“And so, Your Honor,” Geraldine concludes, “the Commonwealth respectfully prays that the defendant be held over without bail, as she poses a clear and immediate danger to the community.”
I’m on my feet. Geraldine is out of line, even by her own standards. Bail isn’t an issue here; murder is a nonbailable offense. Never mind the “clear and immediate danger to the community” nonsense.
Judge Long is way ahead of me. He bangs his gavel even before I voice my objection. “Attorney Schilling,” he says, “that’s enough.”
I sit again, certain the judge’s admonition will rein her in.
“She’s a cold, calculating murderer,” Geraldine adds, facing our table. As fate would have it, she’s facing the cameras, too.
So much for the judge’s admonition. “Your Honor!” I’m up again, but I doubt my words can even be heard over the explosion of commentary from the spectators.
Judge Long is on his feet now too, pounding his gavel with abandon. “Enough, Ms. Schilling,” he repeats.
Geraldine fires the slightest of smiles at our table.
“Murderess,” Louisa hisses.
Maybe I imagined it.
Geraldine’s green eyes smolder. “What did you say?”
Maybe I didn’t imagine it.
Louisa stands beside me and I grab her shoulder—hard—to tell her to shut up. She’s not taking my advice today, though. None of it.
“Murderess,” she repeats calmly.
“Pardon me?” Geraldine’s eyes ignite now. She seems to think Louisa is accusing her of murder. Even I know that’s not the case, though I understand precious little else about this scene.
“What did you say?” Geraldine demands again.
“If you’re going to accuse me of such dreadful acts,” Louisa says, her voice low and steady, “do it right. If I had done the things you say I’ve done—which, for your information, I most certainly did not—I would not be a murderer. I’d be a murderess.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Geraldine Schilling speechless before. And I’m fairly certain no one else in this courtroom has either.
“Now here’s a new wrinkle,” Harry mutters from his chair behind us. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”
Louisa wrests her shoulder from my grasp. “If you call me a murderer once more—” she says.
“Your Honor!” The Kydd shouts and jumps out of his chair. He grabs Louisa’s elbow so hard he jolts her into silence. “Mrs. Rawlings isn’t feeling well.” He’s still shouting, though there’s no need. The rest of us couldn’t be any quieter. “With the court’s permission, she’d like to leave the proceedings at this time.”
The Kydd moves Louisa away from our table and propels her toward the side door, motioning frantically for the startled matron to come take her off his hands. She does. And they exit before the equally surprised judge utters a word. “Permission granted,” he says as the door slams shut.
The Kydd returns to our table, winded and flushed, and I give him a grateful nod. That was quick thinking on his part and I’m fairly certain it averted disaster. Louisa’s defense is already on life-support. Threatening any prosecutor would be a mistake. Threatening Geraldine would be fatal.
“I’ve heard enough,” Judge Long says, taking his seat again. He looks out at Geraldine and shakes his head. “No, I misspoke,” he says. “Let me amend that. I’ve heard more than enough.”
Geraldine is still standing. She looks up at the bench and gives him her best angelic face, as if she has no idea what he’s talking about.
The judge turns to Old String Tie, who’s been dutifully tapping away for the past hour, to issue his ruling. “The defendant will be bound over,” he says. “Louisa Coleman Rawlings is hereby remanded to the custody of the Barnstable County House of Correction to await trial.” The judge bangs his gavel again, just once. “We’re adjourned.”
We stand as he leaves the bench. He reaches the door to his chambers and turns to face us again. “I want a scheduling conference in the morning,” he says, “so we can keep this thing moving. Be here at eight. And bring your three Cs.”
Geraldine looks at the judge and frowns before she returns to the prosecutors’ table. Judge Leon Long always tells attorneys to bring their three Cs to scheduling conferences. And Geraldine Schilling always frowns when he does.
All important dates for a case are pinned down during the scheduling conference. The discovery cutoff, the pretrial-motions deadline, and the start of trial itself are among them. Trials run more efficiently—and presumably more effectively—when both sides have enough time to do what needs doing. That’s why Judge Long asks each attorney to show up with three Cs: common sense, a calendar, and a conscience.
CHAPTER 25
Wednesday, October 18
Harry slaps this morning’s Boston Herald on our table. Even before I look down at it, I know the news isn’t good. There it is. Lou McCabe’s front-page headline. Over the top, even for Lou.
Goody Hallett Dances Again!
A low moan seeps into the room. I pause, thinking it sounds familiar, and then realize it’s coming from my throat. I feel a sudden need to go home to pull the blankets over my head, but the pendulum clock behind the jury box says it’s just five minutes before eight—A.M. I plant my elbows on the table and bury my face in my hands.
The Kydd wheels his chair closer to mine and leans on my armrest so he can read Lou McCabe’s venomous version of journalism. “Who the hell is Goody Hallett?” he asks.
I sit up straight again and face him. “She’s the little old woman of Nauset Sea.”
“A witch,” Harry adds.
“A what?” The Kydd starts to laugh, certain we’re joking, and then stops. We’re not.
“Goody Hallett is a local legend,” Harry tells him. “Cape Codders believe she lived here during the eighteenth century—all hundred years of it. She made her home along the shoals, dancing all night—every night—across the beaches and over the sand dunes.”
“In scarlet shoes,” I pitch in.
“Scarlet shoes?” The Kydd still looks like he’s sure this is a joke.
“That part doesn’t really matter,” Harry says.
“Yes, it does,” I correct him.
“Well, okay, it matters to Marty. She’s something of a clotheshorse. Anyhow, legend has it that old Goody had a penchant for conjuring up nor’easters. And an appetite for the souls of doomed sailors.”
“The souls of doomed sailors,” the Kydd repeats. He looks like he’s starting to worry about us.
“Right,” Harry answers. “Goody would whip up the weather whenever she got the whim and the ships near Cape Cod’s shoals would find themselves in serious trouble.”
The Kydd knits his brow, apparently having a little trouble of his own. Harry doesn’t notice. “And then old Goody would hang a lantern from a whale’s tail,” he continues.
“A whale’s tail.” The Kydd checks in with me to see if he heard correctly. I nod. He did.
“That’s right,” Harry says. “And to the men on the vessels struggling at sea, it looked like a lighthouse. Goody lured them to certain destruction and then gambled with the Devil for their souls.”
“The Devil.” The Kydd checks in again, and I take over.
“Word is that Goody outgambled the Devil and, eventually, he got sick of losing. He strangled Goody and, the following year, a pair of scarlet shoes turned up in a dead whale’s belly.”