Geraldine glowered at him as the answers began.
“I’m wrongly accused,” ventured one brave soul. “I am, too,” said another. “Me, too.” “Nothing wrong with where I parked.”
They all started talking at the judge then, a chorus of voices growing to a full crescendo in about ten seconds.
“Just as I thought,” the judge announced, his booming Baptist minister’s baritone silencing the room once more. “We are here today, brothers and sisters, to right the wrong that has been done to each and every one of you.”
At this point I thought I had seen it all. But I was wrong. Judge Leon Long turned his back to the crowd and, for the first time, ascended to the bench. He took a small figure from the pocket of his robe and wound the key in its back, set it on the edge of the raised judge’s bench, released his grip on it, and music began. Judge Long stepped back to enjoy the show, his smile enormous.
Santa Claus. An instrumental version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” lilted through the courtroom as the small mechanical Santa Claus marched the length of the judge’s bench, turned around, and marched back.
The judge’s arms were in the air again, this time brandishing a blank parking ticket. “Brothers and sisters,” he implored, “dispose of these false allegations.”
With that, the judge ripped his parking ticket in half, in half again, and again, until he held nothing but tiny squares of white confetti. After just a moment of stunned silence, those in the gallery began shredding their own tickets, hooting and hollering in the process.
I left my seat and joined Geraldine, who hadn’t moved a muscle. “He does it every goddamned year,” she said, her face like stone.
“Every year?”
“It’s his little Christmas gift to the citizens of Barnstable County,” she told me, her voice barely audible above the ruckus from the gallery.
“But the magistrate?” I questioned. “The flu?”
“No flu. Just a day off.”
“But the settlement-on the courthouse steps?”
“No settlement,” she said, “just a brief recess.”
Judge Leon Long threw his handful of confetti in the air then, and everyone in the room followed suit. Tiny squares of white paper snowed down on us as Judge Long left the bench and joined the crowd in the gallery, shaking hands, clapping shoulders, and exchanging wishes for happy holidays. Santa Claus continued his march and the music played on.
Even then, even as a prosecutor, I liked everything about Judge Leon Long. Now that I’m defending Buck Hammond, I view Judge Long as a godsend. In Judge Long’s courtroom, the presumption of innocence is more than a constitutional protection. It’s a sacred guarantee. And that means Buck Hammond has a fighting chance.
Judge Leon Long flashes his radiant smile when he takes the bench for jury selection, and I laugh out loud. I can’t help it. I still remember Geraldine’s final words that day, as she headed for the courtroom door. “Proceed, Martha,” she called over her shoulder. “Convict the bastards. I just stopped by to make sure you and the good judge were properly introduced.”
Chapter 13
In some courtrooms, jury selection in a case like Buck Hammond’s would take days. In Judge Leon Long’s courtroom, we’ll wrap it up before lunch. I know this from experience. “People are fundamentally decent,” Judge Long is fond of announcing. “No need to search for skeletons in the average citizen’s closet. Oh, you’d find plenty. But old bones won’t tell you anything about a person’s ability to be fair and impartial.”
During my decade as a prosecutor, I tried at least a dozen cases before Judge Long. I am used to his rapid-fire approach to jury impanelment. And to tell the truth, I tend to agree with his assessment of the average person’s ability to judge fairly. J. Stanley Edgarton III, though, does not. The scowl he wears this morning makes that abundantly clear.
We all agreed there was no need to interrogate the potential jurors about what they’ve seen on television or read in the newspapers. They’ve all seen the footage dozens of times. They’ve all read the reports and the editorials for weeks on end, first when it all happened, again as the trial date approached. We’d have to go to Mars to find a juror who hasn’t been saturated with media opinion about the now infamous shooting on live TV. The tabloids are calling it a modern-day public execution.
Instead, Judge Leon Long asks the first prospective juror if he can disregard what he has heard from the press, and base his verdict solely on the evidence presented in this courtroom. Of course he can, the juror claims. The entire panel nods in agreement.
Judge Long asks the next candidate in the box if she understands that Buck Hammond is presumed to be innocent as he sits here in the courtroom today. She is dumbfounded. “But he isn’t,” she blurts out. “We all saw him do it.”
Buck stiffens between Harry and me. Stanley gets to his feet, but Judge Leon Long doesn’t acknowledge him. “Thank you, Mrs. Holway,” the judge says. “Thank you for your candor. You are excused with the sincere thanks of the court.”
Mrs. Holway appears to take offense at her dismissal.
Stanley intervenes on her behalf. “Your Honor,” he says, his voice rising in pitch, “perhaps I should voir dire this juror?”
Stanley is hoping to rehabilitate Mrs. Holway, get her to say that of course she has an open mind, of course she won’t make a decision until all of the evidence is in. Mrs. Holway is a juror J. Stanley Edgarton III wants to keep. He likes the way she thinks.
Harry and I agreed that I will handle jury selection and he will deliver the opening statement. That way the jurors will hear from both of us on day one. Ordinarily, I’d be on my feet by now to oppose Stanley’s request for voir dire, to state my opposition on the record before the judge has a chance to rule. But Judge Leon Long is shaking his head at Stanley-losing patience, if I’m reading him correctly-so I stay put. Never argue with opposing counsel if the judge will do it for you. I have to remember to thank Geraldine.
“Mrs. Holway is not a juror, Mr. Edgarton,” the judge says. “I just excused her.”
“But Your Honor…”
“That’s all, Mr. Edgarton.”
Stanley has the good sense to sit down, and Mrs. Holway leaves the courtroom in a huff.
Judge Long’s courtroom clerk, Wanda Morgan, selects a new name from the glass bowl on her desk. The new potential juror comes from the gallery to the box to replace Mrs. Holway. His juror résumé identifies him as a fifty-six-year-old restaurant owner. More important, he is the father of three adult sons.
We will select fourteen jurors this morning, including two who will be told-only at the close of the case-that they are alternates. Judge Long addresses the panel first. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, smiling at them, “let me tell you at the outset that the lawyers handling this case have assured me that this trial will take three days, no longer.”
The judge points at Stanley, then at Harry and me, and we all nod our acquiescence.
“That means,” the judge continues, “that they’ll finish not later than Thursday afternoon, at which time the case will be turned over to you. Now, no one can predict how long your deliberations may take. But I believe it’s safe to assume we’ll all be home for Christmas on Saturday morning.”
Stanley leans over his table and stares at Buck, his expression suggesting that Buck shouldn’t include himself in the judge’s assumption. Buck doesn’t look back at him.
Next, the judge conducts a general inquiry into matters such as the presumption of innocence, the burden of proof, and reasonable doubt, then asks each potential juror a series of more specific, and more personal, questions. Only then do Stanley and I get our turns.
Each of us is allowed just two follow-up questions per juror. Judge Long is clear about the two-question limit, but Stanley doesn’t seem to believe it. No such cap exists, apparently, in any New Bedford courtroom. Stanley begins a third question with every candidate, and the judge cuts him off every time. Stanley whines like a thirsty dog each time it happens, but the judge shuts him down anyway, always with that dazzling smile.