The judge smiles at the mention of Rinky’s name. “Call the Snow matter next,” he tells Wanda. She leaves her desk and consults with one of the court officers. He hurries through the side door, presumably to retrieve Rinky from the ranks of those waiting to face the music.
The guards herd the not-so-happy couple toward the side door. “Mrs. DeMateo,” Judge Long says as she passes, “Mr. Madigan has other business to attend to right now. He’ll come see you when he’s through, so the two of you can get acquainted.”
She pauses in the doorway, looks Harry up and down again, and then smirks at him. Her expression says she ain’t too happy about him either.
Rinky Snow stumbles into the courtroom as Mrs. DeMateo exits, the two of them eyeing each other warily. Rinky’s been here since Saturday night, so he’s wearing the standard prison-issue orange jumpsuit. He walks freely, no shackles on his ankles, but his wrists are cuffed behind his back. The guards know Rinky well. He wouldn’t run, but he’d haul off and deck one of them in a heartbeat.
They deliver Rinky to the defense table, where Harry is waiting. When Rinky sits, Harry rests a hand on his shoulder and whispers in his ear, both gestures no other mortal would get away with.
Geraldine jumps up like she’s been waiting all day for this one. And she has. At least since she and Harry had their little phone spat this morning.
“Your Honor,” she says, approaching the bench, “Mr. Snow is charged with assault with a dangerous weapon, to wit, a knife, to wit…”
Geraldine stands still and glares over her shoulder at Rinky, a practiced dramatic pause.
“…this knife.” She passes an evidence bag up to Judge Long.
Rinky is on his feet before Harry can stop him. “Hey,” Rinky shouts at the judge, “that’s mine.”
Everyone freezes. It’s unlikely that Harry was planning a mistaken identity defense, but if he was, he isn’t anymore.
“That’s mine,” Rinky shouts again, in case we didn’t hear him the first time.
Judge Long sets both the evidence bag and his glasses on the bench. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and massages the bridge of his nose. I know Judge Long; he’s battling an urge to laugh out loud. And he’s giving Harry a chance to tell his client to shut the hell up.
Rinky isn’t taking Harry’s advice at the moment, though. “Where’d you get that?” he demands of Geraldine.
She ignores him. “The defendant assaulted two women with that knife in Chatham on Saturday evening.”
Now Harry’s on his feet. “He didn’t assault anybody.”
Rinky’s still standing. “Where’d you get that?” he insists again. “I been looking for that!”
Geraldine continues as if Harry and Rinky don’t exist. “The women were on Main Street,” she says, “at about six-thirty. They’d just attended a wedding at St. Christopher’s Chapel. We have a dozen witnesses—other wedding guests—in addition to the two victims.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Harry says, “there weren’t any victims.”
“Where the hell did you get that?” Rinky’s shouting louder now and growing more agitated, banging his cuffed wrists together and rattling the chain between them.
Judge Long opens his eyes and pounds his gavel, just once. “I want quiet,” he whispers.
He gets it. Everyone in the room shuts up, even Rinky. His cuffs settle down too.
The judge spends a minute reading the police report, then he looks up at Rinky and points at Geraldine. “Mr. Snow,” he says, “do you know who this is?”
Rinky has faced Geraldine in this courtroom a hundred times before, but he gapes at her now without a flicker of recognition.
“This is Attorney Schilling,” Judge Long says. “Her first name is Geraldine. But do you know what we call her?”
Rinky’s eyes are glued to Geraldine. He shakes his head.
“We call her Geraldine the Guillotine.”
Geraldine groans. The Kydd stifles a guffaw. Harry doesn’t bother; he laughs out loud.
Rinky stares at Geraldine the Guillotine a moment longer, then looks back up at the judge and swallows.
“So I suggest, Mr. Snow, that you sit down now and remain quiet. Mr. Madigan is here to speak for you.”
Rinky checks in with Harry. Harry nods. Rinky sits.
“Now,” Judge Long says, looking first at Geraldine, then at Harry, “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do here.”
Harry leaves the defense table, walks up to the bench, and stands beside Geraldine. She steps away as if she’s certain he has leprosy.
“We’re going to continue this matter without a finding,” the judge says, “for six months.”
Harry nods in agreement.
Geraldine shakes her blond head, annoyed. “Did you look at that knife, Judge?”
“I most certainly did, Ms. Schilling. I also looked at the police report. There’s no suggestion here that Mr. Snow intended to harm anyone with that knife.”
She throws her hands in the air, the way a frustrated parent might when dealing with an impossible teenager.
“Mr. Snow,” the judge says.
Rinky stands again. “Do I get my knife back now?”
The Kydd tries to stifle another bout of laughter, but he’s only partially successful this time.
“No, you don’t, sir.” Judge Long leans forward on the bench, rests on his forearms. “You don’t get your knife back now and you don’t get your knife back later.”
Rinky looks perplexed.
“No knives, Mr. Snow. Mr. Madigan will explain what we’ve done here. But the bottom line is: no knives.”
What they’ve done here is humane. Rinky won’t do time on this charge—other than the two nights he’s already served—unless he gets in trouble again. And he will. When he does, he’ll be sentenced on whatever the new offense is as well as this one. But by then, just maybe, it will be winter. And though the Barnstable County House of Correction offers little in the way of creature comforts, it does have heat.
Of course, Rinky could just as easily land back here tonight.
Harry returns to the defense table and chats with Rinky in low tones while Judge Long finishes the paperwork and Geraldine collects her next stack of documents from Clarence Wexler. Rinky nods at Harry, asks loudly if he can go now, and then feigns attention again as Harry keeps talking. Rinky understands that Judge Long just let him off the proverbial hook. As for the rest of it—the continuance without a finding, the likelihood of doing real time in the future—he doesn’t give a damn.
A prison guard shows up at the table and Rinky shoos him away with both hands. The guard looks at Harry and chuckles. Harry tells Rinky he has to return to lockup. He has to change clothes, retrieve noncontraband possessions, and sign off on release forms. Harry points to the guard and tells Rinky to go with him.
Rinky complies, but he’s not happy about it. He glares over his shoulder at all of us as he leaves the courtroom. This is a trick, his eyes say, and he knows every last one of us is in on it.
Harry packs up his old schoolbag, then sends a mock salute in Geraldine’s direction. “Ms. Guillotine,” he says.
She scowls at him. Clarence does too.
Harry laughs and turns to leave. “Wish me luck,” he says, pausing beside the Kydd and me.
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Wish you luck? We’re the ones staring a first-degree murder charge in the face.”
“I know that,” he says as he heads for the center aisle. “But I have a date with Mrs. DeMateo.”
The Kydd laughs, but I don’t. I turn in my chair to watch Harry’s departure. He looks over his shoulder at me and his worried hazel eyes say it all. He can joke all he wants about Mrs. DeMateo but it’s not her case he’s preoccupied with at the moment. The case he’s concerned about is mine. And he’s not just concerned. He’s worried sick.