Absolute Certainty

by Rose Connors

  I lean over and whisper to him. “You’re a decent human being, Kydd.”

  He grins.

  “Geraldine would never approve.”

  He laughs out loud.

  It’s after two o’clock by the time we finish the second call. The morning crowd has been replaced with reporters and spectators anticipating the Eddie Malone arraignment, jockeying for position even before Malone arrives. Dottie asks the judge if he’ll break for lunch before this one, but he looks out at the full gallery and shakes his head.

  Dottie reaches for Eddie’s file and waits patiently for the noise in the gallery to subside. When all is quiet, she calls out the docket number and announces: “The Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Edmund Joseph Malone.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Eddie Malone is a regular here. Normally, the court officers rib him about his antics when they escort him from lockup to the large courtroom. More often than not, they are all laughing out loud when they spill through the side door. If the judge is already on the bench, they are quick to signal one another to quiet down.

  But not today. Eddie and the two guards escorting him are stone-faced and silent when they enter the courtroom. The officers keep their eyes on the floor, even when a controlled murmur emanates from the crowd. Eddie looks up, though, and flashbulbs catch him from every angle. He looks like a deer caught in oncoming headlights.

  Harry is at Eddie’s side. The guards remove Eddie’s cuffs and shackles, and Harry guides him toward the defense table. Eddie starts talking out loud as soon as his cuffs are off, as if the guards removed a muzzle as well. The whole room can hear every word, but Harry makes no attempt to stop him. The reporters are scribbling.

  “Mr. Madigan, you ain’t gonna send me up there, are you? I dint do it. I swear to God.”

  Harry puts his hands on Eddie’s shoulders and leans over to whisper to him. Judge Gould pounds his gavel and the room grows still. I’m on.

  “Your Honor, Mr. Malone is charged with murder in the first degree on the grounds of extreme atrocity or cruelty.”

  “I dint do it, Judge.”

  I turn and give Eddie my menacing look.

  “The body of the victim, Steven Eldridge, was found by a man and woman who were jogging on Harding’s Beach in Chatham at approximately five o’clock yesterday morning. They told police that they both screamed when they came upon the body, whereupon a man matching the description of this defendant emerged from the dunes nearby and fled. The couple reported that the man who fled appeared to have been awakened by their screams.”

  “That’s right. I was sleepin’, Judge. I was sound asleep. There ain’t no law against sleepin’, is there?”

  I glare at him again.

  “When police officers returned to the scene at approximately three o’clock this morning, they found Mr. Malone asleep in the dunes in precisely the spot where the couple first saw the man who fled, approximately ten yards from where the corpse was found.”

  “I sleep there a lot, Judge. There ain’t usually a corpse there.”

  This time I glare at Harry; he stares back at me, his expression blank. I turn my back to him, walk to the bench, and hand the judge a copy of the police report. “Both the man and the woman—in separate lineups held this morning—identified this defendant as the man they saw fleeing the crime scene yesterday.”

  I stay close to the bench and hand the judge a copy of Jeff Skinner’s preliminary report. “The Medical Examiner’s preliminary report indi cates that the victim sustained blunt trauma to the skull and multiple stab wounds, including perforation of the throat and larynx, which is believed to be the primary cause of death.”

  “I never done nothin’ like that, Judge. I been in front of you lots of times, you know that, but I ain’t never done nothin’ like that.”

  I give up; I don’t even bother to look his way.

  “The report also indicates that blood matching that of the victim— and not matching that of the defendant—was found on the cuffs of this defendant’s trousers, as well as on his socks and sneakers.”

  “I tripped, Judge. I musta tripped. That’s all I can think.”

  “Your Honor, the Commonwealth asks that the defendant be held over for trial without bail.”

  Judge Gould peers over the dark rims of his glasses. “And the weapons, Ms. Nickerson? The blunt object? The knife?”

  “At this time, Your Honor, no weapon has been found. The police continue to search the Harding’s Beach area.”

  Judge Gould turns his attention to Harry. “Mr. Madigan, how does your client plead?”

  Harry stands and hands me new paperwork. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  He hands a copy to the judge. “Not guilty by reason of insanity.”

  A low rumble erupts in the gallery. Eddie Malone is yelling out loud now. “Mr. Madigan, I ain’t insane. I told you I ain’t insane.”

  Judge Gould pounds his gavel. Reporters head for the doors, some already barking into their cell phones. Judge Gould keeps pounding. Harry doesn’t even try to be heard until the court officers escort some of the noisier onlookers out of the room. Eventually, a hush falls over those who remain, all but Eddie Malone. He keeps yelling. “I ain’t insane, Mr. Madigan. I ain’t insane, and I ain’t no killer.”

  Harry ignores him. “Your Honor, the defense moves, pursuant to Massachusetts General Laws chapter 123, section 15, that the defen dant be committed to Bridgewater State Hospital for the statutory twenty-day observation period. We ask that the defendant be examined as to his competency to stand trial, as well as his mental state and level of criminal responsibility at the time he allegedly committed this crime.”

  Eddie is really upset now. “Mr. Madigan, don’t send me up there. I ain’t nuts. I ain’t nuts, and I dint kill nobody. I swear to God.”

  Still, Harry ignores him.

  “Your Honor, routine lab testing indicates that Mr. Malone’s blood alcohol level at the time of his arrest was approximately point one nine. He’s unable to recall substantial portions of the past forty-eight hours, including the hours immediately before and after the estimated time of the victim’s death. I have serious concerns about Mr. Malone’s ability to participate in a meaningful way in his own defense.”

  “I’m gonna participate,” Eddie yells out. “Of course I’m gonna participate. I never said I wasn’t gonna participate.”

  Harry doesn’t even look at him. “In addition, Your Honor, the defense maintains that Mr. Malone suffers from an underlying mental defect. We need to determine what impact his alcohol consumption had on that defect. We need to know whether or not he had the capacity to appreciate the wrongfulness of his alleged conduct.”

  Eddie’s still shouting. “There ain’t no defect, Mr. Madigan. I ain’t got no defect. I just don’t remember, that’s all. If I’da killed somebody, I’d remember.”

  Judge Gould seems not to notice Eddie at all. “Ms. Nickerson, any objection?”

  Harry is right, of course. In every first-degree murder case, the Commonwealth has the burden of proving the defendant’s intent and knowledge at the time he committed the crime. If the defendant presents credible evidence of mental impairment, it’s all but impossible to meet that burden, even if the underlying mental condition was triggered by voluntary intoxication or drug use.

  I wait for Eddie Malone to take a breath. “The Commonwealth has no objection, Your Honor.”

  “All right, then. It’s hereby ordered that the defendant, Edmund Joseph Malone, be remanded to the custody of Bridgewater State Hospital for the statutory twenty-day observation period. This matter is continued until three weeks from today. We’ll reconvene on Tuesday, June twenty-second, at one o’clock, or as soon thereafter as possible. We’ll address the competency issue at that time and move forward with arraignment, if that’s appropriate.”

  The bailiff directs us to stand. Judge Gould escapes into his chambers. The metal clasps close quickly on Malone’s cuffs and shackles. The guards usher him o
ut the side door, Harry right behind him.

  Eddie’s still pleading his case. “Mr. Madigan, this ain’t right. I dint kill nobody. I swear it.”

  Harry’s still ignoring him.

  I sit down at the counsel table and hold my head in my hands while the spectators filter through the back doors. I am vaguely aware that the Kydd is sitting next to me. He hadn’t left after we finished the regular docket.

  “Marty, are you okay?”

  “Kydd, did Harry Madigan make any attempt to quiet his client during that hearing?”

  “No,” he says. “I thought that was odd.”

  “It’s more than odd. Harry never tolerates courtroom outbursts like that. I’ve seen him silence the worst of them.”

  Maybe Eddie Malone does have a mental defect. Maybe that’s why Harry let him go on and on. Or maybe what Eddie Malone has is a clear conscience. Maybe he was telling the truth, and Harry wanted us to hear it.

  CHAPTER 20

  Wednesday, June 2

  Harry is sitting on the curb in front of my reserved parking spot when I pull in to the county complex. His briefcase is open on the little patch of grass beside him. His papers are a mess, but his clothes are worse. Lucky for him Geraldine isn’t here yet.

  I lean against the hood of the Thunderbird. Harry squints up at me in the morning sun.

  “New office space, Harry?”

  He laughs a tired laugh. “Budget cuts are hell,” he says.

  I sit down on the front fender, so I can look him in the eye. “Harry, why are you sitting here?”

  He gives me that look again—it’s a nice look, really—and I feel the damn color rising in my cheeks once more. Harry takes an envelope from the clutter in his briefcase and hands it to me. “This is why,” he says.

  The large square envelope is from the Medical Examiner’s office and I know before I open it that it contains Jeff Skinner’s final report on Skippy Eldridge. It must have been delivered after I left last night. Harry’s copy is dog-eared already, and it is opened to one of the photographs of Skippy’s lacerated chest, though not the one taken at my request.

  After a moment Harry points to the sliced torso. “Remind you of anything, Marty?”

  I get it now. Harry hasn’t said anything about Roman numerals, but he sees the similarities between these wounds and Michael Scott’s. He’s sitting in the parking lot so that I can speak freely. No chance Geraldine or Rob will hear this conversation.

  “They’re knife wounds, Harry.”

  “They’re not just knife wounds. They’re specific cuts. Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip. Just like the Scott kid. Throw in a fractured skull and a slit throat and guess what, Marty? We’ve got identical murders. Identical Memorial Day murders.”

  Portions of the Scott file are in the backseat of the Thunderbird, including the eight-by-ten glossies that were not introduced at trial. One of them is the shot that comes closest to showing what looks like a Roman numeral I on Michael Scott’s chest. It isn’t as clear as it could be, though; it’s taken from beside, not above, his body.

  I pull the file from the back of the Thunderbird and slide the photo from its envelope. I flip through the Eldridge photos until I find the one I requested. Skippy’s Roman numeral II is as vivid as I recall.

  I sit down on the curb next to Harry and place the photographs side by side on the grass. “Not identical, Harry. There is a difference.”

  Minutes pass while Harry stares at one photograph, then the other. The expression on his handsome face is blank. I can actually feel a physical weight lifting from my shoulders. If Harry doesn’t see it, then it isn’t there. It’s all in my head.

  But Harry catches his breath, then checks both photos again. His ruddy complexion turns a deeper red. I can all but see his pulse racing. He closes his eyes, shakes his head, and stares at the photos yet again before turning his astonished face toward me.

  “Jesus Christ, Marty. They’re numbered.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Thursday, June 3

  “Set aside the verdict? It took all goddamned weekend to get a verdict. Why the hell should the judge set it aside?”

  Geraldine is wearing out the Oriental rug in Rob’s office.

  Harry’s motion to set aside the Rodriguez verdict was on my desk when I arrived this morning. I knew it would be. Harry classified it as an emergency motion and the clerk’s notation indicates Judge Carroll will hear him at three o’clock, a half hour from now. I spent the morning drafting our written opposition, though I am ambivalent at best about our argument.

  Rob isn’t happy. Geraldine is enraged. She spent most of the day with Norman Richardson of the Chamber of Commerce, explaining the evidence we’re assembling against Eddie Malone, so that Norman can calm the fears of Chatham’s merchants and visitors. She learned of Harry’s motion just moments ago and she realizes, as we all do, that the press will be all over it.

  “He’s arguing newly discovered evidence, Geraldine.”

  “Newly discovered evidence? A photograph he’s had for more than a year? He calls that newly discovered evidence?”

  “His argument is based on two photographs, Geraldine. One he’s had for more than a year. The other he’s had less than forty-eight hours.”

  Geraldine lights a new cigarette, though she still has one burning in the ashtray on Rob’s desk. She inhales deeply and tilts her blond head to one side. I feel sarcasm coming on.

  “And he’s seeing numbers. Just like you did, Martha. You’re both seeing numbers. But not just ordinary numbers. Oh no. Roman numerals. After all, this is Chatham we’re talking about. No ordinary numbers. No ordinary town.”

  “Geraldine,” Rob says, “knock it off. Marty didn’t file the motion; Madigan did. She’s just telling you what he’s arguing.”

  Geraldine turns her back to Rob and leans against his desk. “And what about you, Martha? What are you arguing?”

  “It’s basically your argument, Geraldine. A subsequent copycat crime doesn’t negate the original conviction. Anyone who read the newspaper or watched the evening news during the last week in May knew how Michael Scott was sliced. Any psychopath could mimic that crime.”

  For a split second it actually seems that Geraldine is going to hit me. She explodes. “Any psychopath? Any psychopath? No, Martha, not just any psychopath. A very specific psychopath. Malone. Remember him? He’s the nutcase who killed Eldridge. He’s locked up at Bridgewater right now so they can tell us just what kind of a nut-case he is. Did you forget that?”

  “No, Geraldine, I didn’t forget that. But I’m not trying to convict Malone today. I’m trying to keep Rodriguez in jail.”

  “You’d better convict Malone today, Martha. Every square inch of that courtroom will be covered with reporters, and you’d damn well better convict Malone in their eyes. If you don’t, they’ll be screaming from the rooftops about a serial killer on the loose. And there won’t be a tourist left on Cape Cod.”

  I stand and take my briefcase from the edge of Rob’s desk.

  “I’m heading over,” I tell them.

  Rob and Geraldine are going too, of course. But I’d just as soon walk over alone, take a few minutes to collect my thoughts. I head toward Rob’s office door. But Geraldine isn’t finished.

  “That should be your alternate argument, Martha. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean, alternate?”

  “There aren’t any numbers, Martha. Just random gashes. The numbers only exist in Madigan’s messy imagination. That should be your first response.”

  I turn and face those piercing green eyes. “I can’t say that, Geraldine. I just can’t say that.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The Superior Courthouse is mobbed. Charlie calls for silence three times before the din subsides. Judge Carroll emerges from chambers and strides toward the bench, copies of Harry’s motion and my opposition tucked under his arm in the folds of his robe. The stenographer is perched on the edge of her seat, fingers poise
d over her narrow machine.

  Harry is on his feet, ready to address the court, but Judge Carroll raises a hand to stop him.

  “I’ve read your motion, Mr. Madigan. I’ve read your motion and I’ve examined the two photographs you submitted to the court. I’ve also read the Commonwealth’s response. Unless you have facts to add that aren’t in your written materials, I’m prepared to rule.”

  Harry is taken aback. It is routine to allow the moving party to present his motion orally, to emphasize important points or clarify information that might be fuzzy otherwise. Yet Judge Carroll wants to rule without so much as a summary from Harry. The room actu ally falls silent for a minute, and during that time I realize what the judge is doing. So does Harry.

  “I do, Judge,” he says. “I do have facts to add to my written materials.”

  Judge Carroll purses his lips, clearly not happy to hear this. But he’s stuck now. Harry has called his bluff.

  “All right, Mr. Madigan. No need to rehash what I’ve already read. Just give me the additional facts.”

  Harry is on a slow simmer. He paces back and forth in front of the judge’s bench. He turns and points toward the gallery, keeping his eyes on Judge Carroll. “Okay, Judge, here’s an additional fact. This court is more concerned about these reporters than it is about a man wrongly convicted of murder.”

  The crowd erupts. Judge Carroll bangs his gavel. Charlie looks confused. Harry keeps talking.

  “That’s right, Judge. You don’t want to hear my argument because you don’t want the reporters to hear it.”

  Harry is steaming now. He takes a copy of his motion—complete with photographs—from his briefcase. He hands it to Woody Timmons, the reporter from the Cape Cod Times, who is seated in the front row. “There’s a copy machine in the clerk’s office,” Harry tells him. Woody’s expression is one Moses might have worn when God handed him the Ten Commandments.