“This courtroom, Judge, belongs to the citizens of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
Beatrice sprouts a few Rorschach blotches of her own.
“Who is in charge in this courtroom, Ms. Nickerson?”
“Oh.” I smile up at her. “That would be you.”
Chapter 39
Judge Nolan was so pleased with having put me in my place, she called a fifteen-minute recess. To savor the victory, Harry told me. She’s back now, though, erect in her seat. She doesn’t say a word until the jurors settle in their chairs.
“Let me remind you again, Ms. Nickerson. I give instructions in this courtroom. You do not.”
We all know her reminder was for the jury’s benefit.
She swivels her chair completely around to face the jury box. Apparently my read-back suggestion is rejected. And I’m dismissed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you will disregard the witness’s last answer.”
The jurors stare at the judge, their expressions still unreadable. The retired schoolteacher, though, sets her jaw and shakes her head at me. Damn. She thinks I’ve misbehaved.
Judge Nolan turns toward the daredevil stenographer and points at his narrow white paper. “The court reporter will strike the response from the record.”
String Tie leans over his machine again and makes a check mark next to the offending testimony, then keeps his eyes lowered and sighs. A working life spent with Beatrice Nolan would try any man’s soul.
Finally, the judge’s eyes rest on Patty. “Henceforth, the witness will confine her answers to respond to the questions posed. No extraneous comments.”
Patty stares up at the judge, blinking, a puzzled look on her face. It’s an expression I’ve seen her wear before. It’s a bewilderment, I think, particular to those who grieve, an inability to comprehend a person worked up over something trivial.
Judge Nolan takes a deep breath, her eyes still locked with Patty’s. “Do you understand me, Mrs. Hammond?”
The judge’s tone is harsh; she’s misread Patty’s expression. Beatrice thinks it’s her words that aren’t getting through.
Patty shakes her head, still staring up at the judge. “I guess not,” she says.
Judge Beatrice Nolan doesn’t like that answer. She clamps her lips together and leans toward the witness box, eyes protruding, nostrils flaring.
Patty actually recoils.
Beatrice opens her mouth to speak-or perhaps to breathe fire-but Stanley intervenes. “Your Honor,” he says, “I have no further questions for this witness.”
I’m sure he doesn’t. Badgering Patty Hammond in front of the panel would be a big mistake. Stanley doesn’t want it happening on his watch, even if it’s the judge doing the badgering.
Beatrice straightens in her chair and looks at me, her eyebrows knitted into one.
I return her stare. “No further questions from us, Judge. Patty Hammond said it all.”
Beatrice fires a threatening look in my direction before announcing yet another morning recess. I’ll pay for that editorial comment, it says. I wonder if Beatrice is having stomach problems. She never calls breaks so close together. She’s off the bench even before the bailiff tells us to rise.
Harry’s on the move as soon as Beatrice leaves the room. He saunters the length of our table, tapping his pen against his temple, as if coaxing a thought from his brain. He stops when he reaches my chair and points his pen at the bench.
I roll my eyes at him. I have a pretty good idea what’s coming.
“I could be wrong again,” he says, shaking his head, “but I think you’re headed for the cell block.”
Chapter 40
It doesn’t appear that the back-to-back breaks did anything good for Beatrice Nolan’s disposition. She ascends to the bench wearing a sour expression, eyes narrowed, lips in a thin straight line. She swivels her chair toward the empty jury box and studies the wall behind it as the jurors file in and take their seats. Old Beatrice should have dropped a lump or two of sugar in her midmorning coffee.
At least she’s not staring at us. Buck is sitting up straight, composed, hands folded and steady on the defense table. He’s ready to testify. He doesn’t need any last-minute eye contact with our ill-tempered judge.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…” Beatrice leans back in her chair, one hand on an armrest, the other fingering her gavel, just in case. “It’s now time for the attorneys to deliver their closing arguments.”
Harry and I jump up as if choreographed. For a split second we’re both speechless.
Harry recovers first. “Whoa,” he says.
It’s not much of a recovery. Whoa isn’t a word normally bandied about in the courtroom.
Beatrice bolts forward, her eyes no longer narrowed. “Whoa?” She lifts her gavel from the bench and holds it midair, like a tomahawk she might hurl at any moment. “Did you say whoa, Mr. Madigan?”
Harry winces. “I’m afraid I did, Judge. But that’s not what I meant.”
Beatrice lowers the gavel slightly, cupping its head in her hand. “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Madigan.” She stares down at the small hammer, examining its veneer, then glares up at Harry. “Enlighten us, Counsel. What did you mean?”
“What I meant to say was: Excuse me, Your Honor, but the defense didn’t rest.”
“Didn’t rest?”
“We’re not finished.”
“Not finished?” Beatrice looks at me as if I’m Harry’s mother and I ought to control him better.
Harry takes a step toward the bench. “We have one more witness, Judge. Mr. Hammond. He’s our last witness.”
“Mr. Hammond?” Beatrice looks like she’s just been told a potted plant will testify.
“The defendant.” Harry points at Buck and Buck raises his hand, as if the judge might not know who he is.
Beatrice grimaces. “Counsel, approach.”
Stanley and Harry get to the bench before I do, but Judge Nolan doesn’t feel compelled to wait. It doesn’t matter. She’s loud enough to be heard in the far corners of the small courtroom. It’s becoming pretty clear that Beatrice calls these sidebars to keep her comments off the record, not to conduct any sort of private discussion.
“What’s going on here, Counsel?”
The question, of course, is directed at Harry.
“What’s going on here?” Harry leans one hand on the bench, runs the other through his thick, tangled hair. He looks mystified.
“The defendant is ready to take the stand. That’s what’s going on here.”
Beatrice’s nostrils flare again. “What does he plan to say?” She’s bellowing now, not even pretending this is a real sidebar.
“You can’t ask me that.” Harry’s steaming.
“I most certainly can. I’m the judge.”
“I don’t give a damn who you are.”
Uh-oh.
“I’m the defense lawyer.” Harry is booming now. He points a thumb over his shoulder at Buck. “And he’s the defendant. That means he has a right to testify on his own behalf without giving a sneak preview to the prosecutor.”
Harry’s thumb moves from Buck to Stanley and Stanley backs away, as if he thinks it might be loaded.
Beatrice leans forward, suggesting she plans to whisper, but she doesn’t. She’s as loud as ever. “He has no right to commit perjury.”
“Perjury?” The word escapes Harry and me simultaneously.
“And you people have no right to suborn it.”
“You people?” Again, we’re in unison.
“Did you explain the penalties for perjury to your client, Counsel?” Beatrice’s eyes shift from Harry to me. She wants to be sure I realize I’m included in her accusation.