The Hanging Judge

by Michael Ponsor

  David listened to himself rambling. The trial lay heavily on his stomach; he felt his body tensing around it.

  “Come on.” He pushed open the swinging gate and strode down between the counsel tables, around the podium and toward the bench.

  Claire held back.

  “Am I allowed in there?” She peeped through the gateway at the freshly vacuumed carpet. “I’m not a lawyer, you know.”

  David turned and looked back at her. Her outfit was simple: khakis, a green silk blouse, and a black corduroy jacket, unzipped. Her hands were in her pockets, and she was looking at the area in front of the swinging doors as though it were a swamp where an unsanctified person might sink and disappear. Sucking on her lower lip and widening her eyes, she flashed her loopy goose expression at him inquiringly.

  This, David thought, is the Claire Lindemann trapeze. One moment everything was tumbling and chaotic, and he couldn’t make anything out. Then her face would come into focus, and there they would be, gently swinging, hand in hand over the serene world. How many times now had she worked this magic?

  “I think you’d better lead me,” she said quietly. “I’d feel safer that way, passing into the underworld.” She held out her hand, palm up.

  The judge hesitated. Standing there beneath his own heavy bench, looking at this woman in green, he felt himself beginning to crack open. Love? It was not what had lifted him up so long with Faye, the certainty that they had been born to be with each other forever. But something new was wrestling out of the eggshell within him. This woman might drive him crazy, but he did not want, very much did not want, to be without her.

  She was still waiting for him.

  “You’re safe with me,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her through the gate. “See? You just passed the Bar.”

  The feeling of astonishment at how exactly their two hands meshed, and how deliciously, struck him hard, and a prickle of lust began its familiar crawl up his spine and along the back of his neck. Nice to know they’d have the whole rest of the day.

  “That’s the witness box.” He gestured to the right of the bench. “My stenographer, Maureen, sits there, and my courtroom deputy, Ruby Johnson, swears in each witness from her desk right here.”

  “Where do you come in?” Claire dropped his hand and drew her arm around his waist companionably.

  “Right over there.” Another paneled door stood at the side of the bench. The judge and the professor looked at each other, smiled, and kissed. Claire put her hand on the back of David’s head and hungrily pressed his mouth down onto hers.

  Of course, David thought delightedly. She’s as ready to bust as I am.

  After they’d been kissing for some time, David began to feel self-conscious about where they were. Claire, he knew, had few inhibitions about anything, beyond avoiding conduct that might actually get them arrested.

  “All rise?” Claire asked when they finally broke, sweeping her hand up his lower belly.

  “You bet.”

  “Can I check out what it’s like up there?” Claire pointed at the bench.

  “Go, please. I’ll take a seat here at defense table. Try to restore my heart rate.”

  Claire circled around to the back of the bench and climbed the stairs.

  “Wow,” she said. “It’s high up here. How do you avoid nosebleeds?”

  David gazed at his girlfriend. The massive chair made her look as though she belonged in junior high.

  “I have no idea.”

  Claire leaned forward and blew into the microphone, which crackled. Her voice suddenly boomed out over the courtroom. “You’re a little freaked— Whoa!”

  “It’s voice-activated,” David laughed. “There’s a switch on the base.”

  Claire turned off the microphone and continued. “You’re a little freaked out about this trial, hmm?”

  David slumped forward, setting his elbows on the door-size oak defense table, and scrubbed his hands over the back of his head.

  “Claire,” he said. “I have never been so, so … I can’t think of the word. It’s not nervous, exactly. Nervous is when I’m on a plane, and it starts bouncing around.” He paused and looked up at her. “Nervous is when I think you’re about to start winging croquet balls at me.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “Yes, well, this is not that. I’m just so pumped, I guess. I feel like I could burst into flame any second.”

  He stood up, walked behind the chair, and gripped the leather back with two hands, tipping it backward slightly.

  “Right here is where Clarence Hudson will be sitting tomorrow at nine a.m. I’ll be up there.” He sniffed and pulled on the end of his nose. “This probably sounds awful, but to tell the truth, I try not to worry too much about whether he did it. I think about it, naturally, but the main thing is I want Hudson to get a fair trial. A truly fair trial. And the simple fact is this.” He’d been speaking louder than he needed, almost at his workday courtroom volume. Now he noticed and dropped his voice.

  “The simple fact, which I can tell you but no one else, is this: In my whole life, I’ve never done anything this hard. I’m pretty sure I’m up to it, but unpredictable things happen in trials, and we definitely can’t afford another ka-boom.” He waved at the witness box. “If I exclude testimony incorrectly, the government may be unfairly pinched, and a killer could go free.” He gestured down at Hudson’s chair. “But if I mistakenly admit evidence or instruct the jury incorrectly, this human being here could die of a botched trial—like those poor guys they hanged over in Northampton way back in eighteen-whatever.”

  He walked around to the front of the table and sat on it, swinging his legs.

  “There are so many ways to make mistakes. You can do it just with a tone of voice, or a sarcastic comment. I was a very good trial lawyer, if I do say so, but I mostly did employment, personal injury, and civil rights cases, for crying out loud. Now here I am, with a man’s life at stake, and tomorrow I’ll be the guy in charge.”

  Claire got up from the big black chair, daintily shifted her behind onto the bench, and then swung her legs up after her. She pushed the water jug and blotter to one side and sat hugging her knees, looking down at the judge.

  “I have a suggestion, Your Honor,” she said.

  There was a light behind her eyes, her naughty-girl look. Seeing it, David felt his mouth twist into a tired smile. He was expecting too much of her, going on like this.

  “Well, I’m open to anything, believe me.”

  Claire looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. “Thirty-some years ago there was a pitcher named Mark ‘The Bird’ Fidrych, who played for Detroit,” she began in her professorial voice.

  “Oh, cripes, not baseball again.”

  “Hey!” She held up a finger. “Baseball players deal with a lot of pressure. And you said you were open to anything.”

  David flapped a hand at her. “Fine. Go on.”

  Claire swung her legs down over the edge of the bench and crossed her ankles, tapping her heels against the oak veneer.

  “As I was saying … The Bird pitched for the Tigers. He was a starter. He used to talk to himself the way you do.”

  “I don’t talk to myself.”

  “You do, dear, incessantly. But getting back to Fidrych, he was famous for talking to himself when he pitched, and especially famous for talking to the ball. The most pertinent fact, however, for our purposes today, is that he had a really hard time for a while in the minors. He struggled like crazy with the pressure, being up there on the mound all by himself, having to hit the corners, kind of like you.”

  “I see.”

  “So his girlfriend came up with this idea to help him. The two of them climbed over the fence to the ballpark in the middle of the night. Whew, it’s hot in here.”

  She took off her jacket and smoothed it out besi
de her.

  “And they crept out onto the pitcher’s mound and made love, right there under the stars.” She looked down at him and tapped her heels against the side of the bench again. “Right where he’d be working the next day.”

  David’s mouth dropped open. Claire tilted her head, made her goose face, and lifted her eyebrows.

  “So”—she ran her tongue over her upper lip—“somehow, after that, he just felt a lot more comfortable up there. He won nineteen games as a rookie and started for the American League in the 1976 All-Star Game. Lord, don’t they ventilate this place on the weekends?” She unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. “It’s stifling.”

  “Claire,” David said. “We could damage something.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, this seems like a pretty well-constructed piece of furniture.” She slapped the heavy wooden surface a couple times. “Seems pretty solid to me.”

  “I’m not talking about the bench.”

  She looked at him. “Don’t you keep a blanket or something in your office?”

  He paused. “I have an afghan.”

  “Why don’t you go get it?”

  43

  That same weekend, Captain Sean Daley was putting in some overtime on the Hudson case. He was accompanying a Massachusetts Department of Social Services case worker, Irma Wallace, a close friend of one of his nieces, on a home visit to the residence of Zinnia “Spanky” Sanderson. The temporary custody the DSS had awarded Spanky over the child of her deceased daughter had been called into question by the discovery of drugs and the arrest of a drug dealer and accused murderer in the two-family house where she lived. A foster-care placement for the child, Tyler, was under consideration. Captain Daley was joining the caseworker strictly on an informal basis, to see if Spanky might cooperate in answering a few questions about her old downstairs neighbors, Clarence and Sandra Hudson.

  “Will, you know, will this make a difference for Tyler?” Spanky asked, searching them with eyes like those of an enormous, frightened bird. The social worker, arriving without prior warning, had backed her into her untidy living room, and Spanky’s huge body, tipping backward onto her overused sofa, was threatening to sink into the cushions. With her behind sagging so low, Spanky’s knees were almost level with her chin. Wallace, the social worker, had taken a seat on the edge of Spanky’s green lounge chair.

  Daley was leaning against the entryway’s doorframe. The police captain had declined Spanky’s offer to sit down, with thanks, telling her that a back problem made it more comfortable for him to stand. This was not true, but it gave him a better vantage on the situation.

  “Well,” Wallace began, patting the clipboard on her knees, “your willingness to help might …”

  Daley quickly broke in. “Not at all, ma’am. Not one bit. And I want you to remember that.”

  Gomez-Larsen had given Captain Daley clear instructions about this visit: They needed Spanky to play ball, but they did not want her testifying in court that they’d pressured her. It would be the easiest way for Redpath to attack the woman’s credibility.

  Daley took a step into the room and gestured down at Spanky. “Your hanging on to your grandson does not have anything to do with whether you help me out with some questions. Will you remember that for me? Please? In case anyone ever happens to ask you?”

  “Okay,” Spanky said uncertainly. She flapped the ends of her housedress down to mid-calf. From her sunken position, Daley seemed gigantic, standing above her in his uniform, with his gun in his holster. Spanky’s lips quivered as she spoke, and her big eyes darted from the lounge chair to Daley.

  “Thing is, I don’t think Tyler would do that good in a stranger’s house, that’s all.” She tried to make eye contact with Wallace, but the caseworker was looking down as she wrote on her clipboard. Daley, on the other hand, smiled at Spanky encouragingly and nodded sympathetically as she spoke.

  “He’s a lot better off with me. With …” She hesitated, not sure whether she was speaking to the point. “With somebody who loves him.” Wallace continued to write without changing expression.

  “I bet you’re absolutely right,” Daley said. “And there’s nothing I’d like more than to be able to put in a good word for you.” He held his hands out. “Can you spare me just five minutes?”

  44

  Sandra Hudson was finishing her Monday morning visit with Moon. She had come, as directed, to the marshal’s lockup to drop off her husband’s courtroom clothes, so he could change before the trial resumed. The marshal’s suite included no formal visitors’ area, so she spoke to Moon standing outside his cell. Redpath, who was finishing up with his client as she arrived, had already hurried off to grab a cigarette before court.

  Sandra pointed at Moon. “I want one more thing from you before I go.”

  He was facing her through the chipped gray bars. The expression on his dark face was grave; the pleasure he took at seeing his pretty wife had softened his brooding eyes only a little. He shook his head.

  “What do I have left to give you, babe?” he asked in a low voice. He lifted his hands up and looked around the empty cell. “You think I’ve got a bunch of roses or something hid in here?”

  “Oh, you’ve got what I want,” Sandra said. “I know you have it, sugar.”

  Moon rocked his head back and folded his arms. The posture accentuated his broad shoulders and his muscular arms and hands.

  “Okay. You tell me what I have. Tell me what I can give you, in this place, and I’ll give it to you. Anything you want.”

  Two deputy marshals, one white and one black, were seated on metal chairs on the far side of the small, windowless room. The men had enough experience to know when to be strict and when they could slacken a little. They were comfortable allowing this defendant and his wife a few moments together. The distance of eight feet between their desks and the cell provided the couple an illusion of privacy, but Sandra knew the men couldn’t help hearing. It was part of her plan.

  As she hesitated, Moon paced off the corners of the cramped lockup.

  “Let’s see now. I’m looking around, and I don’t notice any flower garden in here. I don’t see any four-leaf clovers, or any rabbits’ feet.” He turned back to Sandra. “So you tell me what you want.”

  “Well, here it is,” Sandra paused. “I want you to give me one of your smiles.”

  Moon put his head to one side and touched the tip of his tongue to the middle of his upper lip. Sandra knew he tended to do this when he was trying to figure something out. After a moment looking at her this way, Moon retracted his tongue and shook his head solemnly.

  “Girl, you’re tough. You know I don’t have a whole lot of smiles in me right now.”

  “But, I can’t recognize you without your smile, baby. How do I know this is you?” She lifted her chin. “It’s been so long. Just give me a little one.”

  Moon was looking down at the floor. The two deputies had abandoned any pretense of ignoring the drama.

  “Well, you know,” Moon said. “I don’t …”

  “Moon Hudson,” Sandra broke in, “if you don’t give me a smile, I’m going to take all my clothes off right here.”

  “What?”

  “And I’m going to sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ while I do it.”

  “What?”

  “Here I go.” She started pulling her arm out of her jacket. “ ‘Oh say, can you see …’ ”

  The two deputies looked at each other nervously. Nothing in the regs covered this.

  She had the top button of her blouse open and was working on the second.

  “Here I go now! ‘By the dawn’s early light …’ Don’t fool with me.”

  Moon’s transforming smile, brilliant and shining, burst onto his face.

  “Girl, you are something else. Damn! You are crazy, just crazy.” His amazed grin was crinkling the corners o
f his eyes. “What in the damn world am I supposed to do with you?”

  “Aw,” Sandra said, dropping her hands and nodding at the marshals, “you see what you’ve gone and done now? You just cheated these boys out of the best free show they’re going to see all year.”

  “Got that right,” the white marshal drawled.

  Moon took hold of the bars and looked over at the deputies. “And this woman’s a librarian, man. A librarian! Shit!”

  “Okay,” Sandra said with a sigh. She buttoned up and readjusted her collar. “Now I know it’s you, I can go. Stick that smile in your pocket, lover, and I’ll see you upstairs. You don’t have to look for me; I’ll be right over your shoulder.”

  She blew him a kiss, picked up her purse, and left the room.

  On the ground floor of the courthouse, Jack O’Connor and his three sons were making their way onto a crowded elevator. The older boys had gotten into one of their screaming matches before they’d left the house, and the two were avoiding looking at each other. Jack still didn’t know what the fight was about. Then, Michael had vomited over the porch rail just as Jack was trying to corral everyone into the van. A hint of rotten egg smell still clung to the boy, and his father was keeping a watchful eye on him. Mike’s mouth twisted as the rising elevator pressed his stomach down.

  “You a juror, too?” a dark-haired woman in her early thirties asked Jack. She was pretty, but her eyes had a worried look.

  “No,” Jack said, with a glance at his sons. “Just spectators.”

  “Huh!” she said. “Lucky you!”

  45

  Monday had always been Judge Norcross’s favorite day, especially the morning, when the workweek still had the dew on it. Through the tall windows by his desk, a generous orange light poured down onto the chambers’ burgundy carpeting and splashed against the tan and crimson volumes of federal appellate decisions that lined the opposite wall.