by Rose Connors
“But lately, Your Honor, the stress of working homicide has taken its toll on Ms. Nickerson. Your Honor may not be aware that the homicide victim found in Chatham on June fourteenth was a personal friend of Ms. Nickerson’s. Her son’s high school teammate. The son of two of her own former schoolmates. Such an event would take a toll on any human being, Your Honor.”
Judge Gould puts his glasses on again, his expression stern. “And your point, Ms. Schilling?”
“Well, Your Honor, I certainly don’t want to disparage Attorney Nickerson. That’s not my intention at all. I will only say that just before Tuesday’s hearing, it came to my attention that Attorney Nickerson had engaged in some questionable conduct during her investigation of the Malone case.”
The reporters buzz. Judge Gould bangs his gavel only once, hard. They fall silent. Harry wheels his chair around and stares openly at Geraldine. She is unmoved by his scrutiny.
“In any event, Your Honor, it became clear to me that Ms. Nickerson would not zealously represent the interests of the Commonwealth at Tuesday’s hearing, as is her duty. I had no choice but to intervene.”
My cheeks are burning, but I don’t care. I have zealously represented the interests of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts each and every day since I took the oath. Tuesday was no exception, and I want that fact on the record. I stand up to address the court from my spot on the end of the third row. “That’s not true, Your Honor. That’s simply not true.”
This time Judge Gould’s gavel has little impact on the swell of noise from the gallery. Everyone in the room, it seems, is standing and shouting. I am momentarily blinded by the glare of dozens of flash-bulbs. When my vision clears, Judge Gould is standing behind his raised bench, fuming.
“Ms. Schilling, Ms. Nickerson, Mr. Madigan,” he bellows. “In my chambers. Now.”
CHAPTER 46
At eleven o’clock, I collapse into the overstuffed chair that faces the sofa in our small, pine-paneled living room. With my back to the television, I watch Luke watch the news. I wonder how he feels when he sees his mother and father on the air night after night, embroiled in separate, but equally ugly, proceedings. I wonder how he responds when his friends ask questions about our cases. I wonder how he will look back on all of this when he reaches adulthood.
I watch Luke closely when the news station airs Geraldine’s accusation against me along with my protest from the gallery. I watch him as I listen to my own words, my voice sounding surprisingly authoritative, not like my voice at all: “That’s not true, Your Honor. That’s simply not true.”
Luke actually stands up and claps, laughing. “Way to go, Mom. Don’t let Geraldine push you around.”
I didn’t. In the minute it took to walk from the gallery to Judge Gould’s chambers, I made an important decision. I decided to trust my instincts. I decided to do what I ask every potential juror to do before every trial—trust my gut. And my gut told me that Geraldine was offering me up as a sacrificial lamb. She was willing to end my career, if necessary, in order to further hers. That didn’t sit well with me.
When we entered chambers, I walked straight to the judge’s desk and opened my briefcase on top of it. I took out my copy of Harry’s emergency motion and handed it to Judge Gould. Geraldine started talking at once, of course, but the judge silenced her with one forbidding stare. He took his time looking over my copy of the motion, complete with handwritten notes and case citations in the margins, while the rest of us stood in silence. Then, without looking at any of us, he buzzed his courtroom clerk and asked her to send in the stenographer.
Judge Gould continued to ignore all of us, looking only at the stenographer, as he sat down behind his desk and began dictating. First he summarized Tuesday’s events, reciting in excruciatingly painful detail Geraldine’s grand entrance—“highly disruptive and self-serving,” he called it—and her subsequent floundering, her inability to offer any response to Harry’s motion.
Next the judge summarized today’s events, directing the court reporter to quote Geraldine’s exact words when she accused me of questionable conduct, when she claimed I would have failed to zealously represent the interests of the Commonwealth at Tuesday’s hearing.
Finally, Judge Gould swiveled in his chair and looked steadily at each of us in turn—Harry, me, and at last, Geraldine. His eyes remained fixed on hers as he finished dictating. “It is not Attorney Nickerson’s conduct that this court finds questionable. To the contrary, Attorney Nickerson’s handwritten notes made in preparation for the motion were thorough and persuasive. The result she espoused—or would have espoused had she not been silenced by Attorney Schilling—was precisely the result reached by this court on its own volition. The cases she cited—or would have cited had she been permitted to do so—were appropriate.
“Attorney Schilling’s conduct, on the other hand, was questionable at best. Not only on Tuesday, but today as well. Through the eyes of this court, it appears that Attorney Schilling, having regrets over her misguided performance on Tuesday, sought today to lay the blame for her poor judgment on the shoulders of her subordinate.”
Judge Gould stood, then, and leaned forward over his desk, keeping his eyes on Geraldine’s, their faces only inches apart. He pointed at her the way I pointed at Manuel Rodriguez a month ago. “If that is true, Attorney Schilling, shame on you.”
The last vestige of color drained from Geraldine’s face. She looked as though she would like to faint, if at all possible. When Judge Gould concluded, I thought she just might.
“This court has neither the time nor the resources to get to the bottom of this matter. But get to the bottom of it we will. I hereby order that a copy of this transcript, along with all supporting documentation, be forwarded to the Board of Bar Overseers. I direct that a formal inquiry be conducted into the allegations that have been made here.”
Judge Gould’s eyes were glued to Geraldine’s. “I direct the Board to determine whether or not Attorney Schilling made false statements to this court, and whether or not she abused the powers of her office.”
CHAPTER 47
Saturday, June 26
Last night’s news coverage gave Geraldine a black eye. It annihilated Ralph.
It seems Ralph testified that he knew about his patient’s ties to Lester Pan. He knew, also, that Lester Pan was paying the freight for his services. The prosecutor predictably pointed out that Ralph had failed to mention that fact during his earlier testimony, hadn’t he? Ralph should have just said yes. What he said instead was ill-advised.
“You didn’t ask,” he responded.
As a prosecutor, I am always pleased when an adverse witness gives me that answer. If the witness happens to be an expert, I am delighted. When cross-examining expert witnesses, I deliberately save my “You didn’t mention…, did you?” questions until the very end. If I am lucky enough to hear the expert tell me it was because I didn’t ask, I immediately announce that I have no further questions and sit down. I have all I need, at that point, to destroy that witness’s credibility during closing argument.
It was obvious from last night’s footage that the prosecutor cross-examining Ralph shares my view of the “you didn’t ask” answer. When Ralph uttered his unfortunate reply, the prosecutor looked jubilant. He arched his eyebrows at the judge, lifted his hands in the air as if he’d just scored a touchdown, and said, “That’s all I have, Your Honor.” Ralph looked sick.
And on that note, the King County Superior Court in Seattle adjourned for the week. Closing arguments will begin Monday morning. When the prosecuting attorney gets his turn, Ralph will be verbally drawn and quartered. And Ralph has been through enough trials to know that’s exactly what’s coming.
I have to give him credit, though. He made the long trip and he’s here to take Luke to the Red Sox game Luke gave him for Father’s Day. And as fate would have it, the Sox are playing the Seattle Mariners. Too bad for Ralph. On this particular weekend, he would probably prefer to avoid all reminders of
Seattle.
The game doesn’t start until seven, so Luke will spend tonight in Boston with Ralph. Tomorrow, they will celebrate Luke’s seventeenth birthday by visiting Boston’s downtown attractions—Faneuil Hall, Quincy Market, the Swan Boats, and Boston Harbor. Ralph seems to be catching on to the fact that our son is happiest outdoors.
Luke’s birthday is actually next weekend, but he will be busy then, celebrating with his friends at the annual beach bonfire at Justin’s, an event Ralph wants no part of. And Ralph will be out of town next weekend anyway. He’s been retained by yet another wealthy accused murderer, this one a stockbroker in Cincinnati who allegedly felt he needed the proceeds from his wife’s life insurance policy sooner rather than later.
Ralph arrives at three o’clock, as scheduled. He looks worse today than he did on television last night. And I don’t think the six-hour flight from Seattle is to blame. There is something about watching one’s own courtroom performance on the television news—particularly when the proceedings didn’t go well from your perspective— that saps every last ounce of energy from the soul. Ralph would never believe it, but I feel sorry for him.
Luke is packed and ready to go. Danny Boy follows him to the BMW, whimpering all the way. As always, I wave until they are out of sight.
I am somewhat surprised to realize that I am pleased. After all these years—after the anger, the pain, the life-altering disappointment—I’m happy that Luke and Ralph are finally finding each other.
CHAPTER 48
Monday, June 28
Geraldine hasn’t spoken to me since Friday’s hearing. Not a word. I passed her in the hallway when she arrived this morning, and she looked right through me. A month ago—two weeks ago, even— I would have been thrown by that. Today I feel nothing but indifference.
The District Court docket was heavy this morning, no surprise on a summer Monday. I volunteered to handle it alone, freeing the Kydd to tend to his many assignments on the Skippy Eldridge and Jake Junior murders. He was grateful for the time, and I was glad to keep busy. Now that I’m finished—at three o’clock—I have nothing else to do.
Geraldine is barricaded in her office. She’s been in there all day, preparing to defend herself before the Board of Bar Overseers, preparing to say whatever needs to be said to get her campaign back on track. Rob’s office door is open when I walk by, and I am barely seated before he appears in my office and closes the door.
“Marty,” he says, “the Board has scheduled its initial hearing on Geraldine’s matter. A week from today. Nine o’clock.”
I nod at him, but say nothing.
“You’re on the witness list,” he says. “In fact, you’re scheduled to testify first, before anyone else. You’re going to have a big impact on this thing, Marty. You should give some thought to the content of your testimony.”
There it is again—a feeling that was foreign to me until recently— indifference.
“I intend to tell the truth, Rob. No dress rehearsal necessary.”
Rob studies me carefully for a couple of minutes. He parts his lips to speak, but apparently decides against it. He says nothing more before he retreats, leaving my office door open behind him.
Alone in my office, I wonder if Rob got a glimpse of the change in me that I am just beginning to see in myself. It is a change I have not yet fully acknowledged, even to myself. It’s not so much that I feel betrayed by my office. After all, I betrayed my office first, when I agreed to plant the surveillance equipment with Harry and Bobo, when I agreed to spy on my own coworkers. It’s bigger than that.
I realize—as I sit in my office with nothing to do—that I feel betrayed by the criminal justice system. It’s not what it claims to be, not what it should be. I am part of it, but I can’t make it work. There is no avenue available to deal properly with the events of the past month. Harry has traveled every possible path, and they all lead nowhere.
My thoughts are interrupted by a timid knock on my open office door. It’s Charlie Cahoon.
“Miss Marty, is this a bad time? Did I come at a bad time?”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Charlie out of his house since we buried Jake Junior. I stop by most evenings, on my way home from work, and try to coax him over to the cottage to have dinner with Luke and me, but he always refuses.
“Not at all, Charlie. Come in. Sit down.”
Charlie takes a seat, but he doesn’t look comfortable. I stand and cross the room to close the door behind him. I lean against the edge of my desk, near his chair, instead of returning to my own seat.
“How are you, Charlie?”
“Well, Miss Marty, I’m all right. I’m sorry to barge in like this”
“You’re not barging in, Charlie. You know I’m always happy to see you. You want some coffee?”
“No. No, thank you. What I want is an honest answer.”
I have known that this moment would come since the day Jake Junior died. I managed to postpone it the day after, when Charlie wondered aloud about Harry’s representations to the court the day he ended up in jail. I have known all along that the question would resurface. And I’ve agonized over how I should handle it. I have struggled to understand how much suffering Charlie—or any human spirit, for that matter—can endure.
“Miss Marty, there’s something I have to ask you.” Charlie is turning his hat around and around in his hands. “In the newspapers, they say… well, especially that Times reporter, that Timmons fellow, he says”
There are tears in Charlie’s eyes, and I can’t bear to watch him struggle any longer. “I know, Charlie, I know what he says.”
Charlie blinks back his tears and looks straight into my eyes. “Is it true, Miss Marty? Do you even know if it’s true? If you don’t, I’ll have to ask Dr. Skinner. He must know. But I don’t know him too well, and I thought if you knew”
I have to answer him. Jeff’s response to Charlie’s question would almost certainly be sterile, a clinician’s view of the lacerations on the corpse. Charlie deserves better.
I open my mouth to tell him, but no sound comes out.
“Miss Marty, please tell me. Did you see Jake Junior after he died? Did you see… did you see his chest?”
I lean down and look into Charlie’s pained eyes and just like that, it’s clear to me. Charlie wants the truth, and he is entitled to it, even if it hurts like hell.
“I saw him, Charlie. I saw him in the morgue. I even took photographs.”
I stand up straight and hold my head in my hands for just a second before looking back at him. “It’s true, Charlie. Woody Timmons is reporting the truth. Jake Junior was labeled with a Roman numeral three.”
Charlie sits completely still. He seems to shrink in his chair. But the pain in his eyes expands.
CHAPTER 49
Being idle is far more tiring than being busy. By five o’clock, I am exhausted. Geraldine is still barricaded, and Rob and the Kydd are both at their desks when I check the lock on my file cabinet, grab my briefcase, and head out the office door. From the lobby, I see a dozen reporters camped on the front steps of the District Courthouse.
I take the side exit, but Woody Timmons spots me almost immediately. “Attorney Nickerson,” he calls out. “Has there been a break in the Cahoon investigation? Is an arrest imminent?”
The questions take me by surprise. Given my present status in the office, I can’t help but wonder if Woody Timmons knows something I don’t. “No. No break at all. Why do you ask?”
They are crowding around me now, too many of them between me and the Thunderbird. Microphones are outstretched and cameras are rolling, but Woody is the only one talking. He seems to be their appointed ambassador.
“We’ve been told the victim’s grandfather was here today. In your office, as a matter of fact. That led to speculation that there may have been some development in the investigation.”
A week ago, I would have ignored all of them, even Woody Timmons. I would have told him to speak to Rob, or to Ger
aldine. I would have refused to answer even the simplest of questions. I would have pushed past all of them and locked myself in the Thunderbird.
But not today. Today I am grateful. At least Woody Timmons appears interested in getting to the truth. “No,” I tell him. “Nothing yet.”
I lower my head and move toward the Thunderbird, but Woody isn’t finished. “Ms. Nickerson,” he says, “we’ve never heard from you on the subject of Roman numerals. Your boss says there aren’t any. What do you say?”
I am startled when I look up. Woody Timmons is standing uncomfortably close to me, his face just inches from mine. I have no alternative but to look him straight in the eyes and when I do, I understand that my answer is important. I also understand that if Charlie Cahoon must bear the gut-wrenching pain of the truth, then the rest of us must do so as well.
I set my briefcase down on the black tarmac of the parking lot and return Woody’s stare. The other reporters fade into the background. I realize that my decision is already made. I just have to go through with it.
“Sometimes,” I tell him, “the truth is so ugly we can’t bring ourselves to look at it. We hide from it. But we can only hide temporarily. Eventually, we have to face it. There’s really no alternative.”
The parking lot falls eerily silent.
“The truth is that Michael Scott’s wounds looked like a Roman numeral one the first time I saw them. I didn’t think much about it, and I didn’t mention it at the trial. My mistake.”
The other reporters stir, but Woody Timmons doesn’t move a muscle.
“There is no doubt in my mind that a Roman numeral two was etched into Skippy Eldridge. My superiors say it isn’t so. But if it is so, they say, it’s nothing more than a copycat sequel to the Scott murder. I wanted that to be the fact. I chose to believe it. Again, my mistake.”