It hits me so hard-the obvious truth-that I have to lean on the witness box for a moment. Buck is right. Stanley is irrelevant. His tiresome objections don’t matter. His petty antics don’t matter. And my preliminary questions don’t matter either.
These jurors know who Buck Hammond is. They know where he lives; they’ve met his wife. They can pretty well guess his age and they don’t give a damn how he makes his living. They know what he did to Hector Monteros. The only thing that matters now is why.
I head back to our table and take two photographs from my briefcase. Eight-by-ten laminated glossies of Billy. One before. One after.
Buck hasn’t seen either one of these photos. He took the “before” shot, but was jailed before it was developed. He has no idea Patty gave it to me, no idea she kept it from him at my direction.
The “after” shot is one of a dozen taken during Billy Hammond’s autopsy. Standard procedure.
Ordinarily, it’s not a good idea to surprise your own witness on the stand. But this was no ordinary murder; it’s no ordinary trial. The rules-most of them, anyway-don’t apply here. We’re in uncharted waters.
Harry sets up an easel where both Buck and the jurors can see it. I tuck the autopsy shot under my arm, careful that only its white backing is visible against my jacket. I set the other photo on the easel and pause so they can take it in: Billy on the beach, beaming, a glorious sunset behind him, streaks of violet against a pale pink sky. He holds a surf-casting rod in one hand, a three-foot-long, shimmering fish in the other.
“Can you identify this photograph?”
Stanley leaves his chair and marches toward the jury box, ostensibly to see Billy Hammond’s picture, in reality to distract the panel. He’s seen all of the photos before. He has his own copies.
Buck stares at the glossy and blinks repeatedly as his eyes fill. He says nothing. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he hadn’t heard the question.
“Yes,” he says finally. “That’s my son. Billy.”
“Who took the photo?”
“I did. We’d been fishing for stripers at Potter’s Landing.” Buck points toward the glistening fish. “Billy caught a few earlier in the season, but they weren’t big enough. This one was his first keeper.”
“When was that?”
“Saturday, June twelfth. A week before…” Buck stares at his lap again for a moment, then back at the panel. “A week before.”
“Before what?”
“Your Honor.”
Beatrice had her gavel in hand even before Stanley spoke.
“Before what, Buck?”
“Your Honor!”
The gavel descends.
I knew this would happen, but I thought it would take a little longer. I thought I’d get at least a half dozen questions out before the prosecutor-judge team began its power play. But I’m ready.
Maybe I’m overly defensive. Maybe I’m sleep-deprived. I don’t give a damn. I’ve planned this moment. I intend to shut my opponents down. Both of them.
“Before what, Buck?”
“Your Honor!”
Beatrice leans toward me, but I don’t turn. I fix my gaze on Buck, keep the judge in my peripheral vision. “Counsel,” she barks, “there’s an objection pending.”
“I haven’t heard one, Judge.” Still I don’t look at her. “Before what, Buck?”
Beatrice bangs her gavel and then points it at Buck. She sits up straight, apparently taken aback by my poor manners. “The witness will remain silent. Counsel, Mr. Edgarton has raised an objection.”
She inhales audibly when I wheel around to face her. “No, he hasn’t, Judge. You’re interrupting my examination of the defendant and there’s no objection pending.”
I turn my back to her and point my pen at String Tie. His eyes grow wide, but his fingers keep tapping. “It seems you have an objection, though, Judge. So let’s hear it.”
When I face her again, her mouth is a perfect oval, as if she’s about to begin an aria.
“Go ahead, Judge. Put your objection on the record. And we’ll ask the Big Boys to rule on it.”
My irreverent reference to the appellate panel is more than Beatrice can bear. “Now just a minute, Counsel.”
“No, Judge. You don’t get a minute now.”
She’s no longer taken aback. She’s indignant.
“Now is my client’s time to testify, Judge, my time to question him. And nobody interrupts, not even you, unless this man”-Stanley takes a step back when I aim my pen in his direction-“voices a coherent objection.”
Now Stanley’s mouth is circular. Maybe they plan a duet. “You’re not the prosecutor, Judge. He is. It’s his job to raise viable objections. ‘Your Honor’ doesn’t cut it. Those words don’t appear in the Rules of Evidence. If the prosecutor can’t state a legal basis for his objection, then the judge can’t rule on it.”
The gavel pauses midair. Beatrice looks like she might reach out and pound it on the top of my head.
“And if you’ve got nothing to rule on, then this man”-Buck stares into his lap again when my pen finds him-“keeps talking.”
My face must be maroon by now. I’m winded. I lean against the witness box until Buck looks up, and then I turn to the jury. They’re gaping at me.
“Buck Hammond sat in this courtroom all week without uttering a word. He listened to a parade of the Commonwealth’s witnesses without making a sound. He’s the man on trial; it’s his fate we’re deciding here. It’s his turn to talk now.”
Side-by-side men in the back row rub their chins and stare hard at me. The rest of them avoid my gaze. They look instead at the judge, at Buck, at the floor.
“Buck Hammond is entitled to his turn. The Constitution says so.”
Still, almost no eye contact. The retired schoolteacher looks at me for just a second, then quickly turns away.
Stanley remains on his feet but says nothing. Beatrice sets her gavel on the bench and folds her hands into her sleeves.
I’ll take that as a go.
“Let’s get to the point, Buck”-I pause to glare at Stanley-“while we still can.”
“Counsel, that’s enough.” Beatrice retrieves her gavel and pounds again. “One more editorial comment from you, Ms. Nickerson, and you’ll take a break-a long one.”
I block her out, block them all out. The judge. Stanley. String Tie. Even the spectators. What happens now is between Buck and the jurors. No one else.
“What did Hector Monteros do to Billy?”
In the silence that follows, I study the jurors. Their gazes move from Buck to the easel, then back to Buck again.
“Took him,” he says, “took him from the beach.”
“And?”
Buck grasps the arms of his chair, as if he just hit turbulence.
“And hurt him.”
I pour a glass of water and set it on the railing of the witness box, but Buck shakes his head.
“How?”
Now a few of the jurors grasp the arms of their chairs too. They don’t want to hear the details again. Once was more than enough. They don’t want to hear the story again from anyone, but certainly not the boy’s father. They needn’t worry. Buck has never even been able to say the word.
“He…did terrible things, and then…” Buck changes his mind, takes a sip of water. “And then he killed Billy.”
“How did he kill Billy?”
Buck lowers his head. For a few moments, he seems unable to lift it again.
“Your Honor,” Stanley whines, “perhaps we should take a brief recess.”
“It won’t be any easier ten minutes from now, Judge.”
Beatrice glares at me, her pursed lips arcing downward at the corners again. That’s one of those editorial comments I’m not supposed to make. Next time I’ll tell her ten years won’t make much difference either.
“Take your time,” I say to Buck, and I mean it. Every minute he spends on this witness stand should take us one step closer to a decent result. To me, his agony is apparent, his grief tangible. I can’t tell, though, if the jurors feel it. Their faces reveal nothing.