Temporary Sanity (18 page)

In response to carefully worded questions from Stanley, Dr. Turner gave his professional opinion that Buck Hammond was criminally responsible at the time he shot Hector Monteros. The doctor testified that Buck was fully able to tell right from wrong, knew he was violating the law, and was capable of controlling his actions. Simply put, the doctor concluded, Buck chose to kill.

Harry cross-examined both men, which didn’t take long. No lawyer can do much with an adverse witness who’s a competent expert, but Harry did what he could. Both doctors acknowledged they were being paid by the Commonwealth for their testimony. Both admitted they had testified in dozens of cases for the prosecution. Dr. Post said he’s appeared only once on behalf of a criminal defendant; Dr. Turner not at all.

Most significantly, both experts conceded that Buck Hammond had suffered severe trauma just hours before the shooting. The ultimate human tragedy, they agreed.

Stanley declined redirect and thanked both physicians repeatedly for their testimony. Then, with his tiny eyes beaming and his stance triumphant, he rested his case. For a moment, I thought he might take a bow. It’s time-at last-for my deferred opening.

The podium is against the wall opposite the jury box. Harry offers to move it for me, but I shake my head. I’d rather be free to walk around while I open, move closer to the jurors than the podium would allow. Besides, I intend to be brief.

I leave my seat and walk toward the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen…”

Beatrice’s gavel pounds a half dozen times. It sounds like an angry woodpecker.

“Counsel,” she barks, “what are you doing?”

A moment passes before I realize she’s speaking to me. “Getting started,” I tell her.

“Getting what started?” Beatrice’s bird eyes are as wide as I’ve ever seen them.

“Our case. Our defense. The Commonwealth just rested.” Stanley’s wrap-up was pretty dramatic. I can’t imagine how the judge missed it.

“I’m well aware of that, Counsel. You’ll recall I was here when it happened.”

I turn to Harry. I’m at a loss. He’s not, though. His expression says he knows exactly what’s going on.

The judge leans back in her chair, arms folded across her robe, gavel still in hand. “Call your first witness, Ms. Nickerson.”

“But Your Honor, we haven’t opened.”

“You most certainly have.”

“No, we haven’t, Judge. We deferred.”

Beatrice holds up her copy of the trial transcript. “You did no such thing.”

“Your Honor, if you’ll give me a moment”-I move to the bench and reach up for the printout-“I’ll show you the spot. The defense opted to defer opening. Judge Long allowed it.”

Beatrice yanks the transcript backward with both hands, as if it’s her purse and I’m about to snatch it. “Judge Long is not presiding over this trial, Counsel.” She enunciates each word carefully, as if she’s speaking to a dull-witted child. “I am.”

I stare at her, silent, and I realize this isn’t about me. And it’s certainly not about Buck Hammond. It’s about Judge Beatrice Nolan. She holds the reins in this courtroom. She wants us to know that her power is absolute.

For the moment, at least, she’s correct.

“You addressed the jury, Counsel. If you didn’t say everything you should have said, that’s too bad. But it’s your problem, not mine. You don’t get a second shot.” She leans toward me and bangs her gavel, just once, for emphasis. “Not in
my
courtroom.”

Harry gets to his feet. He shakes his head at me, his eyes telling me to forget it. There’s no point in trying to reason with Beatrice. Let’s get on with the case.

It doesn’t feel right, though. I didn’t intend to be that brief.

Harry buttons his suit coat and straightens his tie-almost-as he leaves the table. “Your Honor, the defense calls Dr. Martin Simmons to the stand.”

The doctor rises in the gallery and heads for the witness box.

Harry moves toward the front of the room, his eyes still telling me to let it go. The judge stares down at me, almost smiling, victorious.

Harry stops on his way to the witness box and leans toward me. “I could be wrong,” he whispers, “but I don’t think she likes you.”

Dr. Martin Simmons is Chief of Psychiatry at Massachusetts General Hospital. He’s a handsome man in his mid-sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a friendly manner, and a build that suggests he takes good care of himself. More important, he’s an intelligent, compassionate person. His sympathy for Buck and Patty is genuine.

The doctor has spent a lot of time with Buck, more hours than necessary for trial purposes. Buck said he didn’t mind those hours; he sort of liked thinking about the doctor’s questions. He told me he felt a little better after each session with Dr. Simmons. Buck surprised himself, I think, when he said that.

Harry marched through the preliminaries-the doctor’s education and professional experience-quickly. He wants to get to the point before Stanley-and Beatrice-start interrupting.

Dr. Simmons just told the panel that Buck was in the midst of a psychotic episode when he shot Hector Monteros.

Harry pauses to let the jurors absorb the doctor’s testimony. A few jot quick notes.

“Tell us, Dr. Simmons, what is a psychotic episode?”

The doctor nods and turns toward the jury, his expression animated. He’s eager to share the specifics of his field with people who are interested. But I’m not sure these people are. The jurors are all listening, that much is clear. But most of their faces are blank. A few look downright skeptical.

“An individual suffering a psychotic episode experiences impaired contact with reality during a specific period of time. The duration of a psychotic episode varies from patient to patient, as does the degree of impairment. If impairment is limited, the individual loses contact with a fragment of reality but retains clarity with regard to other facets of life. In serious cases, impairment can be complete. The individual’s mind is severed from the real world.”

“Before we get into the specifics of Mr. Hammond’s diagnosis, Doctor, can you tell the jury what precipitated his psychotic episode?”

Stanley stands, clears his throat. “Your Honor, please, we’ve heard all this before.”

“Approach.” Judge Nolan sighs and shakes her head at Harry as he and Stanley near the bench. She leans toward them, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Her pinched expression says it all. She doesn’t know what Harry’s up to, but she’s sure it’s nothing good.

“Mr. Madigan, where are you going with this?”

I wonder why the judge bothered to call a sidebar. She hasn’t lowered her voice at all. If I can hear her, then the jurors can too. And the press, no doubt, isn’t missing a word. We’ll hear this exchange again-more than once-on the evening news.

“Where am I going?” Harry doesn’t lower his voice either. In fact, he’s louder. “My client has raised a temporary insanity defense, Your Honor. This is our expert psychiatrist. I’m
going
into the relevant facts.” Harry’s volume has amped up another notch. If old Beatrice plans to shut him down, everyone in the room is going to hear his protests.

Stanley clears his throat again; he wants a turn. “Your Honor, the Chief of Police testified at considerable length about the boy. We don’t need to hear it again.” Stanley shakes his head. “Besides, it’s inflammatory.”

“Inflammatory?” Harry’s shouting now, his hands in the air. “Of course it’s inflammatory.”

Harry wheels around and points at Buck, then looks straight at the jury. He’s not even pretending to address the judge. “This man’s son-an innocent seven-year-old child-was raped and murdered. You bet it’s inflammatory. Inflammatory enough to push a reasonable man over the edge, make him snap. That, Judge”-Harry turns and glares at Beatrice again-“is the point.”

Judge Nolan sits up straight, her nostrils flaring. She’s not happy about Harry’s speech. And she agrees with Stanley. She’d agree with Satan if he were arguing with Harry.

“You will lower your voice, Counsel.” Judge Nolan actually puckers her lips when she says this, but it’s pretty clear she doesn’t plan to kiss anyone.

“I’ll do no such thing, Judge.” Harry turns and points at Buck again. “You have no right to shut down this man’s defense.”

Now he’s done it.

The judge holds up both hands, palms out, to call for silence. She removes her bifocals and sets them carefully on the bench. She leans on her elbows, eyes closed, and massages first the bridge of her nose, then her right temple. Her message wouldn’t be any clearer if it were flashing in neon: Harry Madigan, not ten minutes into his direct, has given her a migraine.

Finally the judge opens her eyes. She takes a deep breath, folds her thin arms across her black robe, and tucks her hands inside its wide sleeves. “Mr. Madigan,” she says, her voice lower but still perfectly audible, “no one is shutting down this man’s defense. But I will shut you down, sir, if you get on your soapbox again.”

She keeps her eyes on Harry and points at Dr. Simmons. “If your witness has a medical opinion, Mr. Madigan, you’d better get to it. This case is about the shooting death of Hector Monteros. We’re not here to belabor the details of an unrelated murder.”

“Belabor the details? Unrelated murder?” Harry’s bellowing now, again directing his words to the panel, not Beatrice.

The jurors’ gazes move between Harry and the judge, question marks on their faces. They seem unsure what to make of this shouting match. The elderly schoolteacher watches Beatrice carefully. I’m worried about her.

Harry turns to look at me and it’s my turn to give him a sign-an index finger pressed vertically against my lips. It means shut up and go where she’s pushing you; we need the medical opinion. Continue this argument later.

Telling Harry to let go of a fight with Beatrice is like asking a hungry dog to abandon a ham bone. He frowns at my signal and clenches his teeth. After a moment, though, he nods and sighs. We do need the medical opinion. He may as well get it into evidence. He could land in a jail cell anytime now.

Harry turns his back on Beatrice and Stanley, dismissing them both, and walks toward the witness box. Stanley stands alone by the bench, looking stranded for a moment, before returning to his seat. Beatrice, of course, looks perturbed.

“Dr. Simmons, did you examine Mr. Hammond at my request?” Harry’s voice is almost normal now; he’s working at it. His fists are clenched but he’s trying hard to appear relaxed, as if the verbal sparring of the past few minutes never happened, as if his prior question isn’t begging for an answer.

“I did.” The doctor looks puzzled, then relieved. He doesn’t know why the battle ended, but he’s glad it did.

“When did you examine him, sir?”

“On four separate occasions.” The doctor opens his chart on the ledge of the witness box and pulls a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket. He settles them on the edge of his nose and looks down to read. “September tenth, sixteenth, and twenty-fourth of this year, for about two hours each time. Again on October eighth, a little longer that day.”

“More than eight hours of clinical evaluation?”

“That’s right.” The doctor leans back in the chair, glasses once again in his hands.

“And did you reach a conclusion, Doctor, about Mr. Hammond’s mental state on the morning of June twenty-first, the morning of the shooting?”

Dr. Simmons is a seasoned witness. He knows the drill. Answer only the question asked.

“I did.”

“Can you state that conclusion to a reasonable degree of medical certainty?”

“I can.”

Harry pauses and turns, beaming at Beatrice. “Judge Nolan is awfully eager for you to share your opinion with us.”

Dr. Simmons looks up at the judge, unsure. She glares back at him, arms still folded across her chest, hands still tucked in her sleeves. After a moment, the doctor gives up on her and turns back to the jurors. They assess him critically.

It’s plain to everyone in the room that Beatrice doesn’t like this doctor and, for the jurors, that makes him suspect. Beatrice is, after all, the judge. The robe imparts a great deal of authority, commands a great deal of respect. No matter who’s wearing it.

“As I said, Mr. Hammond suffered a psychotic episode that morning. It was a limited episode in that he lost contact with a fragment of reality-and had a jumbled perspective on other fragments-but he didn’t lose everything. He was still functioning.”

“Which fragment did he lose?”

“His son’s death. Mr. Hammond’s mind rejected it outright.”

“Denial?”

Dr. Simmons shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t that. Denial is a normal reaction to death-particularly a death so unexpected. What Mr. Hammond experienced that morning was an actual break from reality. In his world-in his mental universe, if you will-the boy’s death hadn’t happened. It wasn’t a fact he rejected; it was a fact that didn’t exist in the first place.”

“And which fragments were jumbled?”

“The events of the prior forty hours. With the exception of his son’s death, every event was clear in Mr. Hammond’s mind when he stood beside the airport hangar that morning. But the timeline was mixed up; the occurrences were out of order.”

“For example?”

“The most obvious example was also the most significant: his son’s abduction. Mr. Hammond knew Billy had been grabbed by a dangerous man. He knew his boy’s life was in jeopardy. But he had no handle on how long the boy had been gone.”

“And he didn’t know his son was dead?”

“No.” Dr. Simmons turns from Harry to the panel and takes a deep breath. “When Mr. Hammond raised his rifle that morning, he believed he was fighting for his son’s life.” The doctor shakes his head. “It’s hard to understand. I know that.” He gestures toward the defense table, as if the best evidence of what he’s telling them is seated here. The jurors’ eyes follow, settle on Buck.