“I hear what you’re telling me, Lydia,” Hogan was saying in his fingernails-on-chalk voice, “but—honestly?—it looks from here as though you’re letting yourself get pushed around by Judge Funky. And all I’m asking is, what can we do to give you some help with this prick?”
“Listen to me, Buddy,” Gomez-Larsen began. “Just listen a minute now.”
“I mean, we lost the motion to suppress, so the drugs are gone, right? And we lost the motion to get Hudson’s criminal record in, right? So now that’s gone, too.”
“Not quite. The convictions still come in if Hudson testifies.”
“Well, he won’t testify, so what the fuck good does that do us? I mean, it’s fucking meaningless.”
“I’m not so sure. Redpath looked pretty banged up about that.”
“Really? Hmm. That’s good.” A pause followed while Gomez-Larsen drew squares and triangles on her yellow pad, trying to stay patient.
“Okay, Buddy, listen to me now,” she began again.
“Wait. Let me float this to you. Sorry. Just let me think for a minute here. How about some kind of public statement? See, we’re just a teensy bit afraid you’re being too nice here, maybe a little too feminine—no offense—letting him shove you around and all.”
Gomez-Larsen sat up straighter and tapped briskly with her pencil.
“We’re not holding any press conferences, Buddy. I don’t try cases that way.”
“Oh Jesus, no, no, no! That’s not what I mean. What I’m thinking is, let me call Sam Craig at Harvard. He’s an old classmate, with friends on the Court of Appeals, and he owes me a big fat one. He can find some way to make a statement that will get picked up by the papers—a speech at the Boston Bar or some goddamn thing—something like how he finds Norcross’s rulings puzzling in view of First Circuit authority. Hard to square with precedent, some crap like that. We can have it in the Globe by the end of the week. Something subtle and understated, like a karate kick in the balls.”
“Not a good idea, Bud.”
“Does Norcross want to be on the Court of Appeals? Does he have aspirations?”
“I really don’t know.” Her need to use the bathroom was becoming a distraction.
“And then this bullshit letter to the editor by his law clerk about gay marriage, and the term paper, or whatever the hell it was, by his niece, Ray Norcross’s daughter, for Christ’s sake, and …”
“Buddy! Zip it, and listen to me a minute, all right?” A clatter erupted on the other end of the line. Something hit the floor.
“Just a second. I knocked the phone over,” Hogan said. There was a sound of grunting and mumbling while he rearranged things. “Okay,” he said at last. “Call me Frasier Crane. I’m listening.”
“Everything is fine, Buddy, just fine.” Gomez-Larsen spoke slowly and distinctly, drawing the words out as though she were talking to one of her children. “None of these Norcross rulings was a particular surprise. The problem was the idiot clerk who screwed up the warrant paperwork. If Norcross had let the evidence in, we’d just have to defend a borderline ruling on appeal, and maybe end up giving Hudson a remand and new trial. It’s no biggie.”
“Okay, maybe,” he said. “Maybe I overreact. I get calls from Washington, and they rattle my chain, and then I …”
“You need to relax. The defense is asking for some old records to help them jury-rig their testimony and, between you and me, I’m not looking real hard for them at the moment. Got a lot of other things to do.”
“Documents get lost all the time, Lydia,” Hogan said, suddenly quiet. “It’s nobody’s fault.”
“Right, and they can get found, too. So you just need to let me take care of business here. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”
“I hear you, and it’s helping my ulcer.”
“Good.” Gomez-Larsen picked up a yellow message slip. “Now my son’s hockey game is already into the second period, and if I don’t leave now I’m going to be Public Enemy Number One. Promise me you won’t do anything without talking to me first.”
“Like I always say, Lydia, I’m a politician. Promises are us.”
“Bye, Buddy.”
“So long, sweetheart. Keep in touch.”
As Gomez-Larsen put down the receiver and began looking around for her purse, Judge Norcross, squirming like a boy in the principal’s office, was picking up his own phone to take a call from Chief Judge Broadwater. Norcross had just come off the bench from three consecutive sentencings, the average age of the defendants being twenty-two, and the average term of imprisonment, by his quick arithmetic, eighteen years. One African-American, two Puerto Ricans—all repeat offenders sentenced for crack. He still had his robe on, open at the front. He was itchy and tired.
“Hey, Skip, what’s up?”
“Big problems, Dave, big problems. Spring has sprung, and the folks at the administrative office are dancing around like peas on a hot shovel. Some House sub-committee is going to cut off all funds for the judiciary, now that the District of Massachusetts has declared heterosexual marriage unconstitutional.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
Frank Baldwin, in an ill-conceived tribute to Eva Meyers and her partner, Bonnie, had written a tongue-in-cheek letter to the Springfield Republican suggesting that the courts should ban heterosexual marriage, since the divorce rate for straight couples in Massachusetts was proving to be higher than the rate for gays. Someone found out Frank was Norcross’s law clerk, and the blogs went ballistic.
“Just kidding. What?” The chief was apparently talking to his secretary. “Take a message.
Anyway, I hope you’ll excuse me poking my nostrils in here, Dave. I haven’t had a death penalty trial, thank God, but I’ve had a few big cases in my twenty-six years, and I can tell you what you don’t need right now is some kid with a big mouth and his own agenda. Picking this moment to stick himself into the spotlight was dumber than chocolate shorts in August. I’d get rid of him.”
“He’s a good man who made a mistake, Skip, that’s all. He had no idea his letter would make such a splash. He’s ready to pull off his own head, he feels so bad.”
“I’d can him, Dave. He’s embarrassed you once, and he’ll do it again. Plenty of good clerks where he came from. Ten cents a bushel.”
“I appreciate your advice, but I can’t do that.”
Norcross had been frozen, holding his robe in his outstretched hand as the tension mounted. Now he threw it onto one of the leather chairs facing his desk.
A chief judge’s authority was entirely persuasive, not mandatory. Broadwater lacked the power to order Norcross to do anything. Still, he was a valued colleague, a far more experienced judge, and someone whose administrative responsibilities gave him the ability to make Norcross’s life miserable if he wanted to. To Norcross’s relief, Broadwater veered off to the side, and onto another topic.
“And what’s this about your niece, Lindsay? Secretary Norcross’s daughter? Her views on capital punishment have filtered all the way to Washington. Barely fourteen, and they tell me the Today Show is after her.”
Norcross sighed. “It was a term paper she did for a class at Deerfield Academy. Her teacher leaked it to the Associated Press.”
“Called you a Nazi, Dave. That was a little harsh.”
“Me and some others. ‘Resurgence of Fascism in Twenty-First Century Jurisprudence,’ I think was her title. She’s a sweet kid, but she takes after her daddy and likes to sound off. Ray’s been out of the country pretty much nonstop, but I imagine he’ll feed that teacher to the crocodiles when he gets back.”
“Mmm, not a bad idea.” The conversation melted into an awkward silence while Norcross waited for Broadwater to resume. The poor guy was obviously hating having to make this call.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” Broadwater continued. His breezy tone changed, and
his voice deepened. “I guess I just have one other piece of advice, or observation, if I can call it that. You’ve got a pistol of a trial. Keeping it under control will be like trying to cram a German shepherd into a cello case. You’ve only been on the bench, what, three years?”
“Little more than two.”
“I’d be very careful about the publicity, Dave. It will make everything ten times harder for you. I’ve seen it happen. If the papers smell blood? You might find yourself so far up the creek no one will hear your screams. Don’t forget O.J. If I can do anything at all …”
“I appreciate it, Skip. I think I’ve got things under control here.”
“Good, well …” Broadwater was turning distant. “I hope you didn’t mind my calling.” In the silence that followed, the chief judge was either trying to think of something to say, or deciding not to say something he was thinking—or possibly reading a phone message on his desk and getting distracted. “Good,” he said finally. “When do you start jury selection?”
“Should be done by next week. Openings the Monday after.”
“Wow! That soon? What?” The indistinct voice broke in again in the background. “Have to run. I’m late already. Call me if you need anything.”
As he hung up, Norcross could hear Broadwater saying something under his breath, but he could not tell if it was about him.
30
Sunday morning. David gradually became aware of the soft light, the touch of the sheets, and the ache in his left shoulder. He shifted off to Claire’s side, carrying his weight on his wrists and elbows.
It was heaven to lie with her like that, two pieces of a puzzle still snugly connected, both of them dozy and sated with pleasure. The dinner and movie Saturday night had been wonderful, and after a sound sleep their happy date had blossomed again, into a perfectly delicious Sunday morning. Now, for a few short minutes, the two of them were the sanest human beings in the universe, warm as mittens and smelling like Cupid’s boiler room.
“Grade A,” he heard Claire sigh as she rolled toward the cloudy window. David tucked up behind her, placed his hand on her silky stomach, and buried his nose in the tickling fragrance of her hair. His body relaxed into the warm blankets.
Yes, David thought, Grade A. Like the richest maple syrup.
Drowsiness settled over him.
With Claire settling into his life now, David could acknowledge some uncertainty about this area of his life over the years. Was he a good lover? The mechanics had always gone smoothly, and he had always had a fabulous time, but when he looked at himself in the mirror, he sometimes wondered what it was like for the women he’d been with. His long, loose-jointed body seemed ill suited to the gymnasium of love.
In the far-off days of his marriage, Faye had been very sweet about everything, of course. They had been shy early on. Then, when they were more comfortable with each other, they fell into, and stuck with, the two or three reliable formats they’d gotten the hang of. In his half dreamy state, with Claire’s sweet warmth beside him, he did not feel guilty exactly, but he wondered if Faye somehow knew what was happening now—this fresh and wonderfully satisfying part of his life. What would she think? Everything had been very nice during his marriage, everything that was supposed to happen happened, but he’d never received any gold stars. No “Grade A.”
Claire’s compliment stuck in his mind and touched him profoundly. In the shower later that morning, he looked down at himself happily while he rinsed off.
“You are one lucky boy!” he whispered, smiling and nodding down at himself.
In the strain of jury selection, the echo of Claire’s remark remained for him a cherished comfort. From time to time, he would murmur to her as they kissed and he headed once more to court: “Grade A!” He barely resisted the temptation to wink.
Claire’s face in response to David’s comment was always a little bemused. It seemed right to encourage her new boyfriend, but his meaning was elusive to her. The fact was, that particular morning as they lay entwined, she hadn’t said “Grade A” at all. When she had turned onto her side toward the milky window, she had noticed the cloud-covered skies behind the trees.
“Gray day,” she had murmured, to herself and to him, as she dropped off.
As for the sex, it was lovely. She had no complaints at all.
31
After five weeks, the pool of fifty-six eligible jurors was selected. The attorneys then exercised their forty peremptory challenges, and the twelve men and women who would decide United States v. Hudson, along with the four alternates, took their final places in the jury box.
To Bill Redpath, the panel was a defense lawyer’s dream. The chosen sixteen included not one, but two Smith College faculty, the administrator of a children’s museum, an organic farmer, a sculptor, and a nurse who worked on an AIDS unit. As he waited at counsel table for Judge Norcross to enter, Redpath measured his breathing, slowly in and slowly out, preserving his expression of wary indifference. But he hardly dared to look over at the jury box for fear he might laugh out loud with joy and spook the flock of angels perched inside. Never before in his career, certainly never in any of his capital cases, had fate blessed him so lavishly.
He did not, of course, comment on this incredible luck to Moon or Sandra—optimistic remarks of any sort would be unthinkable—but he knew the defendant’s street smarts were picking up the change in the courtroom’s atmosphere. The jurors chosen in the final round had dropped into place like the tumblers of a combination lock that might, when the last one clicked, open and set Moon Hudson free. The courtroom’s fresher environment was finally permitting Moon enough oxygen to breathe a little, providing a view of the defendant as an ordinary human being. This was very good.
The jury could not be allowed to overlook this nuance, and Redpath put his hand on Moon’s shoulder reassuringly. His client, he knew, would be hating this and working hard not to pull away, but Redpath kept his large paw up there anyway, appearing to console his vulnerable-looking client, until he was sure most of the jurors had time to take this tender moment in.
Redpath spoke in a low whisper, pretending to scratch his nose with his free hand, screening his mouth, “During her opening, Gomez-Larsen will probably point at you. When she does, don’t look down, don’t look at your hands. That’s what she wants you to do. It’ll make you look guilty. Look sad but don’t look down. Just nod your head slowly if you understand me. Please don’t say anything.” He didn’t want to take the chance that Moon’s deep, virile voice might carry and put someone off.
Moon nodded, and Redpath patted him twice on the shoulder before turning back to his notes. Where the hell was Norcross? The courtroom was packed and getting warm. Redpath could not help noticing one spectator in particular, a young woman, college-aged, with platinum hair and a pretty, pissed-off face. Arriving early, he had seen her with two friends bickering as they settled into spots in the gallery’s front row.
The girl had a lisp and was berating a boy with sideburns. “Gerry told us to thit in the front row!” The group’s early arrival had managed to displace the two knuckle-draggers who always sat there; now, with sour looks, they were relocated two rows back. Redpath had wondered more than once what this ugly duo might be up to.
But now, who cared? Never before in a capital case had Redpath felt so freed to concentrate on the question of whether his client actually committed the goddam crime. Always in the past, he had been distracted by the possible trial to come, the brutal second phase where, if the jury did find his client guilty, the prosecution moved in for the kill.
This time around, he was virtually certain that, even if they convicted Moon, this group would never produce a unanimous vote for the death penalty. This time, at least, he would not end up with blood on his hands. Juror Number One, the likely foreperson, was a lifelong Unitarian—a Unitarian for heaven’s sake!—who’d miraculously slipped onto the jury, pr
omising she really, truly, could vote to impose the death penalty if she felt it was warranted. Gomez-Larsen, having burned all twenty of her peremptory challenges, had fought like a banshee to get Norcross to strike this radiantly liberal bird-watcher for cause, but the judge, God bless him, had kept her on.
Breathe in. Breathe out. He’d just had a record-breaking run of luck, that’s all, like a man at a roulette wheel betting on red or black and, with each spin of the wheel, blessed by Fortune. Perhaps, this time, he could bring one of those Chinese boys he’d machine-gunned back to life. Maybe this spring, when the trial was over, he’d take a trip to California and visit his son, Tom. Maybe catch a ball game.
“All rise!”
Judge Norcross strode onto the bench, bobbing his head and fiddling with the top of his robe, looking as usual like the Tin Man with half his bolts loose. Redpath and Moon rose respectfully, putting their hands behind their backs, keeping their faces neutral but softened and respectful. Gomez-Larsen had a pad in her right hand and was tapping lightly on the table with her pointer finger. She appeared to be in a foul mood. Wonderful!
“Please be seated,” Norcross said. After the usual rumbling shuffle, the judge leaned forward and began.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in a moment I am going to direct the clerk to administer the oath to you, and then I will be selecting the foreperson. After that, we will proceed with the first formal step in the actual trial, the openings—first on behalf of the government and then on behalf of Mr. Hudson, the defendant.”
Gomez-Larsen was on her feet. She wanted one more toss of the dice, apparently, but what about?
“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” she said. “May I be heard at sidebar?”
“Now?” Norcross asked sharply. “What for?”
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