There don’t seem to be any hard feelings. The mood around the table is downright jovial. Even Opie’s enjoying himself, a steaming ceramic mug soon cradled in his hands.
Geraldine turns back to me. “Coffee? It’s decaf.”
I shake my head. “Your phone is out.”
“Yes, it is,” she says, smiling. “It’ll be fixed by morning. The nice man from the telephone company promised.”
The Chief drains his mug, puts it in the sink, then heads for the back door. “We’ll leave you alone now. You’ll call if you need anything?”
“I will,” Geraldine says. “I’ve got my cell.”
Her cell. Damn.
The other cops take the Chief’s cue. They abandon mugs in the sink and on the counter, then zip up jackets and reposition winter hats. They file out the back door, thanking Geraldine for her hospitality.
“Anytime,” she tells them, eyeing the wall clock. It’s three A.M.
Opie is the last to leave. I put a hand out to stop him as he passes and fish a business card from my wallet. “Mail me a ticket.”
He stares down at me a moment, then tucks the card in his shirt pocket and nods. “I might.”
Geraldine waits until he’s out the door, then lights a cigarette. “Martha,” she says, “your concern for my welfare is touching-truly. But you’ve got to stop imagining serial killers around every corner. Maybe you should see somebody, you know, a therapist or something.”
Geraldine says the word therapist as if it’s profane.
“I’m not talking about a serial killer, Geraldine. I’m talking about a revenge killer. Someone who passed long days in prison plotting to do in the people who landed him there.”
Serial killers and revenge killers are distinct creatures. A serial killer gets his thrills from the rituals of murder. His victims are chosen randomly, their identities unimportant. But for a revenge killer, the identity of each victim is critical. He has reasons for wanting a particular person-or group of persons-dead. To Geraldine, of course, this is a distinction that makes no difference.
“I’m serious, Martha. Maybe you should talk to a…a counselor.”
Counselor is also a word to be avoided in mixed company.
I head for the kitchen door. “And maybe you should take a few extra precautions.”
She follows me to the doorway and I pause on her deck. “A parole officer and a judge-both attacked with a knife in the space of four days. I’m not imagining that.”
She takes a long drag, then blows smoke into the cold air. “But you’re forgetting that the parole officer’s assailant is already in jail.”
Silence. I’m not taking that bait.
Geraldine laughs. “I’ll walk on eggshells. Promise.”
She doesn’t mean it, of course, but there’s no point in arguing with Geraldine. I give up and head down the wooden staircase.
“Oh, and Martha…”
I pause on the bottom step and turn back toward her, heavy snowflakes coating my ski cap and eyelashes. The orange tip of her cigarette glows as she inhales. She takes it from her mouth and points it at the bunched red flannel protruding from my boots.
“Your ensemble,” she says. “Fetching.”
Chapter 38
Sonia Baker is no dope. She refused, last night, ever to speak with Prudence Nelson again. But by this morning, Sonia had reconsidered. She phoned the office at seven-thirty and caught me before I left for the courthouse. If the lady shrink can help, then go ahead and send her back, Sonia said. I assured her she was doing the right thing, whereupon she reiterated her assessment of Prudence as a condescending bitch. I didn’t argue.
J. Stanley Edgarton the Third is no dope either. He opened his cross-examination of Patty Hammond with condolences. “Mrs. Hammond,” he said, “let me tell you at the outset that I am sorry-we are all so very sorry-for your loss.”
Stanley swept his arms across the courtroom as he delivered those words, as if he’d been appointed to speak for the entire population of Barnstable County. He approached the witness box and Patty confidently, pity plain on his face.
Patty thanked him, then looked away.
Stanley’s cross-examination, so far, has been matter-of-fact. Patty readily agreed that she is not a mental health professional, not competent to comment on psychiatric questions. She admitted that she had no contact with her husband between the moment he viewed their son’s body and the moment he shot Hector Monteros. She acknowledged that she didn’t see Buck during that time, didn’t speak to him, didn’t even know where he was during the later hours.
Stanley should leave it at that. He has all he needs to tell the jurors to disregard Patty’s direct testimony. He has all he needs to argue that her testimony-every word of it-is irrelevant. He has all he needs to accuse me of calling her to the witness stand only to rouse their sympathy. And, as Beatrice Nolan will certainly instruct them, sympathy is an emotion that should play no role in their deliberations.
Stanley doesn’t seem satisfied, though. He wants more. He paces the front of the courtroom, hands clasped behind his back, his blue forehead vein throbbing. He’s apparently framing another question.
“So you have no personal knowledge, do you, Mrs. Hammond, regarding your husband’s state of mind during those early-morning hours?”
Patty stares at him as if English must be his second-or perhaps third-language, as if he couldn’t possibly mean what he just said. “Oh, but I do,” she says, turning to the jurors. “I may be the only person who does.”
“Objection!” Stanley’s outburst is so loud Patty jumps in the witness box. She presses a fist to her mouth.
I’m up. “To what? Your own question?”
Stanley turns toward the bench, his back to the jurors. Too bad; the pulse of his forehead vein is picking up speed and his pasty complexion is sprouting red, Rorschach-like designs.
“Nonresponsive!” He raises an index finger in the air, as if beginning a war cry, then points it at Patty. “The witness’s answer is nonresponsive! Move to strike!”
Beatrice nods.
“Motion opposed.” I stay planted behind the counsel table, facing the judge but keeping the jurors in my peripheral vision. “Counsel asked a question and the witness answered. He doesn’t get to strike her response because he doesn’t like it.”
The jurors look from me to the judge, their faces blank.
The truth is, I don’t give a damn whether Beatrice strikes the answer or not. Patty’s response can’t be unuttered. It’s one more bell that can’t be unrung. But the longer we argue about it, the louder her words will echo. That’s what I hope, anyway.
Beatrice fixes her gaze on me. Her thoughts are apparent. I’m not as bad as Harry Madigan, but I’m a certified pain in the ass.
“The motion is granted, Counsel. Your witness’s answer was indeed nonresponsive.”
“Let’s have it read back-the question and the answer.” I direct my suggestion to the court reporter, a pale, pencil-thin man who has worked in this dreary courtroom for decades, showing up each day in a black suit, white shirt, and string tie. He leans forward, dons frameless spectacles, and lifts the narrow strip of encoded white paper snaking from the front of his machine.
“We’ll do no such thing!” Beatrice bangs her gavel, her grackle eyes darting from me to String Tie and back again. She’s unsure-for just a second-which of us to skewer. Me for suggesting such a dastardly deed or the old man for daring to comply.
She’s settled on me. Imagine that.
“Ms. Nickerson, whose courtroom is this?” Beatrice is using her special diction for the dull-witted child.
Judge Nolan seems to enjoy spitting out sarcastic questions. I hope she likes listening to honest answers. This is a fact I don’t mind pointing out to the jury. A reminder. An important one.