The arms vanished, and Tony sat down on the pavement so hard his teeth snapped together. Bright searchlights on two marked cruisers abruptly lit the scene, giving Tony the pleasure of seeing his friend from the passenger seat getting tripped and kicked in the nuts as he tried to scramble away. The welterweight was already on the ground, and Calabrese, with a disgusted look on his face, had his arms pinned behind him. Tony heard the satisfying click of the cuffs.
The case agent, Simonelli, leaned over him.
“Great job! You okay?” He reached out a hand to help Tony up.
Tony ignored the hand and began pushing himself to his feet. “Does it look like I’m fucking okay? They broke my fucking nose.”
“Let me turn you off.” Simonelli reached inside Tony’s shirt and deactivated the recording device.
“Where the fuck were you guys? Fuck!”
“Oh, stop being such a whiner!” Another agent trotted up, smiling broadly. “We got the whole thing on video, clear as a bell. Damn! Just wish they’d popped you a couple more times.”
“Fuck!” Tony sputtered. “Fuck all of you! Give me a towel or something. Look at my fucking shirt!”
Simonelli put his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you use the distress signal? It took us a couple seconds to tell you were in trouble.”
“Distress signal?” Tony was patting blood off his face with someone’s handkerchief. His nose stung horribly. “What fucking signal?”
“ ‘Help’ was the signal, Tony. You were supposed to yell ‘Help’ the minute they touched you. We went over it three times.”
“ ‘Help’—that was it? Just ‘Help’?”
“Three times, Tony.”
“Huh,” Tony said. He dabbed his nose and winced. “Fuck a duck.”
59
Even with Michael O’Connor’s testimony, Judge Norcross might have squeezed in the arguments and charge that Friday, except that, of course, this being Hudson, something had to go haywire. After the boy left the witness stand and the defense rested—right as he was drawing breath to describe the next portion of the trial—Juror Six, a young woman with spiky blonde hair on the far end of the front row, stood up suddenly. To Norcross’s astonishment, she began floundering over the feet of the other jurors, muttering, “sorry” and “excuse me” like a movie patron clambering out for a pit stop.
Predictably, she didn’t make it. With one hand on the jury rail and one on her diaphragm, she retched volcanically into the lap of the foreperson, paused, shuddered, and then vomited again, off to the side, so a few stray chunks ran down the front of the jury box’s beech paneling.
What else could he expect? He’d had to put everything over to Monday. It was disappointing but, as Eva reminded him, picking up with the final arguments at the beginning of the week might work better anyway. They’d have the weekend to repolish the penalty phase instructions and air out the courtroom.
Claire returned very late that Friday after four days at a conference in Hawaii, and Saturday morning Norcross was hurrying into town to meet up with her. As he drove, he embroidered details of the vomit performance to improve the comedy, chuckling to himself at the points where he hoped his lady would laugh. They were meeting for breakfast at The Lord Jeffery Inn, an upscale establishment popular with visiting alumni on the edge of the Amherst Common.
As Norcross was easing into a parking place, he got an unwelcome surprise. Florence Abercrombie was emerging from Hastings News, a stationery store across the street. He ducked down over the passenger seat, pretending to fuss with something in the glove compartment, hoping she wouldn’t notice him.
No such luck. She bustled into the crosswalk, more stooped than he remembered, and began waving her arms. “Yoo-hoo! Over here!” she called, as though she were shipwrecked and he were a sail on the horizon. The old woman’s long white hair danced behind her in the breeze. By the time she drew up, Norcross was out of his car attending to the parking meter.
“They’re taking my house!” Mrs. Abercrombie said, with a lopsided grin and large, unnaturally bright eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Abercrombie.” The meter buzzed as it digested his quarter.
Her off-center smile did not change.
“You denied my motion.” A strand of hair flapped across her face. “Without a hearing.”
“I know. I’m very sorry.” She seemed to have gotten shorter, and Norcross had to put his hands on his thighs as he bent down to her. “Can I tell you something? I’m about to meet somebody—you remember Professor Lindemann?—and, to tell the truth, I’m pretty excited to see her. She’s waiting. So this is not a very …”
“I know, it’s not a good time.” Mrs. Abercrombie looked down at the pavement before squinting up at him. “It’s never a good time.” The wretchedness in her eyes made her unchanging smile seem daubed on.
“Sorry. It’s just … I’m just, kind of …”
“It’s all right, Your Honor.” Mrs. Abercrombie waved her hands, fanning the air. “But, don’t worry, you’ll be seeing me again. I’m not giving up, you know!” Her fingers tapped his chest as she stepped closer and dropped her voice. “A good time is just around the corner.”
“That’s the spirit,” Norcross said, stepping back. Then he added, wincing inwardly at his hypocrisy, “Always good to see you, Mrs. Abercrombie.”
Claire was waiting for him in the lobby when he arrived, wearing a dark green blouse, black slacks, a pair of earrings he’d given her, and perhaps a little more makeup than usual. She didn’t need it, but it was a pleasure to know she’d taken the trouble. They had just gotten to their table, and David had not even had time to start in about Juror Six, when Claire reached down and handed him a Lord & Taylor bag containing a package in lavender wrapping paper.
“Hey,” she said. “I brought you a present.”
“Oh no,” David said, smacking his hand over his eyes. He should have brought something, flowers at least. No, flowers would have been wrong, but he should have brought something.
“You didn’t get anything for me, right?” Claire asked. And when David nodded, she smiled and said, “Such an asshole! Come on, open it up.”
While the waiter poured their coffee, David slowly removed the paper, being careful not to tear it and thinking furiously. He could try getting her something on the way home, but what? A flowering plant?
The ceramic object inside the box seemed to be some sort of doll. Placed on the table, it revealed itself as the grinning bust of a round, pink-faced woman, eight inches high, who waggled back and forth and gaped at him.
Claire chuckled and poked his arm.
“Know what it is?”
“It’s some kind of …”
“It’s a Wife of Bath bobblehead!” Claire leaned back in her chair and clapped her hands with delight. David noticed her moist tongue on the tip of her teeth. “It’s one of only two Canterbury Tales bobbleheads in the entire universe, as far as I know. I ran into an old student of mine at the conference, an amateur sculptor who once had a crush on me, and he gave them to me.” Claire’s quick tap sent the doll’s head rocking. “Isn’t she wonderful?”
“Fabulous.” David peered closer. “She’s got a big space between her front teeth.”
“That’s how Chaucer describes her! Isn’t that a riot? In the Middle Ages, gap-toothed women were supposed to be extra lusty.” She nudged the doll again and quoted. “ ‘Boold was hir face, and fair, and red of hewe.’ ”
“He’s got that detail.” David paused. “In love with you, huh? Meeting you at conferences in steamy places and bringing you nifty gifts.”
“I said he had a crush on me, once.”
“Hmm. Who’s the other bobblehead?”
“The knight, of course.” Claire tapped out the pentameter on the tablecloth. “ ‘A knight there was, and that a worthy man.’ Him, I’m keeping.”
He watched the doll ogling him impertinently; her jiggle had a coquettish quality. “She makes me think of something, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Would you like me to?”
“To what?”
“Put my finger on it.” When David leaned back and raised his eyebrows, Claire threw him her goose face, then said, “Why don’t we go back to my place for breakfast? I have ripe mangos.”
“You have ripe mangos.” David felt his pulse quicken and something press against the back of his throat. He swallowed.
“Yep,” Claire said. “I brought them back for you from Maui.” Her voice was carefully innocent, but her eyes were alight. “They’re very juicy.”
When the waiter returned to take their order, David said, “I think we’ll stick with coffee. We’re in more of a hurry than we thought.”
Smirking ridiculously, they gulped down their coffee and agreed to reconvene at Claire’s house in fifteen minutes.
As he made his way down the stone walk leading from the inn, David paused to gaze across the Common, brought to a stop by the happiness ballooning inside him, beyond hope or dream. The morning air was sweet, with the nip of early spring entirely gone. The grass of the Common, a deep crayon green, sloped down toward him from Pleasant Street onto a broad shelf the length of a football field. Sugar maples on the perimeter and on the higher ground up by the parking area were tossing great pompoms of vivid leaf against the blue sky. Everything was soundlessly cheering, especially him.
Two students, a girl and a boy, were flinging a red Frisbee nearly the entire length of the Common. Their exuberance, the power and accuracy of their throws, seemed to David almost magical. As he resumed his walk in their direction, the girl dashed toward him, thumping the earth so hard he could feel the vibrations through the sidewalk. Ten feet away, she leaped with a grunt and stretched full-length, straight up, to snatch the Frisbee out of the air, then twirled as she landed and fired her return like a bullet, four feet off the ground a good sixty yards down the grass, where the boy caught it, galloping like a colt. The girl cast David the briefest of looks, wiped her nose on the sleeve of her purple sweatshirt, and trotted off again as the Frisbee floated back toward her, an easy toss.
David lifted his eyes once more to the tops of the scrubbing maples, the boundless sky over the town’s low brick buildings, and the distant hills. The Wife of Bath swung by his side in her bag, matching her fantasies to his, and the whole weekend spread out before him, as spacious as the heavens, with nothing to do until Monday.
The last phase of Hudson was still there, of course, nagging at him. He kept imagining the moment, if the jury opted for death, when he would be sitting at his desk, pen poised, preparing to put his name on the execution order. He pushed down the thought. Who really knew what would happen? At least now the end was in sight. Soon Hudson would be off to Texas to begin his life sentence, or to Indiana for the long wait before his appointment with the Bureau of Prisons’ medical team. In a few days, a week at the most, a new parcel of baffled jurors and a new cast of attorneys and witnesses would be assembling before him. United States v. Hudson, whatever its outcome, would begin its slide into oblivion.
David didn’t notice Mrs. Abercrombie until she bustled into view around the rear of his Outback, five or six car-lengths away. A small wicker basket covered with a red-and-white checked napkin was dangling from her left hand.
Heaven help me, David thought. More ginger snaps.
He kept walking; somehow, he was not surprised. This was exactly the sort of thing the dear old crackpot would do. But it had to stop. It was way past time to get Mrs. Abercrombie out of his in-box. If she kept stalking him like this, he’d end up having to send the marshals to pay her a visit, maybe have to stick her gnarled old bottom in a jail cell.
She was waiting for him next to the driver’s side door where he could not avoid her. Her body seemed to be teetering, so rickety it looked as though it might fly off on the next puff of wind.
“Hello!” She waved.
When David drew up, the old woman dropped her voice and nodded at the basket. Something about her appearance was worse, even odder than when he’d seen her earlier. Her eyes narrowed in a kind of squint.
“I’ve got something for you,” Mrs. Abercrombie said. “I made it up myself.”
“Ma’am, we really do have to talk.” He shifted the bag to his left hand. “You have to stop doing this. Really.”
“You want to talk now? This is a good time?”
“It may be the best time we’re going to get, Mrs. Abercrombie.”
She shook her head, looking down at the pavement, then back up at him. “No.” Her eyes were searching up, as though she didn’t quite have him in focus. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Everyone’s always sorry.” She glanced down at the basket. How small she’d gotten!
Her face broke into a frowning grimace as she reached under the red-and-white napkin and drew out a tiny silver pistol. David, focusing on the hole at end of the barrel, drew in his chin. Was it real? The contraption was pointed directly at his heart, less than a two feet away.
Mrs. Abercrombie bit her lower lip, glared down at her hand, and pulled the trigger. The force of her tugs made the barrel jiggle, but the pistol merely emitted three dry clicks. David shook his head, speechless. A trickle of hot sweat was working down the inside of his arm, and his heart was racing.
“Lord, Mrs. Abercrombie,” he said finally. “You almost scared me to death with that thing. Why don’t I …” He grasped the end of the barrel and tipped it up to pry it out of her hand, working with care, not wanting to twist the old lady’s fingers. She set her lips and tightened her grip against him.
David had time to think, This is probably not smart, when the pistol discharged with a loud snap. He flew backward as though he’d been speared in the face by the butt of a rake handle. When he tried to gather his feet under him, his grasp fumbled against a parking meter, and he fell onto his side. The Lord & Taylor bag hit the pavement, bounced, and spat out its cardboard box. Propping himself on an elbow, David tried to force back the searing pain by pressing with his free hand against his eye and forehead. But the world was quickly growing dark, and the warm blood was pulsing through his fingers. It was difficult to get air. A smell of dirt, a wondering thought of Claire, of Marlene waiting, a thin strand of regret, and that was all.
The athletic girl stopped in her tracks to take in what had happened, allowing the red Frisbee to sail past her into the parking area and run scraping along the asphalt. When she saw the blood, she clapped her hand over her mouth, but for only for a moment. Then she began to shout fiercely, summoning the boy from far down the Common to help. The air carried the sweet smell of gunpowder.
Mrs. Abercrombie replaced the pistol back under the napkin and walked unnoticed toward her leprous old Volvo—grinning and nodding, rather in the manner of Claire’s Wife of Bath bobblehead.
60
Later that morning, Lydia Gomez-Larsen, her husband, and their two children were sitting down to their regular Saturday brunch. The dining room had French doors looking onto an elegant brick terrace with two rows of day lilies along one side. Just as Lydia picked up her fork, the phone rang, and she jumped up with an irritated expression to hurry into the family room.
“Go ahead and start,” she called over her shoulder in Spanish, but her husband, son, and daughter were already gobbling. Greg was not even on call this weekend; it was not fair.
“So! How’s my favorite prosecutor?” It was the too-familiar voice of Buddy Hogan.
“Uh-huh,” Gomez-Larsen said, sighing. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
She flopped onto the couch, cradling the phone against her head. Her feet w
ere bare, and she was wearing a pair of bright white slacks and an orange rugby shirt, untucked. She stretched out her legs and propped them on the coffee table.
“Listen,” Hogan hurried on. “Sorry to harass you at home. Everybody’s saying you were brilliant yesterday, absolutely brilliant, with the O’Connor kid and everything. You’re the talk of Beacon Hill. When I get to be president, you’re going to be the best-looking broad on the Supreme Court.”
“Well,” Gomez-Larsen said, pulling a TV remote out from under her, “we’ll see what the jury does. Now that it’s almost over, I can tell you I haven’t been Señora Popularity in my extended family the past few weeks.”
“Really? Why?” Hogan asked.
“Castro shot two of my uncles. The Gomez clan is not real big on capital punishment.”
“I thought you were Puerto Rican.”
Gomez-Larsen sighed. “Have someone buy you an atlas, Buddy. You’ll be amazed how many islands there are down there.”
“Shit.” Hogan laughed uncomfortably. “If I’d known about your relatives, I might have thought twice about giving you the case.”
“So what’s up? I don’t want to be rude, but my breakfast is getting cold.”
A pause on the other end made Gomez-Larsen lift her feet from the coffee table and sit up. Something funny was coming.
“A couple of us happened to be in here on a Saturday, kicking your case around.” Hogan’s voice had lost some of its breeze. “And we realized there’s, ah, one loose end we need to tie up.”
Gomez-Larsen drew open the middle drawer of the coffee table, took out a pen, and turned over a torn envelope for scratch paper.
“And that is?” She doodled a five-pointed star.
“The wife. Was it Susan?”
“Sandra.”
“Right. We can’t let the perjury slide, Lydia. People can’t pull that crap.”
Gomez-Larsen didn’t say anything, and Hogan added, a little lamely, “So, we’ve had an intern bang up the research, but you’re obviously the best one to put the case to the grand jury.”
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