The Hanging Judge

by Michael Ponsor

  “Can I talk now?”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Sandra rolled off Moon onto her side and rested her chin on his shoulder so she could speak directly into his ear.

  “Just how dumb do you think I am, Moon Hudson? You think I didn’t know what I was doing when I married you? You think I couldn’t have had ten guys just like Lucas if I wanted? Okay, five. And not bad guys, either. Some of the ones Mom made him bring around were sweeter than you and almost as good looking. But I fell in love with you, Moon, and you are the one I want. And now you want me to go all strategic.”

  “Strategic.”

  “Plan it all out on a piece of paper. Say to myself, ‘Now Moon is probably not going to be a partner in any Boston law firm. So I better step off this streetcar and give Lucas a call.’ Give up the man I love, and go find somebody else who’s less trouble and has a bigger gravy boat. That’s the strategy. As though love never happens.”

  She stopped for a moment, then rushed on before Moon could interrupt.

  “Have a smart plan and follow it even if I could search through that plan from the top to the bottom and never find even one ounce of real love in the whole thing.”

  Moon rolled over onto his side toward her, ready to start arguing, but she wouldn’t let him.

  “I didn’t marry you because it was the smart thing to do. How stupid do you think I am?” Sandra shifted up onto her elbow and looked down at Moon. “And don’t tell me you’re going to go back to your old life, like you’re some kind of pitiful robot or something. I don’t care if we have to eat Corn Flakes for dinner, sitting on boxes. And if you ever lie to me again, I’ll …”

  The sound of a car door slamming and voices outside jerked both of them upright. Sandra hastily pulled the sheet up over her breasts, and Moon swung out of bed, lithe and silent. He grabbed a fistful of clothes and then peered around the doorframe into the living room with its big window that looked out onto their front walk.

  When he got a good look, he leaped back into the room and began hopping on one foot, working furiously to pull on his pants.

  “Shit! It’s your folks.” He hesitated and, for the first time since they left the courthouse, broke into one of his smiles. “Girl, what is so damn funny?”

  65

  Bill Redpath sat at his desk behind a crenellated bulwark of case files and volumes of appellate reports, smoking a cigarette and reading a draft memorandum in support of a motion to suppress. Perched precariously on the extreme corner of his desk, occupying the only three inches of bare surface, a lime green ashtray was overflowing onto the floor.

  Redpath became aware of Judy’s presence in the doorway, and he lifted his rumpled face. He was still recovering from Hudson, and he didn’t feel good.

  “What’s up?” He blew out a lungful of smoke. His tie was loosened down to the second button on his shirt, and his sleeves were rolled up over his elbows. The Suffolk County Superior Court was expecting this memorandum from him this afternoon; it would have to be walked over and, even then, it was going to be tight.

  A long drag on his Lucky allowed Redpath time to absorb the ominousness of his secretary’s face and posture. Her arms were folded, and she was looking around the room, always a bad sign.

  “What?” he asked, knowing very well what the problem was. While he’d been working in Springfield, Judy had undertaken the massive task of tidying up his office. For nearly a week after his return, he couldn’t find a thing. Now the place was finally getting comfortable again.

  As if in reply to his not very innocent question, a three-foot stack of papers abruptly toppled off the radiator and shot its contents across the carpet toward Judy. She poked a folder away with her toe and looked at Redpath darkly.

  “Oh dear,” he said, craning his neck over the mess on his desk to get a better look. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it in a minute.”

  Judy shook her head. “It’s okay, Bill. I can pick everything up in a year or two.”

  “I’ll give you this draft in half an hour, tops,” he said. “We’re kind of up against it, I’m afraid.”

  “We’re up against it. That’s rich,” she snorted. “Anyway, you got a message over lunch from Tom, wishing you happy Father’s Day.”

  “Father’s Day? That was—what?—ten days ago?”

  “He’s been on trial.”

  A sad look darkened Redpath’s face. “Story of our lives.”

  Judy waved a message slip. “You also got a call from Gomez-Larsen, and it sounds like good news.”

  “Oh God!” Redpath started to get up, then fell back, wincing. “God, that’s fantastic!” He grimaced and massaged his upper arm.

  “Any place special you’d like me to stick it?” Judy gestured with the slip, then stopped and leaned forward. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so,” Redpath said, standing up and plopping down again. “Could you bring it here? I’ll call her right now.” He pressed his hand over his stomach and groaned. “No more KFC for lunch.”

  As Judy left the room, she looked over her shoulder. “Good luck finding your phone.”

  66

  Bedtime, and newly promoted Sergeant Alex Torricelli had hopes. He stood in the bathroom, looking into the mirror and trying to imagine what his wife could possibly see in his large, square, hairy body. His frame was decked out in a pair of fresh pajamas, green ones with white stripes. Before he met Janice, he’d been a T-shirt-and-boxers guy. The pajama outfit was still warm from the dryer and smelled of Tide. After a close exam, Alex decided he looked like a bulldozer with a tarp thrown over it.

  It had been a long, long, really long, time. He watched his misshapen lips as he brushed his teeth, his mouth bulging and rotating as though it had laundry inside. Janice was the only girl who’d ever told him he was cute, and that only once. Maybe she’d changed her mind. The scarred right ear still gave him a loony kangaroo look. He wouldn’t blame her. Things happened; people changed.

  He spat. The aroma of the aftershave he’d purchased at CVS was making his eyelashes tingle. She’ll catch the smell and realize I’m fishing, he thought anxiously. That would ruin everything.

  The last time he’d done the deed had been months ago at the Motel 6 in Deerfield with Dina the Vagina, and the memory of this crime all but smothered any sense of possibility. If he was remembering that, she probably was, too. How long would it last? He splashed cold water on his face to dilute the Old Spice and toweled himself off, then tried to dab away the wet blotches on his pajama top. No matter how hard he tried, he always came out the same.

  No gurgles from the baby drifted toward him as he made his way down the hall. The coast was clear.

  Janice was in bed already, sitting with the daffodil-colored sheets pulled over her knees, reading one of her John Grishams in a pool of light from the nightstand. It was a relief that his wife’s mood seemed okay, meaning she wasn’t giving off that arctic wind he’d been turning blue in for so long. On the other hand, she didn’t have her pink chiffon nightie on, either. It was the regular cotton, with the kittens, the one they’d taken to the hospital when their daughter was born. As Alex hesitated by the bed, Janice patted his side encouragingly, but without looking up from the page. Her brown hair against the yellow pillowcase was more beautiful than anything Alex could remember.

  He lowered himself carefully, as though Janice were asleep and he did not want to wake her, pulled up the covers, interlaced his fingers on his stomach, looked at the ceiling, and waited. There was a papery flap as a page turned. Under his hands, Alex felt the thump of his heart, not fast but hard. Janice breathed. Another page turned. The bed creaked as she leaned over and took a sip of water.

  “I talked to Cindy today,” Janice said, distantly. She was still looking at the book. “She called after lunch.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Great.
She’s enjoying having the house to herself.”

  The mattress creaked again as Janice put her book on the nightstand and turned out the light. A series of bounces rocked Alex for a few seconds, while his wife pulled her pillow down and got settled. They lay in the darkness, not touching.

  “Tone’s living at his office, sleeping on the couch.” Alex spoke to the ceiling.

  “Serves him right.”

  Janice shifted onto her right side, away from him, and one of her feet brushed his ankle. It was her old sleeping position. Maybe tomorrow, or next week. The touch of her foot was so thrilling it made Alex’s Adam’s apple swell. He had trouble speaking.

  “Tony’s got medical problems,” he said, and cleared his throat.

  “Does he now.”

  A pause. A breeze of early summer swished and blew a puff of sweet-smelling air in through the window. A car crackled by on the street outside, fanning a fluffy gray light over the ceiling. Janice turned toward him. He felt her knee against his upper thigh and her voice close to his ear.

  “What kind of problems?” She sounded concerned, or at least interested, despite herself.

  “Don’t tell him I told you, but he’s … He’s got genital warts, I guess.”

  “Oh, that’s perfect! More than one?” Janice was wriggling happily, and parts of her body were brushing against him. It was close to driving him nuts. Her movements released the scent of her hair; the aroma of her cotton nightgown was flooding up from the sheets and over his face. Outside, the breeze got stronger. It was time to take his chance, but he felt ill with dread that he would screw it up. He wasn’t smooth at jokes.

  “I think so. I’m not sure.” Then he added, in as serious a voice as he could contrive, “But it’s bad, Jan. It’s real bad, I guess.”

  Her movements stopped, and her body broke contact. Alex maintained the same position, face to the ceiling, hands on his stomach.

  “How bad is it? Is it …” She hesitated. “You mean, they think it might be cancer or something?” Janice Torricelli was vengeful, but only up to a point.

  “No, but it’s bad enough they may have to try and operate.”

  “Well,” Janice said with a sigh, “that sure won’t be pleasant for him.”

  “Yeah. But the real problem is, cause it’s gotten so bad, the doctors can’t tell anymore.”

  “Can’t tell what?”

  “Can’t tell which is the genital and which is the wart.”

  A pause followed and, since it was very dark in the room, Alex was not sure how he’d made out. A gust of muffled laughter finally burst out from the other side of the bed, and out of nowhere he was being playfully thumped over the head and chest with a pillow. Janice’s body was partly on top of him and he felt her breasts against his ribs. Then, as he reached up to put his arms around her, he felt a sob shudder through her shoulders, and tears of jubilation springing into his eyes.

  67

  Despite the hospital’s confounded plastic chairs, which always made his low back hurt, Skip Broadwater had come to enjoy his visits with Dave Norcross. The man was almost young enough to be his son, and the chief judge felt a certain pride as he witnessed, over the weeks, Norcross’s determination to recover, the return of his sense of humor, and, most of all, his disinclination to complain. One afternoon when he was dropping by, he brought a newspaper with him that included a profile of Mrs. Abercrombie and the details of her indictment. The article mentioned that a judge from Connecticut would be coming up to handle the case; all the Massachusetts federal judges had recused themselves.

  “Do you think,” Norcross asked, “if she had been a better shot, the attorney general’s death committee would have approved a capital prosecution for her?”

  “Oh, Dave, please!” Broadwater peered over his half glasses in mock astonishment. “How can you say such a thing? A nice old Caucasian lady like that?”

  “I can see why she did it,” Norcross said. He squirmed uncomfortably. “But I sure wish she hadn’t.”

  Broadwater shifted and crossed his legs. Given his colleague’s condition, he couldn’t bring himself to whine about the chair, so he directed his impatience at the legal system.

  “Who had the inhuman idea that we could rationally select people for execution anyway? It’s lunacy.” Broadwater’s voice turned peevish. “Then they say to us trial judges, ‘Here, you manage it!’ ” He shook his head disgustedly and shuffled the pages of the newspaper. “And did you notice this article about the O’Connor boy?”

  “Which one?”

  “Edward, the middle kid. Says here he’s still positive Moon Hudson killed his mom, and he always will be.” Broadwater eyed the photograph of the boy and quoted. “ ‘Justice in America a joke, says victim’s son.’ ”

  “Can’t please everybody.”

  A nurse with short blonde hair hurried in to adjust her patient’s IV and check his vitals. She smiled briefly, but said nothing before disappearing. After she was gone, Norcross lifted his head slightly.

  “Buzz me up a little, will you?”

  Broadwater walked over and pushed the button to raise the top of the bed six inches. Despite his improvement, Norcross was, after three trips to the operating theater, still semi-mummified in bandages and warned to keep his movements to a minimum.

  “After my last procedure, when I was still kind of a mess,” Norcross said after he resettled, “Claire got a little worked up. Said she wanted to see Mrs. Abercrombie boiled in oil, or worse. She got pretty upset. I was afraid the nurse was going to have to ask her to leave.”

  “Well, that’s it, isn’t it? Human beings aren’t designed to handle this sort of situation as though it’s some form of arithmetic. It’s like asking a chimpanzee to make gingerbread. People don’t work that way.”

  “Same as love, I guess,” Norcross said, drifting a bit and closing his one unbandaged eye. “Doesn’t follow instructions very well.”

  “Drawing tidy boundaries around the irrational,” Broadwater muttered. “Might as well try putting pantyhose on a gust of wind.”

  Claire entered the room with a leather satchel on one shoulder and let out a happy cry at seeing Broadwater. After a quick hug, she walked over and gave Norcross a kiss. “Hey, tiger.”

  At this point, the blonde nurse rejoined them, carrying a food tray. Claire pulled up a chair next to Broadwater while the young woman organized her patient for his meal.

  “I wanted to ask you a question,” Claire said, touching Broadwater’s arm. “I have a friend, or at least an acquaintance, at UMass. One of his students is threatening to sue him for sexual harassment.”

  “Oh God, not one of those horrors.”

  “He’s saying that what he did couldn’t be harassment, since the two of them did not actually, um … ” To Broadwater’s amusement, Claire hesitated. “ ‘Hook up,’ as my students say, until after he’d submitted her final grade. Does that make sense?”

  “Not to me,” Broadwater said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “But I doubt I’ll be on the jury. There might be some group of twelve men and women that would swallow that argument, though. You never know. Who are the parties?”

  “Forty-seven-year-old legal studies professor and a blonde undergrad with an inconsistent lisp.”

  “Ouch,” Broadwater said. “I’d get out my checkbook.”

  “Salt and pepper,” Norcross said, chewing. He wiggled his eyebrows at Claire.

  As the nurse departed, Broadwater tried to work through what this exchange might mean. His friend and his lady had their own little jokes. Then he noticed the time and jumped up. “I’d better run, or I’ll be late for the memorial.”

  “Oh dear. Who died?” Claire asked.

  Norcross swallowed and shook his head. “One of the lawyers who tried the Hudson case, Bill Redpath. It was very sudden, very sad.”

  “A phen
omenal trial lawyer, and a good man,” Broadwater said. “His secretary found him sitting at his desk with a draft motion to suppress and a cigarette still burning in the ashtray. He’d just gotten the news about the Hudson dismissal. Half of Boston will be at the church.”

  The three of them fell into a moment of silence for William P. Redpath Jr., defense attorney. While they paused, a car moved by outside the window, playing hip-hop. The insistent rhythm rose, hit a crescendo, and faded into an addictive refrain that stuck in the mind, like the arc of a particularly effective cross-examination.

  As Broadwater said his good-byes, Claire had to resist the temptation to kiss the man on the top of his shiny bald head. Time and again, his kindness had kept them afloat. After he left, Claire pulled her chair closer to David’s bed. She sighed and took his hand.

  “I have to do this right away or I won’t manage it, ” she said. “We’ve been talking to your doctors, and there’s some lousy news. I’d like to get through this without another one of my famous meltdowns.” She took a deep breath, gripped David’s hand, and let it all out at once. “You’ve lost most of the vision in your left eye for good. There’s nothing more the surgeons can do. They’re at an end point.”

  “Huh.”

  “The bullet was small, .22 caliber, and it hit at an angle, so it mostly just sort of dug a furrow in your skull. In a few days, they’ll have the bandages off. But your eye …” She steadied herself. “With the powder flash. There was too much damage.”