The Hanging Judge

by Michael Ponsor

  The memory of Claire, and of the previous day’s adventure, hung in this rinse of brightness like warmth inside a sun porch. Never in his life had Norcross laughed so hard with anyone. With some difficulty, he’d gotten Claire to agree to a change of venue from the top of the uncomfortable bench to the large sofa in his office. Afterward, they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms for more than an hour, then taken turns using the shower in chambers. When he’d emerged from the bathroom—dried, deodorized, and reassembled as a respectable adult—Claire, who’d gone first, had been right where he was sitting now, in this very chair, fiddling with his computer, as artless and composed as one of those girls in the J.Crew catalog. Nothing in the past five years, not even the call from the White House, had so thoroughly filled him with joy.

  Now he knew he would manage. Now he knew he was loved, and no matter what happened he could not fall out of the universe. Even the latest offering from crazy Mrs. Abercrombie, a wrinkled heap of single-spaced pleadings on the corner of his desk, could not darken his mood. It was okay; he’d get to it. He tapped in the code to access his computer and buzzed Frank and Eva. Time to confabulate.

  Frank had been down the corridor to check with Tom Dickinson and confirm the arrival of the jurors and attorneys. He reported a long stream of reporters and spectators inching through the metal detectors, setting purses and wallets on the conveyor belt, and standing with arms outstretched to be sniffed by the wand.

  “One box cutter, two canisters of pepper spray, four knives,” Frank said as he sat down opposite Norcross.

  “Any trouble starting on time today?” Norcross asked.

  “I doubt it. Ruby’s checking the courtroom. Everything looks good.”

  “Are you still thinking you’ll let the government put in Hudson’s priors if he testifies?” Eva asked. “You know what I think.”

  Her fervent brown eyes reminded Norcross of Marlene praying for a cashew. He knew Eva was having a hard time with the trial, and he wanted her good opinion, but the problem she raised was not simple. The basic rule was that if the defendant testified, then the government could attack his credibility by pointing out his prior convictions; if he didn’t testify, the jury would remain ignorant of his criminal record. But it was tricky; there could be exceptions.

  “We’ll see,” Norcross said. “We don’t know yet whether he wants to testify.” He tapped his blotter with the eraser of his pencil and looked out the window. “I have an idea about how to tackle the problem that might be reasonably fair to both sides. Let me just think out loud with you for a minute here, and … what?”

  Norcross, puzzled, turned back from the windows. Frank and Eva were alternately glancing over his shoulder and peeping sideways at each other with tightly controlled smirks, scarcely even pretending to follow what he was saying. Eva clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes glistening with merriment. Frank began pulling on his ear, looking down, and biting his lip.

  “What?” Norcross could feel himself getting irritated; this was a serious topic. Their stifled amusement was turning infectious, though, and his own temptation to burst into a grin was making him even more annoyed. He started looking down and patting himself to see if he’d forgotten to button his shirt or left his fly open or something. Finally, following his clerks’ eyes, he looked back at his computer.

  While they’d been talking, the computer’s screen saver had kicked on, set as usual on the scrolling marquee. Today, however, the inspirational quote was different. It was a message from Claire, tapped into the machine’s software the day before while he’d been showering, as a surprise memento of their afternoon.

  The words made their way across the screen in big red letters: “Here’s to dear Judge Norcross—Best lover in the Land!” Norcross sensed himself starting to color as a bubble of confused happiness took shape in his chest. This was, in a way, wonderfully sweet, but he was shy, too, and the ice here felt thin.

  It got thinner. A second line continued: “I crave his playful Frankfurter—Adore his Learned Hand!!!!”

  Norcross quickly tapped the mouse to get out of the screen saver and turned to face his two clerks, trying to compose himself. But there must have been something in his expression that burst the balloon of mirth they had both been struggling to hold in.

  Eva exploded first, bending forward and holding her stomach with one hand while the other was clapped over her mouth. She rocked, emitting faint yips, like a dog having a dream. Frank, more restrained, had thrown his head back and was making huffing noises at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath.

  “Right,” Norcross said. Then, after a pause, “Okay, okay.”

  Eva, at last, reeled herself in and looked at him with an attempt at sobriety, but the corners of her mouth were twitching and another squeak burbled out of her. Frank had both hands over his face and was taking deep breaths.

  “You realize that message was not from Lucille,” Norcross said.

  “Yes,” Eva managed. But her voice was more high-pitched than usual, and she wiped a tear out of the corner of her eye.

  “Rule Seventeen,” Frank said.

  Another explosion from both of them instantly followed.

  Norcross shook his head. They’d never get back on track. He let it go on for another minute, trying to maintain his dignity, but feeling like a man caught stepping out of the bathtub.

  “Okay,” he said, “in the words made immortal by Dave Brubeck, let’s take five.”

  46

  The spring deepened. The forsythia and the daffodils bloomed and faded, then the tulips, azaleas, and lilacs. The days lengthened out. To Lydia Gomez-Larsen’s intense disappointment, they lost the no-nonsense-looking Latina juror, who went down with appendicitis. She was replaced by an older, white mail carrier from Stockbridge with a face that was far too empathic for Gomez-Larsen’s taste.

  The witnesses flowed through the box. The jury heard the medical and ballistics experts and the testimony about the inner workings of street gangs with reasonable patience. Moon Hudson’s employer appeared, with his newly discovered records confirming that Moon left work at six thirty a.m. on the day of the murders. Since she knew from Bill Redpath’s opening that Sandra Hudson would be testifying that Moon was home with her, Gomez-Larsen made sure the jury realized that the records left Moon ample time to kill Delgado and O’Connor after he clocked out. She looked on with studied indifference as Redpath tore into the floundering, inconsistent testimony provided by Nono and Spider, and the junkie Fournier’s disjointed description of buying the assault rifle for Carlos Arcera in exchange for heroin. Finally, the trial reached a crucial moment: the appearance of the government’s star witness, Ernesto “Pepe” Rivera.

  As she worked through the preliminary portion of her direct examination, Gomez-Larsen noted, with relief, that the kid was doing much better than she had dreamed possible. He looked perfect, for one thing. The khaki Dockers, new white sneakers, and the dark-blue button-down shirt Pepe’s mom had picked out for him struck the perfect balance between casual and formal. He seemed a pleasant-looking, nervous kid, fresh from the barber—ironed, but not starched, just the way Gomez-Larsen wanted him.

  As she went through her deliberately easy, initial questions detailing his age, schooling, command of English, and so forth, Pepe was even calling her ma’am occasionally, the classic boy-next-door.

  The mistrial had saved Gomez-Larsen’s life. In their first prep sessions, Rivera had been sourly unimpressed by her reminders that the quality of his effort would likely determine how much time he spent in prison. Of course, Gomez-Larsen told Pepe that she expected him to tell the truth, and only the truth, but it was critical that he testify believably as well as honestly, and he seemed incapable of caring. Only a few weeks ago, if the little guttersnipe had sworn, using a chalkboard to demonstrate, that two times two was four, no juror would have believed him. He’d been worse than useless.

&
nbsp; But following the dismissal of the first jury, Gomez-Larsen had had the inspiration to bring Maria Maldonado, Pepe’s mom, back in for one of their proffer sessions with her son. Afterward, she had spent nearly an hour alone with Maria, describing to her, gently but clearly, exactly what her son would be facing if he didn’t come through. The fact that she could do this in Spanish made a huge difference. Then, she made sure that Maria had plenty of time to talk to her son in private.

  After that, the boy was more pliable. Once they’d gotten him loosened up, Captain Daley, who’d testified hundreds of times over his career, swallowed down his revulsion and took to spending his afternoons with the youngster, calling him Ernesto, rather than Pepe, and passing on courtroom war stories to help the witness understand what he would be facing from Redpath. Before long, the new Ernesto Rivera, who’d never known his father, was eating up Coach Daley’s praise and viewing the trial as the homecoming game he was determined to win.

  Sitting in the box today, the witness’s transformation from Pepe the Snitch to Ernesto, the reformed young man who any father would be proud to have dating his daughter, seemed miraculous to Gomez-Larsen.

  “Now, Mr. Rivera, do you know the defendant, Clarence Hudson?”

  Rivera sat with a straight spine, leaning slightly forward, hands in his lap.

  “I know Moon Hudson.”

  “Would you point him out for the jurors please?”

  Rivera nodded in the proper direction and pointed.

  “The guy in the gray turtleneck and blue jacket.”

  Gomez-Larsen looked up at Norcross.

  “Your Honor, may the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant, Clarence, aka Moon, Hudson?”

  “It may so reflect,” Norcross replied, not looking up from his notes.

  Redpath sighed loudly through his nose and looked at the ceiling, conveying his boredom with the choreographed, totally meaningless identification.

  “How do you know the defendant?”

  “I’ve seen him, you know, in Holyoke. Springfield sometimes. With my uncle Carlos.”

  “I’ll get back to that in a moment. First, let me ask you this. Are you familiar with a western Massachusetts street gang called La Bandera?”

  “Yeah.” He looked to his left, to where Sean Daley and Ginger’s family were seated, and he corrected himself. “Yes, I am.”

  “You were a member of that gang, weren’t you?”

  “Objection!” Redpath rose to his feet. “Ms. Gomez-Larsen has several times during this direct examination led the witness, and I have not objected. I do object now. The testimony should come from the witness, not from the prosecutor.”

  “Please, no speeches, Mr. Redpath,” Norcross said. “Just state your objection and indicate your ground.”

  Norcross nodded to the jury. “Please note, I’m sustaining Attorney Redpath’s objection to that question. The jury will disregard it. Ms. Gomez-Larsen, please rephrase.”

  “Mr. Rivera, would you kindly inform the jury,” she resumed with the barest trace of impatience, letting the jury know how completely their time was being wasted by these foolish technicalities. “Would you kindly inform all of us, whether you have ever been a member of the La Bandera street gang?”

  “No, I’ve never been a member.”

  “You haven’t?” Gomez-Larsen, despite all their preparation, was caught off-guard.

  “Objection!” Redpath was on his feet again, speaking more emphatically, and with his own note of impatience.

  But before Norcross could rule, Rivera broke in, “I was an initiate, not a member.”

  “Objection!” Redpath repeated, even louder.

  “Wait now,” Norcross said.

  “Of course,” Gomez-Larsen said. “Well, let me …”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Norcross said. “We’re getting all tangled up here.”

  He looked down at Rivera.

  “Look, I know you’re new to this, Mr. Rivera.” Norcross smiled kindly. “And our procedures may seem strange to you, but keep in mind, when there is an objection, you must not answer the question until I have a chance to rule. Do you understand me? Wait. Okay?”

  “Yes, your Honor. I’m sorry. I forgot.” The boy ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.

  So perfect, Gomez-Larsen thought. God bless him.

  Norcross nodded in satisfaction—“I’m sure you did”—and turned to counsel.

  “That goes for you two, as well. Remember, Rule Number One in this courtroom: ‘Judge Norcross wears the robe, and when he talks, nobody else gets to talk.’ ”

  Norcross cast a wry look at the jury box as he delivered this mild bit of jocularity, and some of its inhabitants smiled appreciatively.

  “Now,” he continued, “the objection to the question—which I believe was ‘You haven’t?’—is sustained. It was leading. The jury will disregard that question and everything that was said by the witness or counsel following it. Ms. Gomez-Larsen, please put your next question.”

  But Gomez-Larsen could see that Redpath was steaming. He was still on his feet from his last objection, his jaw muscles were working, and he was tapping on the table with his large hands. Something was clearly eating at him, and she had a pretty good idea what it was—just the kind of mistake a judge without many criminal trials might make. She watched out of the corner of her eye, giving defense counsel time to speak.

  “Your Honor, may we approach sidebar?” Redpath asked.

  “I don’t see the necessity for a sidebar at this time.”

  “I would be happy, if Your Honor prefers, to state my reasons in front of the jury, but I think a conference at sidebar would be preferable.” Redpath’s tone was not rude, but something steely lay behind his words, and the hint of peril got the judge’s attention.

  “Very well. You may approach.”

  It was tight alongside the bench with the bearlike defense counsel, the AUSA, and the stenographer squeezed in with her steno-machine. Gomez-Larsen was not surprised when her adversary took off on what had just occurred.

  “Your Honor, I move for a mistrial. This is outrageous!”

  “What do you mean?” Norcross asked. “What’s outrageous?”

  “In front of this jury, you just said that this witness—I think your words were that he was ‘new to this’ or something like that. He’s not new to this! He not new to this at all.”

  “Please keep your voice down, Bill,” Gomez-Larsen interrupted.

  Redpath continued in an intense whisper. “He’s got a lengthy juvenile record, he’s been arrested three other times that I know of, even though the cases were ultimately dismissed. He’s been in court numerous times as a juvenile offender, a witness, or a spectator. His uncle was a La Bandera warlord. None of what’s going on here is new to him at all.”

  “Oh applesauce, I was only making a point about his manner of testifying.”

  “This is the government’s key witness!”

  “Bill …”

  Redpath paused to control himself before continuing. “This is the government’s key witness. She wants to present him like some cherub. Judge, if the jury believes this kid, my client goes down. A key part of our defense is that Pepe Rivera is not some innocent child, and there are mounds of evidence to back that up. By commenting in front of the jury about how this key witness is ‘new to all this’—which is just plain false—you have bolstered the government’s case on a point that will be central to this trial. Your Honor, I don’t want to appear disrespectful—I’m sure you did not do this intentionally—but you have just vouched for this witness. This jury has heard Your Honor refer to this critical witness in a manner that makes him look pure as the driven snow. He isn’t. Under the circumstances, the only fair thing to do is dismiss this jury and select a new one.”

  “Oh for heaven’
s sake,” Norcross began. “A comment like that …”

  The three of them began speaking over one another.

  “Wait a minute,” Gomez-Larsen interrupted. “Hold on a minute. I’d like to be heard.”

  “There’s no other way!” Redpath said.

  “Wait a minute! I’m entitled to an …”

  “It couldn’t have the slightest …” Norcross leaned back and shook his head.

  “One at a time, one at a time, please!” the stenographer broke in. The young woman’s fingers had been flying over her machine, trying to keep up with Redpath’s ferocity, but it was clear that she was at her limit.

  “Okay, take it easy. That’s enough,” Norcross said, tapping on the bench with the butt of his pen. Clearly, Redpath’s diatribe had gotten His Honor’s attention. From Gomez-Larsen’s point of view something needed to be done, quick.

  Norcross nodded to her. “I’ll hear you.”

  Gomez-Larsen spoke in a deliberately measured way. It was crucial to slow things down.

  “First, defense counsel is blowing this one remark, made in passing, way, way out of proportion. How am I doing?” She looked at the stenographer, who returned a grateful smile. “This situation does not come anywhere near justifying a mistrial. That’s flat-out ridiculous.”

  “Your Honor,” Redpath began.

  “You’re taking turns, okay?” Norcross said. “Right now, it’s the government’s turn.”

  “Just ridiculous,” Gomez-Larsen continued. “The jury, if it gives any weight to the remark at all, will consider it in exactly the light Your Honor described—simply a clarification of a courtroom technicality, nothing more. The court’s comment certainly does not establish Mr. Rivera as ‘pure as the driven snow,’ as defense counsel suggests. As for this supposed mound of evidence, counsel will have a full opportunity to cross-examine.”

  “Your Honor,” Redpath began again, “I can’t cross-examine on the kind of …”

  “I’ll hear you in a moment,” Norcross said.