When I got back to the courthouse, Harry was waiting with two cardboard cups of lukewarm clam chowder and two turkey clubs. Each of us had a chowder. Harry ate the sandwiches. Now, as I stand to face the jurors, I wish he’d eaten both chowders as well.
The jurors look a little more relaxed after their lunch break. They’re settled comfortably into their chairs, a few with notebooks and pens on their laps. Their eyes, and their attention, are all mine. Still, though, their emotions are well hidden. I stand before them, silent, and wait until the gallery is quiet.
“There are two sides to our judicial system: the civil and the criminal. And there are important distinctions between the two. Most are differences of degree.
“The burden of proof, for example. In a civil matter, the complaining party must prove his case by a preponderance of the evidence. But in a criminal proceeding, the burden of proof is far more steep. The complaining party, the Commonwealth, must prove its case-every element of it-beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Widespread nods. They know this, of course. They read the paper; they watch TV.
“Punishment is another example. A losing defendant is penalized no matter which system he’s in. On the civil side, we take his assets. But in the criminal justice system, we take something far more valuable, far more precious. We take his freedom.”
More nods. They know this as well.
“There is, though, one difference between our civil system and our criminal system that is not a matter of degree. It’s a matter of substance. And it’s important. In Buck Hammond’s case, it’s critical.”
A few of them straighten in their seats. Some pick up pens and open notebooks. I scan their faces as I walk to the jury box and lean on the railing. They’re focused.
“In our civil system, it’s incumbent upon the judge to direct a verdict when the evidence is uncontroverted. If the controlling facts of a civil suit are not in dispute, the judge must take the case away from the jury, decide it himself, as a matter of law.
“Not so in our criminal justice system. In fact, the opposite is true. In a criminal case, the defendant is entitled to a decision rendered by a panel of his peers. Our Constitution guarantees it. The jury has the final word in criminal trials. Always.”
The jurors with notebooks and pens haven’t written anything, haven’t taken their eyes from me.
“Most of the important facts in this case aren’t contested. The Commonwealth told you Buck Hammond shot and killed Hector Monteros. Buck Hammond took the witness stand and said the same thing. The Commonwealth told you he intended to kill Monteros. Again, Buck took the witness stand and said the same thing…”
I turn to the defense table for just a moment, arch my eyebrows at Buck before facing the panel again.
“More emphatically than Mr. Madigan and I would have liked.”
Most of the jurors look toward the defense table, at Harry and Buck; a few almost smile. A couple of the men in the back row shake their heads, though. I don’t know what that means.
I pause a moment before directing their attention to the easel. The few near-smiles disappear.
“Some of the evidence in this case was difficult to present. And I know it was difficult to receive. It was gut-wrenching to listen to Chief Fitzpatrick’s testimony. It was awful to look at the two photographs of Billy Hammond.
“And it still is.”
Their eyes remain on the easel, so I wait. They can stare at those photos until summer, as far as I’m concerned.
“We had trouble-all of us-listening to the details of Billy Hammond’s unspeakable suffering, his unimaginable death. It’s safe to say that those details made us angry, outraged even. And not one of us ever met Billy Hammond.”
Their gazes stray from the easel. Some eyes rest on me; others stare across the room again toward Buck. The retired schoolteacher shakes her head in his direction; her face reveals nothing.
“If the details of Billy’s ordeal-of his suffering and his death-made you and me angry, outraged, what did those details do to the child’s father? To decide this case, you must answer that question.”
Most jurors drop their gazes from me to their laps, considering the question, I hope. Two men in the back row, though, exchange troubled glances, shake their heads again. Maybe they can’t imagine what the details would do to the boy’s father. Or maybe they don’t like their assignment.
“Dr. Simmons told you that Buck Hammond was in the midst of a psychotic episode-a break from reality-when he pulled the trigger of his hunting rifle on the morning of June twenty-first. Even the Commonwealth’s expert psychiatrists agreed that Buck was in the throes of severe trauma at the time. Was he insane?”
I pause here, let the question hang for a moment.
“That’s for you to decide.”
I turn from the panel and point toward Buck. “Should he spend the rest of his life at Walpole-in the penitentiary-for what he did?”
Another pause.
“That’s also for you to decide. And that-”
I wait until their eyes return to mine.
“-is as it should be.
“This, people, is what’s right about our criminal justice system: you, twelve of Buck Hammond’s peers, are the final arbiters of justice. You decide what happens next. You and your consciences.”
Stanley drums his fingers on the prosecution table. I stare at him until he stops. He shakes his head at me; I’m an unreasonable opponent, it seems. I turn back to the jurors.
“This is my final opportunity to speak to you. When I’m finished, the prosecutor will address you. I have no way to know what he will say. I get no opportunity to respond. Those are the rules.
“My guess, though, is that he will spend at least some time discussing the need for you to send a message. He might tell you to convict so that our streets won’t be overrun with men taking the law into their own hands. He might tell you to convict so that other would-be killers will think twice before slaying their victims. He might say your failure to convict will unravel the very fabric of our society.
“I tell you now, because it’s my last chance to do so, don’t buy it.” I turn from them and cross the courtroom to stand beside Buck’s chair.
“Your verdict is about one man and only one man. This one. You are seated in that jury box for one reason and one reason alone. Not to send a message to the masses. Not to predict the future of crime control. Not to theorize about the fabric of our society. You’re here because you are Buck Hammond’s peers.
“It’s an awesome thing, people, to sit where he sits, to face the machinery of the Commonwealth as it moves systematically against you. This is his trial. He’s entitled to it. Don’t let the prosecutor convince you to make it about anyone-or anything-else.”
Not one juror moves as I leave Buck’s side and cross the silent courtroom toward them.
“In recent weeks I’ve spent more than a few evenings in the Hammonds’ living room, talking with Buck’s wife, Patty. We talked about Billy, and about Buck. We talked about Hector Monteros. And we talked, a lot, about this trial, about all that would happen in this courtroom.
“At the time, I thought I was preparing Patty Hammond for this ordeal, for this public rerun of her little boy’s tragic end. But I see now that I was wrong. Patty was already prepared. She’d already been through much worse. She’d lived through the real thing. And she knew I hadn’t. She was preparing me.
“One night about two weeks ago, just before I left their cottage, Patty asked a question she’d never raised before. It was a question I’m sure she’d thought about often during the past six months. But until two weeks ago, she’d never said the words-not out loud, anyway.