The Hanging Judge

by Michael Ponsor

  “You like Joe Green?”

  “I’m Italian and a big Verdi fan. It’s in the blood.”

  “I’ll turn it up.”

  The little man limped back into the shadows, and Alex took a seat on a chrome-and-plastic chair over by the wall. He reached into his pocket and relocated the mug shot of Moon Hudson. Probably a wild goose chase, but at least he’d get a couple of decent ties out of the expedition and be a few hours closer to having Janice back. The sound of scissors cut through a soaring baritone, some duke probably, and then the machine was whining again.

  When Alex was a kid, his parents played Rigoletto, La Traviata, Cavalleria Rusticana, and all the other great Italian operas pretty constantly, and he used to imagine himself loving someone that hard, so strong his passion would fly up out of his chest into the sky. Of course, he never talked about these fantasies, since in the football game of life feelings like these were for the running backs, and maybe the wide receivers, but not for guys like him, who’d always be playing the line, spitting out pieces of sod. These days, though his feelings didn’t soar up into the air like a bird, he knew he loved Janice every bit as much as any opera singer had ever loved anyone, and his despair when he thought they’d never get back to where they’d been was as vast as any duke’s.

  “So,” the little tailor said when he returned with the slimmed-down ties. “I figured you for a wop. Me too. Marco Deluviani.”

  “Alex Torricelli.” They shook hands.

  Marco nodded at Alex’s pocket and rubbed the side of his face with the back of his hand again. It looked itchy.

  “Now you can show me your picture.”

  “Guess you did this before,” Alex said, reaching inside.

  “Mmm. Four or five times.” Marco shifted his weight and grunted uncomfortably. “Couple of Irish potato heads who got cute about how it’s not all over until the fat lady sings. Real music lovers. All their taste was in their mouths.”

  Alex set the picture of Moon Hudson on the counter.

  “Would have been last October, in the morning.”

  “I know. Your buddies came by the day after.”

  Marco stared down at the photograph for a few seconds, then picked it up and examined it closely, muttering to himself sotto voce. “And the day after, and the day after. Horses’ asses.”

  He sniffed again and shrugged. “I’ll tell you what I told them. I saw the guy, but I don’t know if I saw this guy. You know what I mean? I’d like to help a fellow greaseball, but all I can say is I was here at the desk when I heard the car door slam and saw whoever it was trot by the window, holding something against his chest like this. He was black, meaning he had dark skin. Could have been a black guy or maybe a Puerto Rican. Six, seven inches bigger than me, maybe an inch or two taller than you, but real well built, real broad across the shoulders. I never saw his face, since he had his hood up, the way they do.”

  He tossed the photograph back on the counter. “I gave them all that, and they stopped bugging me.”

  Alex slipped the picture back into his pocket and tossed the money for the ties onto the counter.

  “Well, I thought I’d take a shot. Thanks anyway.” He hesitated as he turned to leave. “Sorry about the napalm.”

  Marco shrugged. “I got a toupee I wear on dates. Other guys weren’t so lucky.” He gestured in a circle around his contorted lips. “What happened to your mouth, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Pipe in the kisser.”

  “Didn’t you ever learn to duck?”

  “I’m working on it. See you.”

  “Wait a sec. Wait a sec.” The tailor hobbled around to the side of the desk, rubbing the bald half of his head. “I just thought of something I forgot to tell the potato heads. I’ll give it to you as a going-away present.”

  Alex stood in the doorway and watched the undersized tailor, who was swaying from one foot to the other and screwing his mouth around trying to bring his recollection into focus. It must be lonesome in here. How many people dropped by on a Saturday morning?

  “The hoodie must have been small for this guy, or his shoulders were too wide across, okay? Because when he held his arms up against his chest like this, you know?” Marco folded his arms against his chest. “It pulled the sleeve up. And right along here,” Marco drew his finger down the back of his forearm. “Right along the back of his wrist, he had a nasty scar showing maybe four or five inches, pinkish, like a puckered seam.”

  26

  “So. You were definitely home together that morning?”

  Sandra Hudson nodded. “Home together.”

  Moon asked, “That was a Monday? Or what?”

  After a private chat with the sheriff, an old friend, Redpath had managed to get permission for the three of them—Moon, Sandra, and himself—to use the jail’s conference room for a hasty weekend meeting, with Redpath’s word that there would be no physical contact, no opportunity to pass off contraband or a weapon.

  Redpath and Sandra now sat on one side of the scarred pine table; Moon, wearing leg irons this time, sat on the other. The couple reached across, once, just to touch the tips of their fingers, and there was an immediate sharp clack at the window, a heavy key on thick glass from where a correctional officer’s flat face bobbed like a chunk of wood in murky water. Despite the awkward arrangement, and the stress on Moon and Sandra, defense counsel had to be sure their stories matched, and this was the only sure way to do it.

  “Monday was a holiday. This was the Tuesday after the Columbus Day weekend,” Redpath said. His large head shifted back and forth between the couple, observing them closely. “The Holyoke police log has the call on the Delgado shooting from the Cumberland Farms at eight thirty-five a.m. The call from the clinic came in two minutes later, eight thirty-seven. So that’s the time we’re working with, okay? Tuesday, starting around eight a.m.”

  His glance rested on Sandy to his right and then moved to Moon, whose legs irons rattled softly. Something funny was going on. Sandra was gaping at Moon, almost pleadingly, but Moon was avoiding her face, frowning and keeping his eyes on the surface of the gouged table, as though he were reading something on it.

  Moon’s detention was a rotten deal for the couple, and it didn’t help Redpath, either. After a while, a locked-up client like Hudson began to exude a sulfurous prison smell as damning as the word GUILTY tattooed on his forehead. The jury’s nose would nearly always catch the stink.

  “I remember it like yesterday,” Sandra was saying. “Moon? Remember? It was about breakfast time?”

  “Okay, once more,” Redpath said. “What were you doing around eight fifteen a.m.?”

  “I can’t remember for sure. I don’t think I worked the holiday,” Moon said, still keeping back from Sandra, looking quickly at his lawyer and down. “Didn’t leave for work until Tuesday night.”

  “No, babe, you were sleeping,” Sandra cut in. She leaned forward to pat his hand, then pulled back, remembering. “You left home around eight thirty Monday night and worked right through and didn’t get home until around seven Tuesday morning with the overtime. You had a bite with me and Grace, like always, and went to bed until at least two or three that afternoon. I remember it like yesterday, I was feeding Grace and …”

  “I only worked every other holiday,” Moon interrupted. “You’re talking about the week before.” Hudson held his hands up, splaying his fingers, like a man stopping traffic. “Let me say something.”

  “No, no, sugar,” Sandra said, raising her voice, blinking. “I remember it …”

  “Let me talk,” Moon said, his face hardening. They began talking over each other, getting louder.

  “One at a time.” Redpath held up his hands and glanced at the door. The floating face was still there. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed to be smirking.

  “I remember you coming home, and breakfast, and you going t
o bed. Then I …”

  “Let’s keep it down.”

  “Let me say something now. Let me say something.” Moon was smacking the table with his pointer and middle finger.

  “Easy.”

  “You need to think back,” Sandra said. “You’re mixing up the days.”

  “Listen to me now,” Moon’s voice turned harsh, and he leaned toward them, with his eyes flashing. “Listen to me a damn minute now, will you?”

  The last, furious words, almost shouted, brought silence to the room. Redpath put his pencil down and folded his hands on the table. Sandra sniffed and rubbed away an angry tear.

  “Girl, I’m not mixing anything up. They’ll get my day sheet at J and K, right? They’re going to know when I worked, and when I didn’t work. You hear what I’m saying?” He turned to Redpath. “Call Kostecki. Maybe Sandy’s right, but I don’t think so.”

  “I did call him,” Redpath said, trying to sound relaxed. “And let’s keep our voices down.” He nodded toward the window. “That thing’s probably not as soundproof as they’re telling us. I called Kostecki, and he told me he turned all the records over to the FBI. Said he didn’t keep any copies.”

  “Just ask the man, Bill. How hard is that? Just ask the man. He won’t need any records.”

  “I did ask him, Moon. This is not my first trial, okay?”

  “Fine, what did he say?”

  “His message was, basically, that he was done talking. Actually, he said a few other things, and then he hung up on me.” Redpath picked up his pencil and drew slow circles on the pad. “I called back and let it ring for five minutes. I called again, and somebody picked up the receiver and hung up. After that, the line was busy.”

  They sat for a minute, without a sound, in their separate bubbles of misery.

  Finally, Redpath checked his watch to remind them that they did not have all day. Moon was looking at his hands folded on the table, a man vanishing into the underworld. His wife was gazing over the edge, down at him, willing him back up into the free air. Her eagerness to help would make perjury as easy as breathing; she’d simply believe her own lies.

  “Uh-huh.” Moon nodded. The words made their way slowly out of his mouth. “Makes sense. For a shipper like J and K, they’ve got books and books of regs. Heat could be all over Kostecki any time they wanted. Shut him down in five minutes.”

  “Can’t you get the records from this Gomez woman?” Sandra asked, sounding chastened.

  “I asked,” Redpath said. “She told me she’d try to locate them. Says there’s a ton of paper, a lot of different investigators doing a lot of different things.” He tossed the pencil onto the pad. “She says she’s not a hundred percent certain they even have them. Or, they might have gotten shredded accidentally. She couldn’t be sure.”

  He paused and dropped his voice. “I’ll tell you both one thing, though, and I want both of you to listen to me carefully.” He tapped the table with his finger. “Just as soon as one of you takes the stand and testifies under oath in a way that is not consistent with those records? Are you listening? As soon as you’ve stuck yourself right out on the end of that dead limb, and Gomez-Larsen can use those J and K records to chop that branch off? Guess what? Those documents will turn up, right out of the blue. I’ll scream my head off, but Norcross will let them in. And no juror will ever believe you made an honest mistake. They’ll just decide you’re damn liars.”

  “I know he was home, Bill,” Sandra began.

  “That’s what I wanted to say,” Moon broke in. “That’s what I was trying to say a minute ago. Let me talk now, Sandy. You know how I’m feeling.”

  “Moon, please …”

  Hudson looked over at his attorney. His lips were pressed together, his mouth turned down another notch.

  “I can’t be taking Sandy down with me. I mean, they’re coming at Kostecki, right? They could come after her, too.” He paused. “We need to keep her away from court.”

  Sandra Hudson was shaking her head, hands clasped in front of her.

  “Moon …” she began.

  “Who’s going to change the diapers? You tell me! Who’s going to put Grace to sleep at night?” Moon’s nostrils flared, and he breathed deeply in an effort to keep his composure. “We can’t take turns anymore, babe. We can’t. And we can’t take chances. There’s only you now.”

  “I know, but …”

  Redpath sat back and shook his head. “You mean, keep Sandra off the stand entirely? I don’t see how we can afford to do that.”

  “What do you mean, ‘afford’?”

  “Well, tell me this: Under this scheme of yours, will Sandra be coming to court at all? I need her there, Moon. You need her there. The jury has to see you’re not just some hamburger wrapper blowing down the street. And if the jury does see her, and she doesn’t testify, you’re dead. Not having her testify will be the same as having her get on the stand and say you did it.” Redpath leaned toward Moon. “Sandra’s about the only face card I’ve got in my hand right now. I need her.”

  “You need her. Is that right?” Hudson eyed Redpath as though he were sizing up a rival gang member. He placed his hands in his lap and tipped his head back. “Tell me just this one thing: Whose trial is this?”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” Redpath glanced at the window and dropped his voice, leaning forward, ready to fight. “It’s my trial. It’s my trial!” He slapped his chest. “It’s my job to put on your defense. I need her, okay? And you need her, too, if you’re going to have any chance at all. And, by the way, I don’t need you to be trying to do my job. I’m having a tough enough time doing it on my own.”

  “I’ll testify myself. I’ll tell my own story.”

  “I doubt I’ll put you on.”

  “What do you mean, you doubt you’ll put me on? What kind of bullshit is that?”

  “You testify, and the jury will hear about your drug record.”

  “They’ll hear about it anyway.”

  “Only if you testify.”

  “That doesn’t make any damn sense.” Moon snorted and shook his head.

  “You’re right, it’s a stupid rule, but that’s how it works. That’s why Sandy has to go on.”

  “You’re not hearing me, man.”

  Sandra was looking back and forth at the two men. Her frightened expression suddenly dissolved, and she released her constricted breath like a small engine blowing off pent-up steam. She rocked back in her chair with a disgusted laugh.

  “Hey,” she said, smacking the table with both hands. “Do either of you boys notice I’m sitting here? I’m having to listen to ‘she’s going to do this’ and ‘she’s not going to do that’ and ‘I need her’ and ‘no, you don’t need her,’ like I’m not even in the room. Well, here I am, boys!” She poked herself with both hands. “Here I am, in full Technicolor! Right? And I can decide for myself what I’m going to do. Do you hear what I’m saying?

  “Now take you”—she looked over at Moon—“You say I’m going to get myself in some kind of big, big trouble. And that won’t be good for Grace. Okay, I see what you’re saying. And we have to talk about that, and then I have to decide what I’m going to do.

  “And you”—she turned to Redpath—“You’re in a cold sweat because you’re afraid I’ll mess up. I’ll kill Moon trying to help him. That Gomez bitch might tangle me up. I see that. I see that. So I need to think about that, too. And then I’ll decide what I’m going to do.”

  She stood up and smoothed her skirt.

  “And now I’m going to leave, because I’ve got a baby who’s waiting in the car with her grandma, warming up her pucker muscles. I’m going to think about what you both said, and then we’ll have one more talk, and then I’ll decide.”

  She walked briskly around the table toward Moon, continuing.

  “And when they get those records, Clarence
, aka Moon, Hudson, you’re going to have to apologize, because you were in bed just like I said you were.” As a clatter of metal on glass rose angrily, she gave the startled defendant a hard kiss on the lips, turned, and walked out of the room.

  27

  Atkins Fruit Bowl was hopping. The morning doughnut-and-coffee crowd had overlapped with the early-bird shoppers, and the combination was generating well-mannered chaos in the farm stand’s parking lot. No fewer than six cars idled in various attitudes of congestion while a blue-haired lady in avid discussion with her daughter inched obliviously over the blacktop, dragging her walker.

  Claire, behind the wheel of her red Prius, waited in the queue gnashing her teeth and fighting a desire to get out and give the old sweetheart a smart kick in her bum hip. She had a long list of weekend errands, and she was not, she freely admitted, a terribly patient person in these situations.

  A door thumped, and traffic finally began moving. Claire snaked through the cars toward the upper parking lot, where a few empty spots beckoned. As she swung around to enter one of them, she nearly collided with a late-model gray Saab whipping in from the other side. Both drivers were caught in mid-glare as they recognized each other and made hasty facial adjustments. The Saab driver was Gerald Novotny, the pushy professor from the Pratt dinner.

  Claire had no intention of giving Novotny an opportunity to be chivalrous. Before he could even get into reverse, she had backed out and swung into another place. Now, she told herself as she applied the parking brake, it was going to be necessary to make conversation. Ugh.

  “Sorry,” he said as they made their way out of the parking lot. “Didn’t see you.” His face bore a clouded expression.

  “I didn’t like that spot anyway,” Claire said. She knitted her brows and peered over his shoulder in the direction of his car. “Are you getting that tire fixed?”

  Novotny jerked around quickly; Claire put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Just kidding. Just kidding.” She felt bad when he gave her a wounded look. Apparently, Novotny wasn’t the type to be teased. An uncomfortable silence followed during their downhill approach to the fruit stand. Having given the man a dig, Claire now felt obliged to sweeten their interchange somehow.