant memory. And the jurors, I hope, will use the evidence the way it should be used: to conclude that justice, albeit a rough justice, has already been served.

Stanley pauses at our table on the way back to his seat. “This judge,” he whispers, glaring at me as if I had personally appointed Judge Long to the bench, “is despicable.”

I wonder what Stanley whispers about me.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the judge says, “the defendant has raised a temporary insanity defense. The testimony you are about to hear is relevant to the defendant’s state of mind and should be considered by you when you evaluate that defense. It should not be considered for any other purpose.”

Buck lowers his head to his arms on the table and Harry rests a hand on his shoulder. I’d all but lost sight of the fact that Buck and Patty will have to listen to this testimony too. The Chief’s words-essential for Buck’s defense-will bring him and Patty to their knees. Again.

I turn to check on Patty in the first row. She’s already weeping.

The judge concludes his instruction and the jurors nod their acquiescence at him. Their intentions are good; they plan to comply with the judge’s admonition, to limit their use of this evidence. They’ll compartmentalize the information they are about to hear, use it only for its proper purpose.

I sure as hell hope not.

“Let’s begin on June nineteenth, Chief. What happened to Billy Hammond?”

Stanley clears his throat again. “Your Honor, I’m sorry, but I have to object once more. This witness isn’t competent to testify about what happened to another person-especially a dead person.”

Judge Long leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. He taps his fingertips on the bench and shakes his head, peering over the rims of his half glasses at Stanley. He’s annoyed by the repeated interruptions. But I’m not.

This is the kind of objection I hoped Stanley would raise. I’ll have to rephrase my question, and the Chief’s cross-examination will take longer than it should, but eventually the jury will hear the facts. They’ll hear them from the Commonwealth’s witness, not ours. And my gut tells me these jurors won’t appreciate Stanley’s attempts to muzzle his own witness.

Judge Long removes his half glasses and shifts his gaze to me, rubbing the bridge of his nose. I look back at him and raise both hands toward the bench. No need for a ruling. I know what to do.

“Chief Fitzpatrick, you led the investigation into the disappearance of Billy Hammond, did you not?”

Stanley drops into his chair before the Chief answers.

“I did.”

“Tell us, sir, what prompted that investigation.”

Stanley shifts in his seat but doesn’t get up. Judge Long sighs and shakes his head.

“The 911 dispatcher got a call from a woman at about eleven o’clock that morning. It was a Saturday-June nineteenth. The caller could barely speak; she was hysterical. Turned out to be a summer neighbor of the Hammonds. She’d been weeding her garden, she said, and had spoken with Billy as he passed her house on his way to the beach.”

Stanley stands and clears his throat again, apparently anticipating my next question. “Your Honor, we’re headed for unadulterated hearsay.”

There are twenty-three exceptions to the hearsay rule, and this testimony arguably falls within three of them. One, though, is a perfect fit.

“Excited utterance, Your Honor. The statement is admissible if it relates to a startling event made while the speaker was still under the stress of the moment. If that exception doesn’t apply here”-I turn to face the judge-“then it doesn’t apply anywhere.”

Judge Long looks down at me but I turn away from him, face the panel again. If he’s going to allow the testimony, I don’t want him to say so yet. I want to get one more argument in front of the jurors-and in front of Stanley-before the judge rules.

“But if the Court prefers, Your Honor, we’ll call the neighbor during our case in chief. She’s spending the Christmas holidays in her South Chatham cottage. I spoke with her this morning.”

Hearsay is only hearsay if the person being quoted is unavailable to testify. If the neighbor is available for trial, then the Chief’s testimony isn’t hearsay in the first place; it doesn’t have to qualify as an exception.

I face Judge Long again. He arches his eyebrows, then looks at Stanley for a response.

Stanley sinks to his chair without a word.

I steal a glance at the defense table. Harry winks. It worked.

The last person Stanley wants in front of this panel is the Hammonds’ hysterical neighbor. If Stanley persists with his objections-even the valid ones-I’ll call the neighbor to the stand to fill in the blanks. If Stanley keeps quiet and lets the Chief tell the whole story, then the neighbor’s testimony won’t come in. It will be excluded as cumulative.

Judge Long looks at the jurors, then at Stanley, and finally at me. “I’ll allow it.”

I face the witness box again. “Chief, you were telling us about a conversation between Billy Hammond and his neighbor.”

The Chief looks comfortable in the witness chair. He always does. He enjoys the ease of a man who plans to tell the truth-nothing more, nothing less.

“Yes,” he says. “The neighbor told Billy he looked like he’d grown three inches since she’d seen him last. Billy laughed and said he probably had. She turned back to her weeding but stood up a few moments later to stretch.”

The Chief pauses for a sip of water.

“She was facing the beach at the time. She saw Billy approach a van idling at the far end of the parking lot. He was reaching out to pat a dog in the front seat. Then Billy vanished. She ran to the road and started for the beach, but the van peeled off before she got there. She found a fishing pole where the van had been.”

“Billy Hammond’s fishing pole?”