“And you understand that Mr. Hudson has been found guilty of two murders, including the murder of your mother, and that this jury will very shortly be deciding whether he should be put to death?”
Michael nodded. “I understand.” He tried putting his elbows up on the chair arms, but they were too high. He gave up and dropped his wrists to his sides.
“How are you feeling right now, Michael?” Redpath’s voice changed, and he sounded concerned.
“Scared.” The boy breathed deeply. His glance floated up to the judge’s perch, ten miles above him, as if he were afraid he’d admitted something that might get him into trouble, then his eyes dropped again.
“But you asked to be here, right, Michael? You called me, or you asked your dad to call me”—Redpath turned to where Jack O’Connor sat in the gallery, bolt upright with his mouth open, then back toward the jury and continued, slightly louder—“because you wanted to come here, and sit where you’re sitting now.” He faced Michael and concluded quietly. “Isn’t that true?”
“That’s true.”
“Why?”
Redpath’s question broke a cardinal rule of trial advocacy: Never ask a “why” question when you don’t know what the answer will be. Here we go, he thought.
“Because Mom wouldn’t want …”
“I’m sorry. Just a little louder, please, Mr. O’Connor,” Norcross broke in.
Michael cleared his throat and shot a look at his dad. “Because Mom wouldn’t want him …” He nodded at Hudson. The defendant, like the jurors, was as still as wood, his eyes fixed on the floor in front of the defense table.
“Wouldn’t want him to be, you know. To die. I know she … wouldn’t want that.”
Redpath waited until he assumed the witness had finished his answer. But Michael had only been looking down, gathering himself, and so both voices resumed simultaneously.
“How do you …” Redpath began.
“She’s not …” Michael said, looking at his lap.
“Hang on, hang on,” Norcross broke in quietly, holding up one hand. “Let’s be sure the witness has finished his answer. Nice and loud now, Michael, okay?”
The boy was still looking down, taking careful breaths. He opened his mouth to speak but his chin trembled, and he closed it again. He lifted his elbows high up onto the chair arms, inhaled deeply, and looked at Redpath.
“She’s not. She can’t, like, be here to talk for herself. Somebody has to talk for her, so I have to. I have to say what she would say if she could be here.”
“And what would she say if she were here?”
Michael looked searchingly over at Hudson, who still stared at the carpet in front of counsel table. The boy shook his head.
“She wouldn’t want him to die.” His chin dropped, and the hair tipped over his eyes. “She never wanted anything …”
“Just a bit louder please,” Norcross said gently.
The twelve jurors and three remaining alternates were leaning forward in their seats. Two had their hands over their mouths. Redpath noticed Norcross take off his glasses and begin cleaning them with a tissue.
“Mom never wanted anything to die.” He looked at his feet and then up. “Not even bugs. Even baby birds, we’d keep them in a shoe box and try to, like, help them fly. It never worked. She wouldn’t want anybody to die on purpose, no matter what.”
“What kind of effect would Moon’s execution have on you, Michael? How would it make you feel?”
“Bad.”
“Why?”
“Because I know it would be making Mom sad, and that would make me even sadder. It would make everything worse.”
“Thank you, Michael. No further questions.”
As Redpath turned, Michael’s shoulders dropped with relief, and he began to slide out of his chair.
“Hold on a minute, please, Michael,” Norcross said. “We may not be quite done with you yet, I’m afraid.” He looked at the prosecution table. “Will there be any cross?”
Gomez-Larsen was examining the eagle behind the bench, scratching her chin absentmindedly. After a beat of three, she rose to her feet.
“Yes, Your Honor, very brief.”
“Proceed.”
Gomez-Larsen walked to the side of the podium closest to the jury and put one hand on the heavy frame. She carried herself with an air of delicacy, as though she were determined to preserve something in the mood of the courtroom that might dissolve. She stood for a moment, apparently in some inner debate, then shook her head sadly, answering herself, and began.
“Michael,” she said. “I have just two questions for you.”
“Okay.”
“What’s the first thing you think of when you wake up in the morning?”
It was terrible to watch. At first, Michael sat back and looked at the ceiling with an air of relief, to give this simple question his honest attention. His chin lifted slightly, and his head tipped to one side as he pursued the trail of recollection. But, when he reached the end of his search, his face darkened, and his fingers bunched on the chair arms.
Gomez-Larsen had been reading his expression as the seconds passed. When she saw the click, she said in a low voice, “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m so sorry. What’s the first thing?”
Michael’s face was paler than ever, and he leaned forward, speaking with a quaver. “Mom’s gone.”
“Yes. And what’s the last thing you think of when you go to sleep at night?”
This time, no search was necessary.
“Same.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
57
Maria Maldonado stood at the bottom of the dark stairway leading up to her apartment. Another ten-hour day at the nursing home, and she was so tired that she could feel gravity pulling her shoulders down, as though she were carrying buckets of sand.
It really made no sense to keep this place. Hannah was off with her new boyfriend most nights and had stopped contributing to the rent; her parents, both ill, wanted her home. Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant she had to be up by six for her job at the Sheraton. With no rent or utilities to pay, she could at least drop the hotel job, maybe help out more at church.
Upstairs, in the darkness on the landing it took some fiddling to get the lock to turn. When Maria finally managed to get inside the apartment, she paused to stuff her key back into her purse before flipping on the light. Suddenly, she caught sight of a tall figure in the shadows by the sofa, gliding in her direction and reaching its arms out. A bolt of terror shot through her, and with it came the sickening certainty that she was about to be raped again. Her knees went weak, and she started to scream. But someone behind her clapped a hand over her mouth and twisted her head back. The man’s other arm snaked across her, grabbing her breast and squeezing her painfully against him. She couldn’t breathe; her heartbeat was slamming in her ears.
The dark figure came closer, his hands ready to tear at her blouse. He flashed a penlight across his face so she could see him.
“Quiet,” he said in Spanish. “Quiet. It’s only me.”
The grip relaxed a bit, but the hand stayed over her mouth.
“It’s me, it’s Carlito. It’s okay.” He waved at the person behind her, and the hands dropped and smoothed her shoulders.
“Sorry,” a soft voice behind her said in English. “Did I hurt you?”
Maria stared, astonished, at her older brother, come back from the dead.
“Carlos, is that you?” She spoke to him in Spanish, as they always had. “How can this be? The paper said you were killed. Your body was floating in the ocean.”
Carlos sniffed and moved back over to the sofa. “You need to work harder on your English, Maria. The newspaper only said the body was ‘thought to be’ me.”
“We were sure you were dead.”
�
��Not yet, little sister. Not yet.” Carlos snapped his fingers and pointed. “Mannie!” He gestured down the hall, switching to English. “In the bedroom, like I said, in the back of the closet. Close the door and stay in there until I call.”
“Are you all right?” the voice behind her asked.
Maria looked over her shoulder but saw only the shadow of a very large man. She said nothing.
“Mannie!” Carlos repeated, gesturing furiously toward the bedroom. Maria watched the man’s shadow as it disappeared, and she heard the sound of the door closing.
“Come sit here,” Carlos said, pointing next to him on the sofa. “I need to talk to you.” He nodded in the direction of the bedroom. “He speaks very little Spanish. He won’t understand us even if he tries.”
Maria didn’t move. Her voice trembled. “Carlos, my God. I can’t believe it’s you. I thought …” She began to cry. “It’s too much. You know what happened to me.”
“It’s all right, Maria. I’m very sorry we scared you. Now please come sit here. We need to talk.” He patted the cushion next to him.
As Maria drew closer, her heart still banging against her ribs, the familiar features of her brother’s handsome face drew together. He had regrown his beard, and now it was silver up toward his sideburns and halfway down his cheeks. A pair of tinted, black-framed glasses concealed his eyes. Without looking closely and hearing his voice, she might not have realized who he was.
She sat down on the sofa, still shaky, pulling her skirt over her knees.
“Who is Pepe talking to?” Carlos touched his sister’s hand. “I need to know. The papers say he’s blaming me now. Why is he saying these things?”
“The police captain told him you were dead. Truly dead. I was there.”
“That old trick? The little fool!” Carlos took the glasses off and put them in his shirt pocket. He wiped his eyes with the heels of both hands. After a few seconds, Maria saw that he was focusing back on her, realizing she might be offended. He waved his hand. “It’s not his fault. I should have prepared him better. Damn it, though! He’s fucked up my life.” He took a deep breath and frowned, sucking through his upper teeth like a man steeling himself for a sting, a habit Maria had seen many times. He continued. “Is it true, do you think? Do they really suppose I’m dead?”
“That’s what they told us. I believed them.”
Maria watched her brother, rubbing his hands over his knees and shaking his head, and she began to recall the depth of her anger at him. The terror of being grabbed like that had driven the rage out of her head. Now her bitterness was like blood seeping back into numb flesh.
“Carlos, I have to ask you something.”
“No questions,” he snapped. He stood up abruptly. “I may be going away.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “South. You may never see me again, or you may see me tomorrow.” He turned toward the bedroom, his voice a sharp whisper. “Mannie!”
Maria remained on the sofa. “Was it really you who put Pepe, your own nephew, in that car? Could you, his uncle, do such a thing to him?”
Carlos looked down. His mind had obviously moved far away again, fixing on the next problem. Maria saw her brother’s face grow cloudy as he turned to her, heard him sucking through his upper teeth again. If he started to hit her, she would not even try to duck.
“Maria, I swear I did not do this. It was the nigger Hudson. I don’t know why Pepe is saying these things.”
“Pepe says the judge keeps doing things to help Hudson. The jury found him guilty, but Pepe says the judge could change that if he decides that Hudson didn’t do it. What would happen to Pepe if the judge thinks he is being a false witness? I don’t understand these things.”
But Carlos was staring out the small living-room window, his attention, apparently, turning once more to other problems. The silence brought him back, and he gave a quick, wolflike smile.
“Then perhaps I’ll have to get you a new judge.”
The shadowy man, Mannie, floated into the room, holding a long, dark object. He took a position by the door. Carlos looked at him and nodded.
“Good.” Then he leaned over so his face was very close to Maria’s. “I was never here. Do you understand? You know I would never hurt you, but I cannot always control others. It would be very bad for you, and very, very dangerous for Pepe, and maybe even for our parents, if anyone ever knew I was here. Do you understand me, Maria? I was never here. You never saw me. I am dead.”
“I understand.”
Carlos pulled the glasses out of his pocket and set them on his face. Mannie opened the door, and Carlos stepped out ahead of him. The bodyguard hesitated in the doorway. “I am very sorry if I hurt you,” he said, and then he was gone, too.
Maria sat on the edge of the sofa for nearly an hour, hugging her elbows and staring into the darkness. Eventually, one fact in the swirl of confusion became clear; its force pinned her where she sat. She had been watching her brother carefully for more than twenty-five years, gauging Carlos’s moods—ready to dodge a slap, a fist, a thrown stone. Now she knew one thing absolutely, knew it with solid intuition even before the truth took shape in words. Carlos was lying. He’d put Pepe in that car. That much, at least, was the truth.
58
The Friday-night crowd in Springfield’s Entertainment District—a few square blocks of upscale bars, restaurants, and gentlemen’s clubs not far from the courthouse—had pretty much evaporated by three a.m., when Tony Torricelli nosed his Firebird up to a dumpster behind a hot spot called the Fish Eye. A stocky man positioned by the back doorway wiped his hands on his apron, nodded, and went back inside, leaving Tony in the spidery darkness. The Firebird’s engine idled softly, echoing off the trash bins. Scraps of paper clawed over the blacktop in puffs of warm breeze that smelled of cooking grease.
Tony checked his watch—he was on the button—and lit a cigarette, doing his best to look unconcerned. News of Alex’s unhelpful testimony at the Hudson trial had reached the South End, and it wasn’t long before Tony received a call from one of the runners he’d placed bets with, a mid-echelon wise guy named Perez. Seemed Perez’s boss wanted to talk to Tony.
“What’s he want to talk about?” Tony had asked Perez.
“Chill out, Tone.”
“I’m just asking …”
“He’s not upset with you, man,” Perez had said. “He’s just, you know, disappointed. Now he’s got another idea to get you out from under.”
“What kind of idea?”
“You think he’d tell me? Come talk.”
Tony had met Perez’s boss once, briefly, at a wedding. He remembered the man’s deadly stare as they shook hands. No way you refused a meeting with this guy. So now here he was, and God help him.
The rear door of the Fish Eye reopened, and three shadows drifted out. The first two split off, one moving to his left toward the driver’s side and the other toward the passenger door. The interior light popped on as the guy on the passenger side slid in next to him.
“How you doing?” Tony asked. He’d never seen the man, a big, bald-headed bruiser.
“Fuck you.” The man reached over, turned off the Firebird, and took the keys. He nodded toward the third man, who’d trailed up and was standing opposite the front left fender with his hands in the pockets of his gray sport coat.
This was Perez’s boss. His crisp white shirt was open at the collar, and he was looking down at Tony with a sad, almost fatherly smile.
The man in the passenger seat spoke again, “Out.” Tony’s keys gave a plaintive clink as the guy stuffed them into his jeans pocket. The man on the driver’s side opened the door, and Tony stepped onto the blacktop.
“Mr. Calabrese, how you doing?” Tony transferred the cigarette to his left hand and held out his right. Calabrese kept his hands in his pockets, looking even sadder. A crunch on the gravel told Tony t
hat the guy on the passenger side had exited, walked around the rear of the car, and was coming up behind him.
“Not too good,” Calabrese said. “I want my fucking money.”
“I’m trying, really. I just, I need some more time.” Tony could feel Baldie breathing into the hair on the back of his neck; the driver’s-side guy, shorter, with a stubby ponytail and a thin mustache, was half an arm’s length to his left, crowding his space. No place to run.
“Well, congratulations. You just made a down payment.” Calabrese poked his chin toward the Firebird. “We like your car.”
Tony took a puff on his cigarette and gave a hollow laugh. “Piece of crap’s not worth the loan I got on it.”
“We drive the car, pal. You pay the loan.”
Calabrese nodded to the guy behind Tony, and two iron-hard hands shoved up under his armpits and locked behind his neck, levering his face toward the ground. The cigarette dropped from his hand and bounced, scattering the orange ember. The man with the mustache hit Tony hard in the gut and followed with a jab that cracked Tony’s nose and sent salty blood flowing into his mouth. As Tony staggered sideways, he could see the guy was grinning.
“Goddamit,” Tony said. “Where the fuck are you guys?”
The arms jammed his head down more fiercely, and he felt as though his neck would break. The guy throwing the punches had to be at least semi-pro. He planted a foot and hit Tony fast, three times—bam-bam-bam!—in the ribs, and a jolt of pain shot up his left side.
“Hey!” Tony gasped. “Come on! For Christ’s sake.”
The bald muscleman swung Tony around and slammed him into the car. Tony felt another hard punch in the kidney, then another, and then, at last, all hell broke loose.
A black SUV tore into the parking lot and skidded up so close it tapped the nose of the Firebird and knocked Tony backward. The window was down and the driver was holding a gun that looked as big as a horse’s leg, pointing it at Calabrese.
“Up, up!” the driver shouted. “Up with the fucking hands!”
Several other cars roared in, and there was a sound of shouts and running feet.
The Hanging Judge Page 34