The Hanging Judge

by Michael Ponsor

  “Okay,” Norcross said. “Proceed. But let’s be quick. Time’s a-wasting.”

  “Ms. Hudson just testified that she and the defendant had ‘no secrets’ from each other. I submit to you that that statement was a conscious and intentional lie. By that I mean the witness actually knew what she was saying was not true, and she was deliberately attempting to mislead this jury with her falsehood.”

  A rustle arose from the Cummings group, and Gomez-Larsen turned again to glance back at them. Mr. Cummings had put an arm around his wife and was patting her shoulder. Mrs. Cummings was glaring at Gomez-Larsen with eyes of fire.

  Gomez-Larsen turned back to the judge. “Believe me, I take no pleasure in having to say this. As you’ll recall, during the course of the search of the Hudson apartment, law enforcement officers uncovered a large quantity of marijuana, packaged for distribution, and a smaller quantity of ninety-two percent pure, so called ‘fish-scale’ cocaine, the very type being distributed by La Bandera at the time of the murders. Based on the court’s suppression order, the government has been prohibited from offering or even mentioning this highly probative evidence.”

  “Right,” Norcross broke in. Redpath was pleased to see that Gomez-Larsen had stepped on His Honor’s toe. Her aggressive tone was going to make him defend his ruling. Norcross leaned forward and tapped his pen on the bench. “And, as you no doubt recall, the officers had no valid search warrant. The search was a flat violation of the Fourth Amendment.”

  “They had an unsigned warrant …”

  “Look, are we going to rehash all this again?” Norcross fell back in his chair and raised his hands. “A warrant not properly executed has no force. The officers didn’t even bother to bring this unsigned document along with them because, I imagine, they knew the darn thing was worthless. Come on. We have a jury waiting. Let’s get a move on.”

  “I apologize, Your Honor,” Gomez-Larsen responded in a gentler tone. “I got off on a tangent. If you’ll bear with me for another two minutes, something very important is at stake here.”

  “Two minutes. And I’m watching the clock.”

  “During the search, Judge, Sandra Hudson was in the bedroom when they pulled the marijuana out of the back of the closet. I have four officers, four, who will testify that when the officer who found the contraband, an officer …”

  Torricelli leaned forward and murmured behind her.

  “Thank you. Officer Torricelli has just reminded me it was Officer Candelaria. When Officer Candelaria opened the shoe box and found the cash and the marijuana, Judge, Sandra Hudson expressed complete surprise and immediately stated to the defendant, who was standing on the other side of the bed, no more than six feet away from her, ‘Moon, where did that come from?’ or ‘How did that get there?’ or words to that effect—words expressing the simple reality that she, in fact, had absolutely no idea there were any controlled substances in the house.”

  Gomez-Larsen stepped closer to the bench. She jabbed at the witness box.

  “Sandra Hudson knew from that moment, Your Honor, that, in fact, Moon was keeping secrets from her. Big secrets. She knew then, and she knew five minutes ago when she sat on that witness stand, that Moon Hudson was selling drugs throughout their marriage and was concealing that fact from her. The door on the marijuana issue is now open. The lid to the shoe box is off. I’m entitled to question Sandra Hudson about her lack of knowledge of the presence of illegal narcotics in her house, in her own bedroom, and to put witnesses on the stand who will rebut her claim that she and the defendant had no secrets from each other. I’m sorry, but without that evidence this trial will be a travesty, plain and simple.”

  Gomez-Larsen swiveled to check the clock at the far end of the courtroom.

  “That’s my two minutes, Your Honor. Did I make it?”

  “Twenty seconds to spare. Mr. Redpath, what do you say?”

  Redpath was on his feet immediately. “I say, ‘baloney!’ This is just an attempt … Judge, may I request that counsel resume her seat while I address the court?”

  Gomez-Larsen had remained standing by the podium, occupying the foreground from the judge’s perspective. She now nodded and returned to her seat. Redpath moved quickly to reclaim the podium and waved his hand back at opposing counsel, as though he might flick her away with his fingertips.

  “This is just an attempt on the part of the government to slide in through the back door what they could not get through the front. They botched the search, and they’ve been trying to get this evidence in by hook or by crook ever since. Sandra’s comment was nothing more than an innocuous remark, something any husband or wife might say …”

  “Oh, please,” Gomez-Larsen said, getting to her feet.

  “Your Honor, where’s my two minutes?

  “Proceed. Ms. Gomez-Larsen, I’ll hear you in a moment.”

  “I say, again, it was innocuous. A remark made in passing. It didn’t prejudice the government at all. Beyond that, the statement was not responsive to the question before her. If it’s any problem, the remark may be stricken, and the jury ordered to disregard it on that basis.”

  “Your Honor, may I be heard?” Gomez-Larsen broke in again.

  “I’ve still got ninety seconds!”

  “Wait, wait,” Norcross interposed.

  After an indignant glance back at the prosecutor, Redpath continued. It was important that he take as much time as she did, and that he look angry.

  “The whole point of this exercise, Judge, is not to put the alleged statement Sandra Hudson made during the search into evidence in order to show that the witness was supposedly lying when she said she and her husband had no secrets. The point is to get suppressed evidence, the fruits of an illegal search, before this jury. That’s not proper. It’s an out-and-out attempt to make Your Honor’s well-considered ruling meaningless, and you shouldn’t let the government get away with it.”

  Redpath barely had time to step away from the podium before Gomez-Larsen was speaking.

  “Your Honor, that’s not fair. We accepted your suppression decision. Frankly, I did think our argument that the agents were in good faith was more than colorable. Other judges might have bought it.”

  “I doubt it,” Norcross interjected. “Anyway, you’re stuck with me.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘stuck’ exactly, Your Honor.” She paused for a beat to toss Norcross the smallest of smiles. “Anyway, whatever our disappointment, we’re living with the court’s interpretation of the law. Remember, though, that the price exacted by the Fourth Amendment in this instance was very high. Powerful, relevant evidence was kept from the jury. But to add to that a license to Ms. Hudson to testify falsely, to give the defense carte blanche to distort the truth. That’s going too …”

  “Okay, pardon me, but I’ve heard enough,” Norcross interrupted. “Here’s what I’m going to do. We have to get going, or this recess will outlast a night in Russia. Mr. Redpath is right. The witness’s comment was not responsive to your question. I’m going to strike her answer and order the jury to disregard it, put it out of their minds.”

  “Judge, they’ve heard it. No curative instruction is going to …”

  “Nope, nope, nope. There’s no perfect way to deal with this situation, but as usual, I like my solution best. I’m going to strike the answer and instruct you not to question the witness either about the contraband found in the apartment, or her remarks in regard to it. That’s off limits.” Norcross turned to defense counsel. “Mr. Redpath, will the defense have any further witnesses after this one?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Your client has chosen not to take the stand?”

  “That’s correct. The defense will be resting at the completion of Ms. Hudson’s testimony.”

  Norcross’s eyes shifted to Moon, who was staring at his folded hands.

  “Mr. Hudson, do you realiz
e that you have a right to take the stand and testify in your own behalf?”

  Moon glanced at Redpath. Some judges did this—confirmed directly that the defendant had made a knowing decision not to offer testimony—but Redpath hadn’t mentioned this possibility of questioning to his client. Redpath felt a wave of concern. What would Moon say? Redpath twitched his chin up, signaling his client to stand.

  Moon got to his feet. “Yes, Your Honor, I understand.”

  “And you’ve made a knowing and voluntary decision after discussion with your attorney not to testify?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Very well.” Norcross looked satisfied. “So, we’ll be moving on to arguments and charge tomorrow morning?”

  “Well, Your Honor, may I be heard?” Gomez-Larsen’s tone was clipped, and her eyes still glistened with indignation.

  “Of course,” Norcross said.

  “The government will be calling a rebuttal witness …”

  “I rarely allow rebuttal,” Norcross began.

  “A very short witness, Your Honor, no more than twenty minutes on direct.” Gomez-Larsen paused. “I believe in the circumstances we have the right to do that, Your Honor.”

  Redpath stood. “May I ask who this witness will be?”

  Gomez-Larsen did not turn and look at Redpath but addressed the court, as though Norcross had asked the question.

  “Zinnia Sanderson, Judge. The neighbor, Spanky, you just heard Ms. Hudson refer to.”

  “Why didn’t you call this witness during the government’s case-in-chief?” Norcross asked. “You can’t drag a trial out by reserving ammunition for rebuttal just to get the last word. Give me a proffer of what you expect this Sanderson person to say.”

  “We could not possibly have called her during our case-in-chief, Judge, because her testimony only became relevant after the defendant’s wife took the stand. As an officer of the court, I represent to you that Zinnia Sanderson will testify that, at the time of the murders, Sandra Hudson was not at home with her husband as she has just testified. She was, in fact, walking with Ms. Sanderson several miles away, as Sandra Hudson just testified they regularly did during the mornings, eating doughnuts and strolling with their infants in Naismith Park.”

  52

  Tom Dickinson sat on a metal chair outside the jury room, legs crossed, reading from a volume of his great-great-aunt Emily’s selected poems. He always brought the book with him when he was babysitting jury deliberations. The words soothed him.

  Dickinson needed soothing on this occasion. It had been a long, frustrating vigil for the court security officer—six days since the jurors had heard final arguments and received their instructions on the law. Every day, Dickinson carried notes from the jury to Judge Norcross with some problem or other. The deliberation room was too hot. Could they have a chalkboard? Would the judge say more about what a racketeering enterprise was? Through the mornings and afternoons, a current of mostly indistinguishable voices hummed through the walls, people talking over one another, angry sounds sometimes, and occasionally loud laughter and hoots. Once he heard a male shout and slap the table, and in the frozen silence he thought he caught a high squeak, like someone crying. This morning so far, only low murmurs. Nothing he could catch.

  The door clicked open, and Dickinson quickly stepped to the threshold. His position gave him a view of one corner of the table, where the Asian accountant had her hand on the shoulder of the bank teller with the spiky blonde hair, saying something he couldn’t hear. The girl’s face was pink, and she was blinking.

  The kid who was the foreperson, who’d started out so perky, looked as though he’d aged a few years. A folded slip of paper hung in one hand against his side. He started to lift the note to Dickinson, then hesitated, and turned to the room.

  “Is everybody okay to do this?”

  There was a mumble of agreement.

  “Janie? You all set?”

  The pink-faced girl looked at her friend, then turned to the foreperson, and nodded.

  “Okay,” the kid said. He handed Dickinson the slip of paper. “Tell him we’re ready.”

  Dickinson found the judge sitting with Frank and Eva over sandwiches in his inner office. He mostly liked Norcross, a decent man who worked hard and wasn’t snooty. Lately, though, over the long trial, and especially during the endless days of deliberations, a dangerous silence had gathered around the judge, and Dickinson kept his contact to a minimum. The guy might be okay, but he still carried a lightning bolt. No point in standing within range.

  “Another note from the jury,” Dickinson said, holding out the piece of paper.

  Norcross sighed, took it, and unfolded it on his desk. His face changed as he read it.

  “Well, well.” He pursed his lips. “We have a verdict.”

  Eva went pale and stood up to look out the window at the plaza below.

  Norcross pushed some papers aside. “Let’s get everyone collected, Tom. Tell the marshals. Do we know where Redpath is?”

  “I can see him from here,” Eva said. “Same as always. Sitting on a planter, smoking a cigarette. Flicking his butts at the pigeons.”

  The defendant’s wife, her mother, and her brother were at their usual post on the bench at the end of the hall near the elevators. The mother’s hand was resting on her daughter’s forearm, but they weren’t speaking.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Dickinson said, bending down. “The judge has asked me to let you know we have a verdict.”

  “A verdict?” Sandra Hudson said. She seemed to be coming out of a dream.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Dickinson pointed down the hallway. “Thought you’d want to beat the crowd.” A reporter hovering nearby overheard and strode quickly off toward the courtroom.

  Mrs. Cummings squeezed her daughter’s hand. Sandra began looking around in confusion. “Where’s my pocketbook? Oh my God!”

  The brother closed his cell phone, stood up, and touched the CSO on the shoulder briefly. “Very nice of you, Tom. We appreciate it.” He nodded in the direction of the courtroom. “We can find our way in now.”

  Guy wants to get rid of me, Dickinson thought as he shoved off. Don’t blame him. Smart of him to get my name, though.

  At the other end of the hallway, outside the courtroom, Jack O’Connor was waiting with his two older boys. The youngest either hadn’t come today or was in the john again. The little guy had been spending a lot of time on the disabled list.

  Peach Delgado’s girlfriend, Carmella Díaz, was a few feet away, in the small marble foyer in front of the courtroom door, bending down to reread the plaque with the Bill of Rights. No one accompanied her.

  “Folks,” Dickinson announced, “the judge wanted you to know the jury has reached a verdict. They’ll be coming in now.”

  “About time!” the younger of the two O’Connor boys said with disgust. “Finally.”

  O’Connor nodded to him. “Go get Mikey, Ed.” The boy stalked off, shaking his head.

  Inside the courtroom, Ruby was already in position at her desk in front of the bench, organizing papers. Two deputy marshals were escorting the empty-faced defendant to his seat at the defense table; the other security staff were filtering in to their positions. Redpath entered and remained standing at the defense table. Gomez-Larsen and Torricelli took their places without speaking. The room filled quickly. There was very little noise for such a large group, maybe sixty people, including spectators, reporters, and security.

  They barely had time to get settled before the judge’s door opened, and they had to stand up again. Dickinson called out, good and loud, “All rise!”

  Norcross, looking around, hurried up into his chair. He told everyone to be seated and got right to it.

  “As I believe most of you know, we have been informed that the jury has reached its verdict. As of this moment, no one other than the jur
ors knows what that verdict is.”

  Dickinson let his eyes move around the room, watching the reactions.

  Gomez-Larsen looked vaguely annoyed. Alex yawned nervously.

  Redpath was flushed and leaning back in his chair, watching Norcross. He seemed to be readying himself to jump up if something needed to be done. Beside him, Moon Hudson sat with his hands clasped, elbows on the table, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest. It occurred to Dickinson that if Hudson’s life had been different, he might have made a good cop. He certainly knew how to keep his cool.

  When Sandra Hudson, her mother, and her brother arrived in the courtroom, the defendant did not turn his head to look at them, and Sandra did not try to speak to her husband. Now, while Norcross went on, she sat looking into her lap, her mouth slightly open. Her expression made Dickinson think of a small child caught red-handed in some horrible misbehavior. The whipping hadn’t started yet, but the real torture was having to sit and wait for something she might not be able to endure.

  The mother had placed a hand over her forehead, obscuring her face; the brother stared out the courtroom windows, as though miles away.

  The O’Connors held the front row on the right. Jack and the oldest boy sat side by side, leaning back like matching statues, with their arms folded across their chests and their eyes fixed on the bench. Eddie shifted in his seat, scowling as though he thought the entire show was a pathetic joke. The face of the youngest kid, Mikey, had the same expression as Sandra’s. He’d done something bad, and he was going to get a whipping. The similarity was so startling, Dickinson looked quickly back and forth to compare.