After a moment, he turned and looked at O’Connor, wiped his hand over his eyes, and continued more briskly.
“I have no idea whether this Rivera kid is telling the truth, Jack. He’s got this pipsqueak lawyer, who, I swear, looks like Ronald MacDonald and knows exactly nothing about what he’s doing. He couldn’t get the pope off. Hudson’s another beaut. He prances around that twit factory up in Amherst and pretends to be a student while he sells pot, which he had to be getting from somewhere. Hudson had a dustup with Delgado when they were in Ludlow, I guess. He was a Flag, and Delgado had a deal with some other gang, I forget which, so it seems Delgado and some of his friends gave him a thumping. To me, it doesn’t make sense that La Bandera, which is mostly Puerto Ricans, would bring in a black guy, a former member, and pay him to shoot Delgado when they could do it themselves for free. But who knows with these people?”
“Mike’s the one I’m worried about,” O’Connor said. “He’s a special kid, probably the smartest one in the family. You saw how he’s taking it.” He leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “I wish they’d stop with all this death penalty stuff, to tell you the truth. It’s not helping Mikey one bit.”
“I hate it!” Daley said with sudden ferocity. “Some of the people down at the station are all for it, and I keep my trap shut, but I hate it, Jack. Sure, I hope Hudson dies soon, and I hope he dies hard, but let God take him when He’s ready. Ninety percent of the cops here in Holyoke these days are top drawer. But between you and me, one or two are complete chumps. They screw this up, with all their jabber about lethal injections, and their fancy equipment that doesn’t work half the time, and with a decent lawyer Hudson could go scot-free.”
Jack nodded. “Why’s the case in federal court in the first place?”
“The feds have this RICO statute, and Hogan’s using it to go after the gangs. Tell the truth, it’s not a bad idea. They can put animals like Hudson away for good.” He blew out a breath disgustedly. “But why get everyone’s temperature up just to put him out of his misery? I say put the creature in a hole somewhere and let him rot.”
“I guess Washington wants to get Massachusetts on board, and Buddy’s their guy.” Jack said. “They say he’s going for governor.”
“Well, the Lord knows we could use a sensible Irishman on Beacon Hill, but this is no way to get him there.”
He looked at the floor and ran a hand back through his wiry gray hair.
“They’re quite capable of making a dog’s breakfast of this,” Daley said, still looking at the carpet. “That’s the thing.” He lifted his face with an expression of exhaustion almost as profound as Jack’s. “It makes me so sick I can’t sleep nights, you know? It’s bad enough how Ginger went. But, some day a year from now, you and Mike and me could be stopping off at the 7-Eleven, and there will be Hudson, big as life, buying himself a Slurpee. And we’ll all just have to stand there minding our manners. We owe it to Ginger not to let that happen.”
10
Judge Norcross and Maria Maldonado observed the same court proceeding, one from the front and one from the back, seeing utterly different things.
Maria entered the courtroom through the public doorway, slipping, with as little stir as possible, into the most distant corner of the gallery and hoping to be invisible.
Judge Norcross strode in through a paneled door at the far end and walked quickly to the bench, accompanied by the booming voice of the court officer, which caused Maria to grab the pew in front of her and jerk her small body upright.
“All rise! All persons having anything to do before the Honorable David S. Norcross, judge of the United States District Court, now holden in Springfield, in and for the District of Massachusetts, shall draw near, give their attendance, and they shall be heard.” The volume increased a notch for the finale. “God save the United States of America and this honorable court! The court is now in session. You may be seated.”
The judge’s elevated perch gave him an easy view of the entire courtroom. To the right sat the assistant U.S. attorney, accompanied by a porky cop with a face as round as a pie plate, probably the government’s case agent. To the left, at a separate table, was the defendant whose guilty plea Norcross was about to take, along with his lawyer, an attorney he didn’t know.
The judge’s courtroom deputy called the case: “United States versus Ernesto Rivera, Criminal Action Number 09-30087-DSN.” The court stenographer adjusted her chair slightly and sat with her fingers poised over her machine.
Silence. The aroma of wood polish and carpet cleaner, the formal arrangement of the furniture, the vaulted ceiling with a few drifting dust motes turning gold in the sunlight, the bright colors of the flag against the oak paneling—all these elements were, after almost twenty years as a lawyer and judge, deeply comforting to Norcross. This was home. The judge set his water cup well off to one side and scooted forward to the edge of his chair to make sure he didn’t snag the hem of his robe in a caster. Showtime.
From the rear of the courtroom Maria Maldonado, tilting awkwardly to try to catch a glimpse of her son’s face, saw only the back of his head. Her English was so-so, and except for “God save the United States of America!” she hadn’t completely understood the belligerent words of the white-haired man in the blazer. The judge’s frown as he looked down at her boy made her heartsick. Nothing good could happen in a place like this.
Judge Norcross began. “We are here, as I understand it, to take the plea of the defendant Ernesto, aka Pepe, Rivera to a one-count information, charging him with conspiring to participate in a racketeering enterprise.” He read from the file. “The overt acts committed in furtherance of this conspiracy, according to the information, include two homicides in which he acted as the driver. Before we get started I’m going to ask counsel to identify themselves for the record and also identify the parties sitting at counsel table. We’ll begin with the government.”
The AUSA, an elegant Latina woman with luxuriant dark hair and an aura of quiet competence, had appeared before the judge many times. He liked and respected her.
“Judge, for the record, my name is Lydia Gomez-Larsen, and I appear on behalf of the United States. With me at counsel table is Holyoke police officer Alex Torricelli, who was injured apprehending the defendant.” Torricelli half stood and nodded, shooting a look toward Gomez-Larsen to be sure he’d acted properly, before lowering himself again. The prosecutor missed this gesture, pivoting to let her eyes sweep the gallery. “I see that Holyoke Police Captain Sean Daley is also present in the courtroom.” From his seat in the front row, Daley nodded, keeping his arms folded and shifting his jaw as though he were sucking on a Tic Tac.
Gomez-Larsen sat down, and the attorney to the judge’s left fumbled to his feet. “Clyde Goodman for the defendant, Judge. For the record, Mr. Rivera is with me in the courtroom.”
Goodman had a long neck, a self-conscious grin, and an oversize blossom of curly red hair. The man’s professional qualities seemed doubtful. Judge Norcross would need to take things slowly with him.
Maria didn’t know anyone. She had come to court straight from the New Life Pentecostal Church in the Flats, where she and the pastor had been offering prayers for the protection of her son’s soul since early that morning. At the moment, her eyes were fastened on the depression just below the hairline at the back of Ernesto’s head, a place she had kissed so often. A sob was pressing up into her throat, and she was struggling not to do anything embarrassing.
Ernesto was Maria’s only child, and she was his only parent. She remembered how well he’d started life: a robust, affectionate little kid, running around her parents’ living room with his stuffed monkey, Jocko, or sitting placidly with a coloring book watching cartoons. Now this.
The judge was talking. “This is a proceeding pursuant to Rule Eleven of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure. Our task today is to ensure that, if the defendant does admit
his guilt to the charge against him, he does so knowingly, intelligently, and voluntarily. I need to say a few things to you, Mr. Rivera, before we go any further. Please listen to me carefully.”
Maria thought, It’s like a movie. It’s like sitting in the dark and realizing that the person up on the screen is your son. The judge is treating Pepe the same as any criminal, because to him that’s what he is.
Rivera rubbed his ear, using a slow circling motion with his pointer and middle finger, round and round, as though he were trying to massage away a buzzing noise. This was a trademark gesture of her son’s, something he’d done since he was a toddler whenever he was nervous or on the spot somehow, and the familiar sight pushed the sob higher until it was touching the roof of Maria’s mouth. It really was him. She must not cry.
Up on the bench, Judge Norcross was encountering the recurring problem of eye contact. The sheer number of plea colloquies he’d conducted, using virtually the same words each time, threatened to reduce the process to a meaningless drone. Specific, individual attention needed to be paid, and looking right into the defendant’s face seemed like one way to make sure his words really penetrated.
On the other hand, he’d found that eyeballing a defendant could be misinterpreted as an effort to dominate. Stupid, frightened, overproud, or confused offenders sometimes reacted with a look of defiance, or sulky indifference, which, to Norcross, curdled the whole proceeding.
Directing his gaze toward the defense table, Norcross saw that Rivera would be a defendant of the blank variety. In response to the judge’s attempt at eye contact, Rivera left off rubbing his ear and lifted his eyes briefly, showing only a flicker of passive inscrutability before dropping them. The corners of the defendant’s mouth turned down, and he ran his tongue along the inside of his upper lip as though he had a sore on his gum. The gesture deformed Rivera’s face just enough to make it impossible to read his feelings.
Watching from the shadows, Maria felt the judge closing down, just like the teachers when they complained during meetings that her son couldn’t sit still, wouldn’t do his work on time, and kept bothering the other kids. She wanted to stand up and explain. Ernesto was not being rude; he was just a little scared. With patience, he would begin to show the sweet side of himself. At the same time, she wanted to march the boy out into the corridor, tell him to sit up properly, pay attention, and behave. He knew how to act.
Judge Norcross cleared his throat and pushed ahead. “Mr. Rivera, I have a number of important warnings to give you and some questions to ask you this afternoon. If during the course of what I say, you do not understand me, or if there is some noise in the courtroom and you do not catch something, please ask me to repeat or explain myself. I will not be bothered or offended by this at all. Do you understand, sir?”
Rivera glanced in his lawyer’s direction, but Goodman was down at the floor, rummaging in his briefcase. The defendant directed his eyes at the judge’s forehead and nodded minutely.
Judge Norcross forced himself to keep a neutral tone. He’d have to be content simply to get the mandatory questions and answers into the transcript. Maybe the kid understood, maybe not.
“Good. Let the record reflect that you’ve nodded to indicate that you understand. I want to tell you how this proceeding will go. In a moment, I am going to ask you to take the witness stand. Here.” The judge pointed to a wooden enclosure on his left. “Ms. Johnson will place you under oath. I will then have, as I just said, some warnings for you and some questions. After that I will have five or six questions for Mr. Goodman.” Attorney Goodman stiffened and sat up straighter. At least now he’d know what was coming. “Then, Assistant U.S. Attorney Gomez-Larsen will summarize the evidence the government would have offered if your case had gone to trial, and after all that, if I’m satisfied that it’s appropriate, we’ll take your plea. Do you understand, sir?”
Rivera cast a blank look at his attorney, turned to the bench, and nodded.
“Mr. Rivera, you’ve been answering me up to now just by nodding. In our everyday lives, of course, this presents no problem. But we have a stenographer here”—Judge Norcross gestured down at his court reporter—“who is making a transcript, and your answers need to be audible. You need to speak. So, I’m going to ask you again, do you understand, sir?”
Rivera sniffed. “I understand.”
“Thank you. One aspect of the plea is so important that I want to emphasize it now. I will return to it in more detail shortly.”
At that moment, the big public door banged open and the comic bane of Judge Norcross’s existence wobbled into the courtroom. It was eighty-six-year-old Florence Abercrombie, bosoming a stack of files in one arm and holding a wicker basket topped with a red-and-white checkered napkin in her free hand. “Oh, thank you so much,” she said in a stage whisper to the court security officer, causing both Alex Torricelli and Attorney Goodman to twitch and look around. AUSA Gomez-Larsen, recognizing the voice, only sighed and rolled her eyes.
Mrs. Abercrombie was a wacky pro se litigant who had represented herself in a half-dozen lawsuits in the Springfield federal court. The judge found it hard, despite the extra work she made for him, not to admire the harmless old screwball. She’d sued Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes on a theory of promissory estoppel when she had not received her twenty million dollars, filed a civil rights complaint against her electric company for adding a surcharge to her bill, and, more than once, named the president and the secretary of state as defendants based on allegations that they had snooped into her emails. In careful, polite memoranda, Norcross had dismissed each of her lawsuits.
She had long, white hair pinned up in barrettes over her ears and shiny brown eyes as fanatical and unblinking as a peahen’s. On one of her appearances, she’d been inspired to bring a basket of homemade ginger snaps to the clerk’s office, and unfortunately someone had taken them, probably as the simplest way to get rid of her. Now she brought cookies every time she came to court. From the center aisle of the gallery, Florence was grinning up at the bench and waving the wicker basket back and forth at Judge Norcross. Despite her lack of success, she appeared to think the world of him.
“Good morning, Mrs. Abercombie,” the judge said. “Nice to see you. I’m tied up at the moment, as you can see, so you’ll oblige me if you have a seat. Or you might wait outside.”
To the Norcross’s relief, Mrs. Abercrombie said nothing—merely began easing herself onto a pew—and he turned his attention back to the defense table. “As I said, there is one aspect of the plea agreement … excuse me, Mr. Goodman?” The defendant’s lawyer was still fascinated by Mrs. Abercrombie, who had dropped one of her files and was busy collecting it. “Are you with us?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Sorry.”
“There is one aspect of the plea agreement I want to emphasize. The charge against you carries the penalty of mandatory life imprisonment, without possibility of parole. This means that, ordinarily, a person pleading guilty to this charge would be imprisoned and would never, ever be released. Have you discussed this point with your attorney, Mr. Rivera?”
The defendant looked uncertainly at Attorney Goodman, who nodded encouragingly.
After a pause, Rivera nodded. When the judge raised his eyebrows at him, the defendant added a barely audible response: “Yes.”
“Thank you.”
In the corner, Maria took a shaky breath and closed her eyes to absorb this news once more. She had always been active in her church, but in the past decade, with so much happening, she had surrendered herself entirely to the will of Providence. There was not a doubt in her mind about the imminence of divine judgment, permanent and unbendable. What would it mean to depart this short life in prison? Could her son expect to find mercy?
The judge kept talking. “The only way under the law by which you can avoid life in prison, Mr. Rivera, is if the government files a motion requesting a lower sentence
based upon your substantial assistance in the prosecution of another person. If Ms. Gomez-Larsen does file this motion, which is called a 5K1 motion, I will have the power, if I choose, to impose an agreed sentence of twenty years on you. If the government doesn’t find your cooperation adequate, you’ll stay in prison until you die. Simple as that.”
Judge Norcross reached over to retrieve his cup of water and took a sip, a deliberate pause to allow his words to sink in.
“You are dangling from a cobweb this afternoon, Mr. Rivera. The severity of your punishment, if I allow you to plead, will be mostly in the hands of Ms. Gomez-Larsen and her boss, Mr. Hogan, the United States attorney. I want to assure myself that you know where you stand from the get-go. Do you?”
Goodman was leaning forward with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped at the level of his forehead. The attorney looked over his shoulder and shrugged quickly back at his client. In response, Rivera waited for a beat, then shrugged, too.
“I understand.”
“Good. Please come forward and be sworn in.”
Right at that moment, for the first time, the defendant revealed something. It happened briefly, like a sparrow flying past a window.
Rivera stood, shorter and much younger than Judge Norcross had realized, turned his head, and looked over his shoulder toward the back of the gallery. With the distance and the distortion of the fluorescent lights, the expression on the face of the small woman seated there was too wavering for the judge to read. But as Pepe’s head turned to where she would be able to catch his features, this brown, doll-like woman hugged her elbows together, hard, as though a freezing wind were passing over her. When Rivera turned back, Judge Norcross could see that the moment had transformed the boy. For a count of one, two, three, four seconds, Ernesto, aka Pepe, Rivera dropped his disguise, exposing the face of a wounded child, desolate and dumbfounded. Then the moment passed, and in the light of the courtroom, he congealed into his assumed persona again, screwed his mouth around to suck on his teeth, and walked slowly across the burgundy carpeting to take his place in the witness box.
The Hanging Judge Page 7