by Rose Connors
“Attorney Nickerson,” he says, “I’m pleased to meet you. I’ve seen you on the news so many times. I’m Bobo Kendall.”
Bobo shakes my hand so hard my shoulder hurts.
“Please,” I say, “call me Marty.”
I wonder, though, if I will be able to call a grown man Bobo.
Harry takes my hand after Bobo lets go. “How’re you doing?” he asks.
“I’m okay.”
“How’s Luke?”
“Better. He had a quiet day yesterday, and he needed it. He’s at breakfast with Ralph right now.”
Harry holds on to my hand, but leans toward Bobo and arches his eyebrows. “Ralph is the psychiatrist ex-husband,” he says. “Talk about a guy who needs his head examined.”
My cheeks grow hot instantly. I brush past both of them and fumble with my keys at the side door. Once inside, Harry and Bobo are astute enough to keep a distance while I enter the four-digit code that prevents the alarm from sounding. I hope my color is returning to normal when I turn to face them. “Where do we start?” I ask Bobo.
“Your office,” he says. “I’ll look around in there first, then size up the holding cells and the evidence room.”
I am surprised that my office is part of this plan, but I realize at once that I shouldn’t be. If we record what goes on in the holding cells and the evidence room, we’ll need someplace to watch that footage. I don’t expect Geraldine will volunteer her office. Mine is the only option.
The side entrance to the District Courthouse opens to the level below the main floor. Bobo leaves his equipment bags inside the door. I lead the way up one flight of stairs, across the large lobby with its familiar stale smell, and take out my keys again to open the outer door to our offices. I am oddly aware of the black block lettering on the door’s frosted glass. BARNSTABLE COUNTY DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE, it says. It is as if I am seeing it for the first time. I wonder if Ethel Rosenberg had a similar moment.
Bobo takes less than ten minutes to learn all he needs to know about my small office. I lead him and Harry back down the stairs, two flights this time, to the bowels of the building. The District Court’s holding cells are at one end of a poorly lit, institutional green corridor; the Commonwealth’s evidence room is at the other. We survey the barren holding cells first, then head toward the evidence room. I find the key on my key ring, jiggle it up and down in the stubborn lock the way I’ve done so many times before, and walk in front of Bobo and Harry into the sickly smell of the Commonwealth’s evidence.
The place is a mess. It’s never been cleaned out during the time I’ve worked here, and a complete inventory hasn’t been taken since Rob was first elected a dozen years ago. Banker’s boxes are stacked to the ceiling against all four walls; most, but not all, are labeled with case names and docket numbers. The dust and cobwebs on them tell all of us they haven’t been touched in years.
The evidence from more recent cases is stored on freestanding metal shelving units set up in the middle of the large room. Plastic crates stuffed with evidence bags are arranged in rough chronological order from left to right. Three crates on the middle shelf hold the evidence from the Rodriguez trial. To the right of them is a single crate marked MALONE. It holds only five evidence bags, one for Eddie’s trousers, one for each of his socks, and one for each of his sneakers. The evidence taken from Skippy Eldridge’s corpse hasn’t made its way here from the morgue yet.
There is no crate set up for the most recent murder. No arrest has been made, and the evidence taken from Jake Junior’s body is still in the lab. I wonder what we will do when these metal shelving units are filled. We might be forced to clean house.
Bobo leaves the room without a word. He returns minutes later with the two equipment bags. He opens both and takes stock of their contents before he begins. One holds a dozen miniature cameras, twice as many microphones, and yards of insulated wire. The other holds every type of tool I have ever seen and a few that I haven’t. If Bobo ever tires of surveillance work, he can always go rob the nearest savings and loan.
Harry makes himself comfortable on the floor, leaning against a stack of banker’s boxes. I pull one of the boxes from the stack next to his and use it for a chair in the midst of the clutter, a few yards from Bobo’s bags. Bobo selects a small flat implement from one of them, a tool similar to one Sergeant Carmine used to open the door to the Thunderbird when I locked the keys inside, something she referred to as a slim jim.
Bobo uses the slim jim to remove a strip of vertical paneling from between two stacks of banker’s boxes. With a sharp blade, he cuts out a chunk of insulation from the space behind the panel. He selects a tiny camera, a gunmetal gray Sony, and bolts it to the wooden laths of the wall. He runs wires from the camera’s base up the laths and behind the room’s suspended ceiling.
Bobo does some measuring and, using a battery-operated drill, he bores a round hole in the strip of paneling he removed. When the hole is precisely the size of the camera’s lens, Bobo spreads a small amount of adhesive on the back side of the panel and returns it to the wall, aligning the small drilled hole with the lens. The hole is little more than an inch in diameter. It would never be noticed by anyone who isn’t searching for it.
Next, Bobo reaches up and easily removes a fiberglass square from the suspended ceiling. He bores a hole roughly the same size as the one in the wall panel, and inserts a tiny microphone in the opening. He joins the microphone’s wiring to the camera’s, and returns the fiberglass square to its rightful spot overhead. Just like that, we are done in the evidence room.
Bobo repeats essentially the same process in each of the half dozen holding cells, with only one real difference. Both the camera and the microphone are planted in the ceiling of each small cell, since the concrete walls offer no hospitality to Bobo’s equipment. When he finishes, the three of us return to my office. Bobo sizes up my old wooden file cabinet and points to the dull brass hardware at the top. “Does this thing lock?”
I tell him it does, fish through my top desk drawer, and hand him the key. He opens the top drawer of the file cabinet, lifts out the files, and hands them to me. “Can you put these somewhere else?” he asks.
Bobo is obviously unfamiliar with the budget constraints of the District Attorney’s office. I can’t remember the last time I had extra space for files in my office. But I know who does. “I think I can,” I tell Bobo.
I leave Harry and Bobo and head down the hall to the Kydd’s office, a space even smaller than mine. He spent Memorial Day weekend cleaning out the solitary file cabinet in his office while we waited for the Rodriguez verdict. He won’t mind if I rent space for a while. Sure enough, the bottom drawer of his cabinet is empty. I deposit my files there, and make a mental note to give the Kydd some explanation in the morning.
By the time I get back to my office, Bobo is just about finished setting up a midsized monitor in the top drawer of the old file cabinet, an odd-looking home for such a high-tech device. Just as quickly, he assembles a small speaker next to it. He spends the next two hours tapping into the building’s existing wiring, adding to it, and connecting my file cabinet to the rooms we will monitor, two floors below.
Bobo sends Harry back to the evidence room to stand in place in front of the metal shelving unit. I watch with Bobo as Harry comes into view in front of the Rodriguez evidence, the Malone evidence, and a bit of empty space on the right. Harry stares directly into the camera, deadpan. “Smile,” he says flatly. “You’re on America’s Most Wanted.”
Harry’s image is somewhat distorted. Bobo leaves my office and appears minutes later on the monitor. I stand by the cabinet and watch both Harry and Bobo disappear from view before a muffled static comes through the speaker in the drawer. Moments later, they are back on screen, their images crystal clear now. Bobo tells Harry to stay put and, minutes later, is back in my office. He appears satisfied with our view of the evidence room.
Bobo and Harry repeat the test in all six holding cells, Bo
bo making three separate trips down the stairs to adjust cameras and microphones. Once he is satisfied with those rooms, Bobo teaches Harry and me how to handle the equipment in my office. It’s simple, even for me, and Luke describes me as technologically challenged.
Each of the rooms being monitored has its own channel. By setting the monitor to channel one, we can see and hear all activity in the evidence room. By changing to channels two through seven, we can see and hear the activity in each of the six holding cells.
Each camera stores twenty-four hours’ worth of footage, then begins taping over on the same film. If we get to the camera two hours after the suspect is locked in a holding cell, we simply rewind the film by 120 minutes, and we can view what happened in his cell before we arrived. A digital display in the lower right corner tells us what time the events we’re watching actually took place, right down to the second.
It’s good there are two of us, Bobo says. One of us can review time past, if necessary, while the other—in person—keeps an eye on the present. Using a panel of dials on the base of the monitor, we can rewind, fast forward, and even zoom in.
Bobo locks the cabinet’s top drawer and drops the key into my open hand. “My work is done here,” he says.
The key in my palm looks different somehow. In fact, my whole office seems changed. The explanation dawns on me as the three of us walk together across the darkened courthouse lobby. I am not on my old team anymore. I have joined the other side.
CHAPTER 42
Tuesday, June 22
Judge Gould called a thirty-minute recess after we finished the regular docket at one-thirty. Eddie Malone’s competency hearing will begin at two. The Kydd and I handled this morning’s docket together, and I invited him to stay with me at the counsel table for the next hearing. The Kydd hasn’t seen a competency hearing yet, and in Judge Gould’s courtroom, he will see one handled properly.
Eddie Malone was transported to the Barnstable County House of Correction from Bridgewater State Hospital this morning, in plenty of time to be present for the proceedings. If Judge Gould finds that Eddie is competent to stand trial, his arraignment will reconvene immediately after the hearing. If Judge Gould finds otherwise, Eddie will probably be shipped back to the hospital for further evaluation. In light of the report issued by the Bridgewater staff, the arraignment will almost certainly go forward.
Judge Gould’s referring order directed the physicians at Bridgewater to evaluate Eddie Malone’s competency to stand trial as well as his potential for criminal responsibility at the time he allegedly murdered Skippy Eldridge. The doctors’ report was issued yesterday in anticipation of today’s hearing. In it the attending psychiatrist describes Eddie’s condition at three different points in his commitment.
Seven days after Eddie’s admission to Bridgewater, the psychiatrist describes him as “functioning on a low to average level of intelligence.” The doctor classifies his judgment and insight as “very poor.” Eddie’s memory, the doctor says, is “substantially impaired.”
A week later, the doctor notes that Eddie shows “some insight” into his problems. Further, “with coaching” Eddie appears to understand the precise nature of the charges leveled against him, as well as the evidence supporting those charges. Finally, the report concludes with a diagnosis entered yesterday. “Mental Deficiency. IQ 73. Mild to Moderate.”
The attending psychiatrist goes on to express the opinion that, despite Eddie’s mental deficiency, he is competent to stand trial. Furthermore, the doctor opines, Eddie was “mentally and criminally responsible” on May 31. His “mental deficiency,” according to the doctor, did not render him “mentally incompetent.”
Harry took over the defense table as soon as Judge Gould left the bench. He is armed with the affidavits from Shirley Donaldson, Ricky Sparrow, and the nicest lady on Cape Cod, Laurie Griffin. Just this morning, he filed an emergency motion to dismiss the charges against Eddie, arguing that the evidence we are offering against him had to have been staged. Judge Gould will hear the motion before Eddie’s competency hearing begins.
Because of the emergency timing of Harry’s motion and the size of this morning’s docket, I have prepared only an oral opposition to Harry’s motion to dismiss. There was no time to put it in writing. Even so, Harry doesn’t expect to win. He does, though, expect the press to run with it.
And the press appears prepared to do so. They are here in record numbers—reporters, TV camera operators, still photographers— from all over New England. They jockey for position and create a ruckus when the guards lead Eddie Malone into the courtroom. They shout questions at both Eddie and Harry. Eddie doesn’t respond at all. Harry tells them he’ll be glad to speak with all of them after the hearing.
The bailiff calls the room to order and Judge Gould resumes his position on the bench. Harry and I remain standing when everyone else sits down. Each of us takes a few steps toward the bench, but we pause to give Judge Gould time to open his file and adjust his glasses. He looks up and nods first at me, then at Harry, indicating he is ready to hear from Harry first, since he is the moving party.
But it’s not Harry’s voice that fills the courtroom.
“Geraldine Schilling for the Commonwealth, Your Honor.”
She strides down the courtroom’s center aisle and points her index finger from me to the chair, telling me to sit down. I walk back to the counsel table, my face instantly red, and slip clumsily into the chair beside the Kydd. He is as surprised as I am; he’s never seen Geraldine open her mouth in a courtroom. She hasn’t done any active trial work for about four years. But she doesn’t seem to have lost her flair for the dramatic.
“The physicians at Bridgewater State Hospital have completed their evaluation of Edmund Malone, Your Honor. Your Honor has a copy of the report. Edmund Malone is competent to stand trial. Further, he understood and appreciated the wrongful nature of his conduct on the morning in question.”
Geraldine is holding her own copy of the Bridgewater report. But she doesn’t have the rest of the file. I do. I wonder if she realizes that Harry has filed a motion to dismiss.
“The Commonwealth asks that this case be scheduled for trial posthaste and that defendant Edmund Malone be held until that time, without bail, in the Barnstable County House of Correction.”
Judge Gould is visibly annoyed. He looks from me to Geraldine three different times and it’s clear, to me at least, that he is not happy about Geraldine’s theatrical entrance. He peers down at her over the dark rims of his glasses.
“That’s all well and good, Ms. Schilling, but there is a motion to dismiss pending before this court.”
Geraldine is caught off guard. “A motion to dismiss? On what grounds?”
There is a swell of noise in the gallery, including a fair amount of laughter. Judge Gould pounds his gavel and calls for order. He is downright angry now. “Ms. Schilling, you just marched into this courtroom and announced that you represent the Commonwealth in this matter. Yet you are unaware of the defendant’s motion to dismiss?”
Geraldine is wearing an expression I have never before seen on her face. She is mortified. She walks backward toward the counsel table, keeping her eyes on the judge, and signals for me to stand. I stay put.
Geraldine is stammering, something I’ve never before heard from her. “Oh, Your Honor… my colleague, Ms. Nickerson… She is handling that aspect of the case.”
Geraldine signals frantically for me to abandon my chair. I don’t move. Finally, she unglues her eyes from Judge Gould and glares at me, panic-stricken. I sit still just long enough to consider the ramifications of my decision.
I heave the Malone file at Geraldine and she grabs it in self-defense. I lift my briefcase from the floor to the table and stand to address the court. “Attorney Schilling is mistaken, Your Honor. I am not handling any aspect of the case against Mr. Malone. Ms. Schilling represents the Commonwealth.”
Geraldine freezes. The Kydd’s lower jaw goes slack. The reporte
rs buzz. I take my briefcase from the counsel table and push my way past them. I’m gone.
CHAPTER 43
Wednesday, June 23
Geraldine is not a morning person. Most days, she gets to the office a full hour after I do. Most days, she closes the door to her office— hard—as soon as she gets in. Most days, she ignores the rest of us until about noontime.
Not today, though.
Geraldine’s reserved parking spot is about a dozen spaces closer to the District Courthouse than mine. Her Buick is already parked when I pull into the county complex. Rob’s Mercedes is here too, just on the other side of the Buick. I am not surprised.
Last night’s television coverage of the events leading up to my departure from Judge Gould’s courtroom was painful to watch. But the coverage of Geraldine’s performance during the motion to dismiss was far worse. Her campaign needs serious damage control. And I have hell to pay.
Harry argued brilliantly. Hour by hour, he accounted for Eddie Malone’s whereabouts—and the state of his clothes and sneakers— from the discovery of Skippy Eldridge’s body through the moment of Eddie’s arrest. In the end, he argued, there is only one explanation for the presence of Skippy’s blood on Eddie’s clothes and sneakers: somebody put it there.
There was a fatal flaw in Harry’s argument and he knew it. That’s why he expected to lose. But Geraldine, in her panic, failed to see it. The issues Harry argued to Judge Gould are factual, not legal. Questions of fact—no matter how obvious the answers may seem—should always be decided by a jury. The court shouldn’t even consider a motion to dismiss unless it is based on a purely legal argument.
Instead of raising that rather rudimentary point, Geraldine stood mute after Harry’s presentation. Confronted with the facts in the three affidavits for the first time, she simply had nothing to say. On the record, Harry’s motion to dismiss stands unopposed. Judge Gould took the matter under advisement, saying he was “more than troubled” by the day’s events. He promised a decision by the end of the week.