And tackle them he does. A criminal defendant in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts couldn’t handpick a better judge than Leon Long. In his courtroom, the Commonwealth’s burden of proof is onerous, the presumption of innocence sacrosanct. He is one of a dwindling number of jurists who still believe the Bill of Rights exists for good reason. He has a myriad of fans in the county, many of them courthouse workers and members of the criminal defense bar. Harry and I are among them.
Geraldine Schilling isn’t. It’s not that Geraldine doesn’t like Judge Long. Deep down, she does. But she’d like him a hell of a lot better if he’d get out of her way, if he were as jaded—as uninterested—as most other judges. She’d like him even more if he’d retire.
She doesn’t seem to mind being in his courtroom today, though. She’s here with her newest sidekick, Clarence Wexler, a nervous young fellow who’s been out of law school all of five months. Clarence is busy sorting out documents, arranging them in neat piles on the table for Geraldine’s convenience. She ignores him, her nose buried in a police report.
The Kydd and I both used to work for Geraldine. We were ADAs back when she was the First Assistant. I prosecuted cases for more than a decade, until I resigned a little over a year ago. The Kydd worked for her for about eighteen months, until Harry and I stole him last December. Geraldine is still furious with both of us about that. Then again, Geraldine is usually annoyed with me over one thing or another. And she’s eternally mad at Harry.
When it comes to the Kydd, though, I can’t really blame her. Even now, when he’s on my to-strangle list, I have to admit he’s a hot commodity. He’s a quick study, a competent litigator, and a damned hard worker. Geraldine hasn’t had much luck with ADAs since we snagged him. I don’t see a boatload of promise in Clarence Wexler either.
Harry bursts through the double doors just as the bailiff tells us to rise. He hurries down the center aisle and drops his battered schoolbag on the last seat against the bar, two down from me, on the other side of the Kydd. He leans forward and winks, buttoning his suit jacket. “Showtime,” he stage-whispers.
Judge Long takes the bench and tells us to sit. There are only about a dozen people scattered around the room: the two prosecutors at their table, a half dozen defense lawyers in the chairs at the bar, a few curiosity seekers in the gallery, and Steven Collier, the money guy, in the front row. Louisa would have been allowed a single phone call when she got to lockup. Apparently she called her financial advisor. It occurs to me that the Kydd might not be the only sailor in this port.
Judge Long turns his radiant smile on each of us in turn, white teeth in dazzling contrast with his ebony skin. He reserves his final beam for Geraldine. She frowns at him.
Wanda Morgan is the courtroom clerk. She recites a docket number and then calls out Commonwealth versus DeMateo. One of the lawyers seated near us moves to the defense table and sets his briefcase on it. He’s Bert Saunders, an overweight, perpetually tired-looking man who’s been around the courthouse for as long as I can remember. “Saunders for the defense,” he announces as he takes his place in front of the bench. “Your Honor, we have a problem with this one.”
Judge Long chuckles and scans the paperwork the clerk has handed him. “I’m sure we do, Mr. Saunders. We have a problem with most of them, don’t we?”
Harry leans forward and whispers to the Kydd and me, “What are you two doing here?”
He hasn’t heard.
The Kydd looks at me and shakes his head. He’s not willing to be the messenger on this one.
I return Harry’s stare but say nothing. That’s all it takes.
“Uh-oh,” he says. He looks down at his shoes, then back up at me. “Uh-oh,” he repeats.
Sometimes Harry is downright eloquent. He stares at me for a moment and then raises one eyebrow. I know what he’s asking.
“First degree,” I whisper.
He winces.
Geraldine and Bert Saunders are arguing about marital privilege when the side door opens and two shackled arrestees—a man and a woman—shuffle into the courtroom. The DeMateos, I presume. They’re wearing street clothes, so they must have been picked up today. And they seem quite upset about it. They’re shouting at each other, apparently unaware that there’s a case in progress. Their case.
“I told you to shuddup,” the man yells over his shoulder at the woman.
“So what else is new?” she fires back. The missus seems to be missing a couple of teeth. Her esses aren’t quite right.
One of the court officers—visibly struggling to swallow his laughter—hurries to silence his charges. The DeMateos look surprised when he points to Judge Long. Their baffled expressions ask who the hell invited him to this meeting.
“See what I mean?” Bert Saunders says to the judge. “It can’t be done.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geraldine responds.
Geraldine doesn’t think much of Bert Saunders and she makes no effort to hide it. She turns away from him and speaks to the judge as if Bert isn’t in the room. “It’s a rolling domestic,” she says. “Nothing more complicated than that.”
A rolling domestic is a marital battle that happens to take place in a car—while it’s moving.
“Attorney Schilling,” Judge Long says, “it is more complicated than that. Far more complicated.”
Bert Saunders nods up at the judge, vindicated.
“An unlicensed handgun, six thousand dollars in cash, and two kilos of cocaine,” the judge continues. “I’d say this one is a little dicier than your average rolling domestic, Attorney Schilling.”
Sounds like the DeMateos operate a little mom-and-pop shop.
“I’m going to allow the motion to appoint separate counsel for the codefendant.”
Geraldine shakes her head at the judge, feigning resignation. Her argument was a loser from the beginning and she knows it. Defendants in joint possession of contraband—whether they’re married or not—are always entitled to separate counsel. Add the sticky wicket of marital privilege to the mix, and it’s a no-brainer. But Geraldine would argue against the existence of gravity if Bert Saunders were its proponent.
“Now let me see,” Judge Long says, looking over the flat rims of his half-glasses at the handful of us seated at the bar. His eyes settle on Harry, then move back to the paperwork on the bench. Harry doesn’t notice, though; he’s reading Rinky’s thick, tattered file. The Kydd elbows him.
It takes a second for Harry to digest what’s happening. “Oh no, Your Honor. Please. Don’t appoint me.”
Judge Long finishes writing, signs off with a flourish, and smiles at Harry. “I just did,” he says.
Harry’s on his feet. “But, Judge, I’m up to my eyeballs. I’m flat out.”
“That’s good,” Judge Long replies. “You know what they say about idle hands.”
Harry looks confused—as if maybe he doesn’t know what they say about idle hands—and Judge Long takes advantage of the momentary silence. “Mrs. DeMateo,” he says, “this is Mr. Madigan. He’s your new attorney.”
Mrs. DeMateo is wearing a crushed-velvet baby blue pantsuit with matching eye shadow. She takes a moment to look Harry up and down, then turns to the judge, shaking her head. “He ain’t too happy about it,” she complains.
The judge hands the file back to Wanda Morgan. “Not to worry,” he says. “Mr. Madigan will take good care of you.”
Mrs. DeMateo smacks her lips and stares up at Judge Long. She doesn’t buy it.
“Mr. Madigan,” the judge continues, checking his list, “you’re here on…”
“Snow,” Harry answers, looking like he can’t quite believe what just happened. “I’m here for Rinky.”