“Give us until noon,” I urge him again.
He looks at his watch. “Eleven-thirty. And it might turn out to be the old hurry-up-and-wait routine. I’ve got a full docket this morning. But we’re going to get this thing on track—one way or the other—before we break for lunch.”
With that, Judge Long buzzes Wanda and tells her to send in the court reporter. Seconds later, Old String Tie joins us, a stenographer whose moniker stems from his self-imposed work uniform. He’s labored here, in the Superior Courthouse, for about a century. I’ve never seen him crack a smile.
String Tie perches on the end of an empty chair and purses his lips at the armrests. He’s annoyed. Court reporters sit on stools; chairs with armrests inhibit their elbows. Nonetheless, he sets up his narrow machine between his scrawny legs without complaint. He looks up at the judge, waiting.
Judge Long reads the docket number and case name from the paperwork on his desk, then dictates a short memo reflecting his decision to recess for the morning. The delay is necessary, he opines, so defense counsel can consult with her client regarding newly disclosed evidence. String Tie dutifully taps it all into his machine, then looks up at the judge again, fingers poised to continue. “That’s it,” Judge Long tells him. “That’s all for now.”
String Tie nods, packs up as silently and efficiently as he set up, and then leaves us without a word.
I stand to leave too.
“Attorney Nickerson,” the judge says, and I turn back to face him. He looks up at Geraldine, who’s still perched on the edge of his desk. She’s looking at me, smug.
Judge Long turns his attention back to me and lays a hand on the pile of documents in front of him. “Officially we’ve adjourned so you and your client can discuss the newest lab report.”
I nod.
“And you should do that,” he continues. “But, like it or not, I’m going to offer a word of advice here.”
A word of advice from Leon Long is fine with me. He’s probably the most fair-minded human being I know. And what’s the worst that could happen? Geraldine might think he’s in her camp, might think she has a leg up on us? I muster a small smile to encourage him to continue.
Once again, he glances at Geraldine and then back at me. “Regarding the Commonwealth’s proposal,” he says, “be sure to discuss that, too. Explain it to your client. Tell her to think about it. Tell her to think long and hard.”
CHAPTER 22
The Kydd and Louisa were leaning forward over the defense table when I emerged from chambers, their heads bent low, almost touching. They were engrossed in discussion, oblivious to the chaos in the room behind them. I realized as I approached the table, though, that they were actually immersed in a monologue. The Kydd was doing all the talking, Louisa not uttering a word. She sat stone-still at first. But when I got closer, she began shaking her ponytailed head, over and over.
She looked up at me when I joined them, dark brown eyes brimming, and the unbridled alarm on her face told me two things at once. The Kydd had already explained the significance of Herb’s blood in the Queen’s Spa. And Louisa had no idea how it could’ve gotten there. That was more than two hours ago. She still doesn’t.
We’re in lockup, in a windowless space the county passes off as a meeting room. It’s about the size of a broom closet and it reeks of disinfectant. Louisa sits upright, posture perfect, at a small stainless steel table, the kind you might find laden with detergent in an industrial laundry. The Kydd slouches in his chair across from her. I’m between them, facing a cracked concrete wall painted government-issue green, and I’m just about talked out.
Louisa’s mantra has been constant since we got here. She couldn’t cut a deal with Geraldine even if she wanted to. And, for the record, she does not. She can’t finger a muscleman because she doesn’t know such a person. She had nothing to do with the attack on Herb. And she knows of no one who would want him dead.
It’s ten past eleven; our time is evaporating. I want to review the evidence with Louisa once more, and I’ll have to do it quickly. Every once in a while it’s possible to look back on a case and see the precise juncture in the road where it took an irreversible turn toward disaster. I’m afraid we’re at that intersection now. I’m afraid Louisa will look back in a year’s time and wish she’d cooperated with the Commonwealth, wish she’d ransomed her golden years. I’m afraid I’ll look back too, and wonder why I wasn’t able to convince her.
My old wooden chair creaks and the sound seems exaggerated in the stillness of the compact room. I press my hands into the armrests and stretch, ready to delve into my “save your own skin if you can” speech again, but Louisa beats me to the punch. She stands and paces the short distance to the far wall, staring at the concrete floor. “I have a question,” she says, not looking at us. “And I want an honest answer.”
Fair enough. We’re all entitled to that much. “Ask it,” I tell her.
She’s quiet a moment, takes a deep breath, and then looks up. “Do you two believe me?” She looks first at the Kydd, and then at me, as if there were someone else in the room who might field her query.
When I first moved to the defense bar, I was surprised by the number of clients who did not ask this question. It’s one I would ask, I’ve always thought, if the tables were turned. Now that I’m faced with a client who wants to know, though, I’d rather not answer. “Louisa,” I tell her, “what we think doesn’t matter.”
She steps backward abruptly, as if I’ve slapped her. “Yes, it does,” she says, her voice down to a whisper. “It matters to me.”
“I believe you,” the Kydd volunteers. And he means it. There’s not a trace of hesitation in his voice, not a glimmer of doubt on his face.
It occurs to me that the Kydd’s certainty might be ever so slightly influenced by matters outside the evidence, but I don’t say so.
Louisa nods at him, then turns back to me. She wants my answer too. “It doesn’t matter” isn’t good enough. She presses a hand against her throat, tapered fingers flat under the collar of her orange jumpsuit, and waits.
For a moment, no one says anything. And in the sea of silence that engulfs us, I realize I have to give her two answers. I do believe her. But I shouldn’t.
“I don’t think you’re lying to us.” I’m careful to meet her gaze while I respond. “My gut says you’re telling us the truth.”
She nods, only partially satisfied. She senses there’s more.
“But the evidence points in the other direction,” I continue. “All of it.”
She reexamines the floor.
“We’d be doing you a disservice if we didn’t tell you the truth.”
When she looks up, her eyes are brimming again. “Then tell me,” she says, almost laughing as her tears spill over. “By all means, darlin’, do tell me the truth.”
I decide to leave my chair first. She’s too tall for me to stand eye to eye with her, but I get as close as I can. “If you are convicted of murder one, Louisa, you will waste away in the women’s penitentiary until you’ve drawn your last breath. The Barnstable County House of Correction will become a distant, and fond, memory.”
Her eyes stay locked with mine. She doesn’t flinch.
“And twelve jurors faced with this evidence won’t have a choice, Louisa. They will convict you. That is the truth.”
CHAPTER 23
This morning’s crowd has thinned by the time the Kydd and I return to the main courtroom, a testament to the fact that at least a fraction of today’s early birds hold down day jobs. The front benches are still crowded, but there are a few seats unoccupied in the back. No one’s standing in the aisles anymore except the photographers, who are there by choice. And the chairs at the bar, where attorneys wait for their cases to be called, are empty. The Kydd moves Harry’s old schoolbag to one of them so we can set up at the defense table.