by Rose Connors
Harry draws a line through his artwork. “Faith and begorra,” he says. His brogue is atrocious. “We’d best push our finish date back a wee bit.” He moves his legal pad closer to me as he replaces each heart with a shamrock.
“Move for an instruction, Your Honor.” Geraldine is in front of the bench now and she’s livid. She’ll get her instruction, but Judge Gould waves Holliston over for another sidebar tutorial first.
The judge stands, moves to the far side of his bench again, and delivers another lecture. He’s far more animated this time, though. He points his index finger at Holliston’s chest repeatedly as he reiterates the ground rules. He listens to a comment from Geraldine, nodding, and then shoos both of them away. It’s obvious he’s every bit as frustrated as Geraldine is. Holliston is entirely unruffled; he seems to think his opening statement is proceeding quite smoothly.
Harry leans closer. “Ix-nay on dear Saint Paddy,” he says, his brogue even worse when he mixes it with pig Latin. “It pains me to say it, Colleen, but I’m thinking marshmallow peeps.”
“Colleen” takes his pen away before he can draw them.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Gould intones, “you will disregard Mr. Holliston’s last comment.”
They nod in unison.
“Mr. Holliston,” the judge sighs, “you may proceed.”
Holliston moves closer to the box.
“As we discussed,” the judge adds.
“Okay, now,” Holliston says, his tone suggesting he’s about had it with these silly interruptions, “like I was sayin’, the top cop is gonna tell you what I told him. And I told him the truth.”
“Your Honor!” Geraldine doesn’t even bother to stand this time.
“Mr. Holliston!” Judge Gould sounds like he’s at the end of his rope. “If I hear the word I once more, sir, you will take your seat.”
“Okay, okay.” Holliston is annoyed. He shakes his head at the jurors. “The cop’s gonna tell you five things.”
He raises his hand and holds up one finger, à la Geraldine. “First,” he says, “that priest hit on me. And I mean big-time.”
“There he goes again,” Geraldine announces.
“Mr. Holliston,” the judge warns.
Gregory Harmon folds his arms across his chest. Cora Rowlands knits her brow. The others don’t move.
“So I say to him, I say, you know, I ain’t that way.” Holliston holds up his other hand and flutters it, just in case any of the jurors don’t know what that way means.
Geraldine drops her head back against her chair and stares at the ceiling.
“Mr. Holliston,” Judge Gould repeats, his tone menacing now.
Maria Marzetti plants her elbow on an armrest, cups her chin in her palm. Her back-row admirer stares again, making no effort to mask his interest.
“But the priest don’t like that,” Holliston says. “He ain’t takin’ no for an answer. He starts gettin’ rough. And I mean real rough, serious rough.”
Judge Gould looks skyward, praying for patience, maybe, and takes his glasses off.
Holliston stares at his solitary raised finger as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Okay,” he says, adding two more, “so that’s three. He hits on me; I say no way; he goes wacko.”
Geraldine gets to her feet. “Your Honor. Please.”
“Mr. Holliston, remember the litany.” Judge Gould massages the bridge of his nose, then puts his glasses back on.
Holliston wheels around and gapes at the bench, looking like he can’t figure out why the judge is still sitting there. “Oh,” he says, “that.” He stares out at the crowded gallery for a moment and shakes his head sadly, his expression saying this judge is being unnecessarily difficult—and everyone in the room surely knows it. “Okay,” he says, turning back to the jurors, “so the cop is gonna tell you all these things is what I told him.”
He pauses and turns to look up at the bench again, his raised eyebrows asking: Satisfied now?
“Move on, sir,” the judge says.
He resumes his finger count. “So then,” he says, adding the fourth, “I defend myself. I mean, what guy in his right mind ain’t gonna defend himself against that, right?”
I can think of dozens of adjectives to describe Derrick Holliston. Right-minded isn’t one of them.
Geraldine doesn’t bother getting up; she flings both arms in the air. “Mr. Holliston,” the judge says yet again.
“Wish we’d brought popcorn,” Harry whispers. “This is Oscar material.”
“Only if Hollywood creates a Most Painful Performance category,” I tell him.
Holliston doesn’t even turn around for the judge’s latest admonition. “Okay,” he says to the jurors, “the cop is gonna tell you I told him I was defendin’ myself.” He adds his thumb to his finger lineup and stares at it for a moment before he continues. “And he’s gonna tell you I grabbed for somethin’—dint matter what—to fight the guy off with. There was some kinda toolbox there—on the counter—and I grabbed the first thing I could out of it. Turns out it was some kinda pick, a long, pointy thing. I dint even see it till everything was over.”
“Your Honor.” Geraldine’s up again.
“What?” Holliston asks her. “I told the cop that. He had his tape recorder goin’. Plus he wrote it down. I watched him.”
Judge Gould bangs his gavel. “You’ll direct your comments to the court, sir. No one else.”
Holliston looks up at the bench and shrugs. Doesn’t matter to him, it seems.
The judge takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Move on, sir,” he says yet again.
Geraldine turns and stares at Harry and me before she sits. She wants the jurors to do likewise, wants to remind them we’re here, wants them to be fully aware that all of this is unnecessary. It works. Most of them look our way before they return their attention to Holliston.
“So listen to that cop,” he tells them. “You don’t need to listen to nobody else, as far as I’m concerned. Nobody else got anything to say that matters.”
I expect Geraldine to jump up again—Holliston’s way out of line—but she doesn’t. Instead, she leans back in her chair and crosses her lean legs, one spiked heel dangling above the thick carpet. She’s relaxed. I’m confused.
“Uh-oh,” Harry says, and my confusion evaporates. He’s right. Geraldine is happy with these particular inappropriate comments. We’ll probably hear them again—next time from her.
“That cop,” Holliston says as he backs up to his table, “he’s the only guy you need to listen to. He’s gonna tell you the truth.”
Judge Gould stares down at Geraldine, obviously waiting for her to explode.
She doesn’t.
Chapter 15
“I figure this guy can take it from here,” Holliston says, jerking his neatly groomed head back toward Harry.
We’re in chambers, once again listening to the defendant dictate the procedural details of his murder trial. He’s reversed his position, decided he wants representation after all. He announced his change of heart to the entire courtroom as soon as Geraldine called her first witness. Judge Gould immediately declared a recess, excused the jurors, and ordered the attorneys—even the faux attorney—into chambers.
The judge isn’t happy. “Mr. Holliston,” he says, “this isn’t a game.”
“You got that right.” Once again, Derrick Holliston is the only person in the room who’s seated. He’s slouched in one of the two chairs facing the judge’s desk, a slight smile on his face, his fingers drumming the armrests. He looks around at each of us—even his armed chaperones—pleased that we showed up on time for his staff meeting.
Geraldine’s been pacing since we came in here, as usual, but she stops short in front of Holliston now and glares down at him, her green eyes aglow. “You’re not going to take the stand, are you?”
Harry’s between the two of them before I realize he’s moved from his spot against the wall beside me. “Whoa, sister,” he says, his open palm almost tou
ching Holliston’s face. “You don’t get that information now.”
Massachusetts attorneys adhere to an archaic tradition of referring to each other as “Brother Counsel” or “Sister Counsel.” Even so, Harry makes Geraldine crazy when he calls her plain old “sister.” He also makes her crazy when he’s right. And he’s right now. She’s doesn’t get that information yet. A criminal defendant can decide to testify—or not—at any time before the defense rests. If the decision is made sooner rather than later—and it almost always is—the prosecutor isn’t privy to it. Far better to keep her in the dark until the last moment.
She wheels around to face the judge, her eyes on fire now. “Do you see what’s going on here?”
He does. We all do. Holliston has already testified. He told the jurors his story without taking the stand—without submitting to an oath, without facing cross-examination, and without risking the admission of his prior attack on the Butcher. Harry was right. Crazy like a fox.
Judge Gould nods at Geraldine, leans on the top of his chair, and tosses his glasses on the desk. “Mr. Holliston,” he says, “how many times do you intend to change your mind on this issue during the course of trial?”
Holliston takes a few moments to mull it over. “Prob’ly not again,” he says, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “Like I said”—he looks over at Harry and sneers—“the rest of this shouldn’t be that hard, so I think he’ll be okay from here.”
Harry laughs at the backhanded endorsement.
“But I’ll level with you,” Holliston continues. He leans toward the judge, ready to share a long-held confidence with a trusted colleague. “I’d just as soon get a new lawyer. I ain’t seen much spark out of this one so far.”
Judge Gould shakes his head before the complaint is complete. “Not going to happen, Mr. Holliston. Mr. Madigan is your court-appointed defender. He’ll provide you with as thorough a defense to these allegations as any attorney in the county could deliver—if you let him.”
Holliston sits up straighter and slaps his knees, his grin suggesting the judge just delivered one hell of a punch line. “That’s good,” he says. “That’s real good.” Both guards move closer to his chair.
The judge ignores him, looks at Harry instead. “You’re ready, Mr. Madigan?”
Harry nods.
Judge Gould sighs and looks around the room at all of us as he retrieves his glasses and heads for the door. “All right, then,” he says. “Let’s get on with it.”
Holliston jumps up, nodding; he thinks that’s a swell idea.
The judge exits chambers first and Big Red calls the courtroom to its collective feet. Holliston and his escorts follow, Geraldine and Clarence close behind. Geraldine pauses before the doorway, though, and directs Clarence out first. She turns back to Harry, frowning, and shakes her blond head. “I hope I don’t live long enough to have to say these words again,” she tells him, “but I’m damn glad you’re back on board.”
Chapter 16
Calvin Ramsey is all business; he always is. His direct testimony went by the book. Ivy League educational background, stellar employment history, and impressive professional affiliations filled the first twenty minutes or so. Details of his current responsibilities as Barnstable County’s Medical Examiner took the next fifteen. Testimony specific to this case filled a solid hour.
The doctor’s direct included the introduction of five black-and-white photographs, all taken during the autopsy he performed almost a year ago, on the day after Christmas. Each shows a puncture wound, or a combination of puncture wounds, on Francis Patrick McMahon’s body. Most of the jurors looked disturbed as the graphic images circulated among them. Robert Eastman glanced over at Alex Doane and shook his head sadly. Maria Marzetti pressed a fist to her mouth. Cora Rowlands shuddered.
Under Geraldine’s careful questioning, Dr. Ramsey tied Derrick Holliston to the dead man in no uncertain terms. Prints, hair follicles—even fibers from Holliston’s jacket and jeans—all combine to leave little doubt as to who paid an unexpected visit to St. Veronica’s sacristy last Christmas Eve. An airtight ID, unless our client suddenly decides to claim he has an identical twin in the neighborhood who shares his wardrobe. Technically, of course, the identification evidence wasn’t necessary. Holliston’s self-defense claim admits as much. Still, our District Attorney isn’t taking any chances; she intends to prove every element of the crime, contested or not.
The Medical Examiner’s direct ended with the crux of the matter: the deceased sustained eight puncture wounds in all. Five would have been non-life-threatening, had they been treated in time. The abdominal wounds—even if medically attended promptly—may or may not have proved fatal. It remains an open question. The aortal puncture, of course, is anything but. It cinched the priest’s fate instantly. “That one,” Calvin Ramsey said, pointing to the top photograph in the stack on the jury box railing in response to Geraldine’s final question. “The entry wound is tiny,” he told the attentive jurors, “as they all are, but that one was fatal. Father McMahon expired within minutes of this puncture being inflicted.”
The fourteen faces in the box are somber. More than a few look a little bit sick. And now it’s Harry’s turn, whether he likes it or not. He scoops all five photographs from the jury box railing and returns them to Geraldine’s table, facedown, before he speaks. “Dr. Ramsey,” he says as he walks toward the witness box, “you’re aware, are you not, sir, that Mr. Holliston has entered a self-defense claim?”
“I am.”
“So you’re aware he admits stabbing the deceased?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you went to great lengths here today to prove it.”
Dr. Ramsey actually smiles at Harry. “I answer the questions, Mr. Madigan. I don’t choose them.”
Touché.
Harry’s not surprised by the doctor’s response; he knew it was coming. But he’s got precious little to work with in this case. He needs to raise every issue he can—even the ones that bite back—so he’ll have at least some material he can weave into a credible closing argument. He turns and stares at Geraldine Schilling, the person who does choose the questions, and waits until the jurors do too. “Were any of the deceased’s wounds inflicted from behind?” he says at last.
The witness tilts his head to one side. “From behind? No, certainly not.” He gestures toward Geraldine’s table, toward the upside-down photographs, suggesting maybe Harry hasn’t seen them yet. “The puncture wounds are all on the front of the body,” he says.
Harry nods repeatedly, as if this fact is particularly meaningful. It’s not, but he’ll make something of it; he has to. “Mr. Holliston and the deceased were face-to-face, then,” he says, “when the altercation occurred. Is that correct, Doctor?”
Geraldine stirs but she doesn’t object. Harry’s on the brink of impropriety, teetering on the edge of it, but he hasn’t quite crossed the line.
“I would assume so,” the witness answers. He seems hesitant, though. He loosens his tie, looking uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the word altercation.
Geraldine half stands, ready for battle, in case Harry plans to take this line of questioning any further. Even she knows she shouldn’t bother, though. She’s tried enough cases against Harry Madigan to know he won’t. He’s gotten as much as he can get from this witness; trying to squeeze out more would be stupid. At best, it would get us nowhere. At worst, it would alienate the jury. It’s too easy for a lawyer to look like a shark when the witness being crossed is as professional, as straightforward, as this one.
Harry walks back toward our table, his eyes on the floor. He’s running through a mental checklist, no doubt, making sure he hasn’t overlooked any detail before he dismisses the Medical Examiner. He hasn’t. At this point, he has enough to argue in closing that the Commonwealth’s theory of the case doesn’t make any sense, that our client would have attacked from behind had he planned a robbery/murder, that a face-to-face confrontation is far more consistent with Holliston�
�s version of events. He turns back to face the witness when he reaches our table. “Thank you, Dr. Ramsey,” he says. “Nothing further.”
Judge Gould tells the doctor he’s free to go. Geraldine’s on her feet, in front of the bench, looking anxious to call her next witness. Harry takes his seat and Holliston leans so far forward on the other side of me his ear almost touches the table. “What?” he says to Harry, his hands spread wide. “That’s all you got?”
Holliston was hoping for a Johnnie Cochran performance, it seems. And Harry would have delivered one, gladly, were it not for one problem: the facts.
Harry stares back at Holliston and, for the first time that I’ve seen, his eyes reveal the depth of his disdain for our court-imposed client. “Nope,” he says evenly after a pause. “That’s not all I got. But it’s sure as hell all you got.”
Judge Gould looks down at our eager District Attorney and then checks the pendulum clock. It’s one-fifteen. He announces the midday break almost apologetically; he knows Geraldine would rather steamroll ahead. She returns to her table shaking her head; she never has understood this daily ritual called lunch.
The judge instructs the jurors not to discuss the case, not even among themselves, until they begin formal deliberations. He tells the lawyers to be back and ready to roll no later than two-thirty. When he stands, we all follow suit and watch as he disappears into chambers on the double.
Big Red leads the jurors out the side door. As soon as it shuts behind them, one of the prison guards slaps the hardware on Holliston and points him toward lockup. He looks over his shoulder and sneers at us as he leaves. “You heard the man,” he says to Harry. “Make sure you get back here on time. Two-thirty sharp.”
Harry doesn’t let on he hears, doesn’t even look in Holliston’s direction. We grab our heavy coats and head for the side exit without a word. It’s Piccadilly Deli time again, but Harry promised we’d make it quick today; even said he’d pass on the pie, if necessary. Chatham’s Chief of Police is Geraldine’s next witness. He’s mine to cross. And—Holliston’s high hopes notwithstanding—my gut says the Chief will be our biggest problem.