Temporary Sanity

by Rose Connors

  Luke and his friends still attend the Christmas Eve festivities each year. They stay until the last cookie is gone, then head out to a movie, an annual tradition of sorts. This year Maggie plans to join them. Luke actually invited her, she told me breathlessly this morning. When Luke got into the car, though, she acted as if the evening plans had all but slipped her mind. She’s good, that Maggie.

  She’s not happy with me at the moment. She and Luke appeared in the courtroom’s back row at five, expecting we’d all head to Chatham and the Fish Pier shortly thereafter. It didn’t work out, of course. It’s almost eight now. Santa and his entourage are well into the festivities at the elementary school. And the baked goods are almost certainly gone.

  “Can we please get out of here?” Luke drapes one arm across his forehead, to show me how gravely he suffers, as he and Maggie approach the defense table.

  My plan was to drive them to Chatham, then return to the courthouse to await the verdict or, more likely, the jurors’ departure for their hotel rooms. That way I’d have the car. Luke and Maggie can hitch rides with any number of Luke’s friends.

  Inherent in my plan, though, was an expectation that Harry would sit here, at the defense table, while I was gone. It doesn’t seem right to leave our table unmanned. Especially not with Stanley entrenched at his.

  The Kydd returns to the courtroom grinning. I can’t imagine what he finds funny. He crosses the front of the room, drops into the chair next to mine, and laughs. “He wants to stay.”

  “What?”

  “Harry. He wants to stay.”

  “Stay where?”

  “In lockup. He doesn’t want us to get him out. Doesn’t even want us to try.”

  Sometimes I think Harry’s been ensconced in the underworld too long, needs a new set of friends, maybe.

  “He says if this thing goes the wrong way, if Buck’s convicted, the judge’s bias will make a decent appealable issue. We’ll argue ol’ Beatrice had a conflict of interest-a huge one-and she should have recused herself at the outset. With that argument in mind, he says, the longer he spends locked up, the better.”

  Sometimes I think Harry’s pretty damn smart.

  The Kydd laughs again. “He also says he’s beat. He told me to get lost. Says he could use a few hours sleep. And the county’s accommodations are fine with him. There’s no phone, it’s quiet, and the cots are comfortable.”

  And sometimes I think Harry’s certifiable.

  “Can we please get out of here?” Luke repeats his plea, complete with arm drama.

  “Go ahead,” the Kydd says. “I’ll stay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.” The Kydd taps the phone in his jacket pocket.

  “I’ll call you if there’s even a peep.”

  “Okay.”

  Luke and Maggie dash for the back door.

  “I shouldn’t be gone much more than an hour,” I tell the Kydd as I zip up my parka. “I’ll just drop them off.”

  “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  The gallery is all but empty as I head down the center aisle. Only one spectator remains: Patty Hammond. She traded her front-row seat for the back bench, where the lighting is dim. She looks concerned as I approach. Of course she is. One of Buck’s lawyers is in jail. And the other one is leaving.

  “I’ll be back,” I tell her.

  She looks only slightly relieved.

  “I’m taking Luke and Maggie to Chatham, to the elementary school.”

  Her face changes, collapses a little. Relief turns into a different emotion. Pain, maybe. Physical pain.

  She stares into her lap for a moment, then looks back up at me, her eyes moist.

  Physical pain it is. Billy should be at the elementary school tonight. No doubt he was there last year.

  “Why don’t you come with us?”

  “To Chatham?” Patty looks as if our hometown might be somewhere on the West Coast.

  “We’ll be back in an hour. It’ll probably take the jury that long to elect a foreperson.”

  She looks uncertain.

  “Come on. Let’s get some fresh air. You can keep me awake on the ride back.”

  “Okay,” she says, reaching for her coat.

  Waiting for a verdict in any case is nerve-racking. In a murder trial, it’s an impossible combination of tedium and panic. The opportunity to do something useful with the time is irresistible. And I wasn’t kidding. Patty can keep me awake on the ride back. I’m exhausted. It’s been a long time since Opie and I visited Geraldine this morning.

  The snow, it seems, will never end. Paths through the parking lot, apparently plowed out earlier in the day, are half filled again. Luke and Maggie wait by the locked Thunderbird, hoods up, their breath creating misty gray clouds amid the swirls of white snowflakes. Maggie dances by the back door to keep warm.

  The old car starts without a problem, as it always does-a recurring miracle. In minutes, we’re traveling the back roads toward Chatham, the defrost and the heat at full blast, the radio silent. Christmas carols don’t feel quite right tonight, no matter what the calendar says. Again, there’s no moon. Inky blackness envelops us.

  Patty turns in the seat beside me to face Maggie. “How’s your mom doing?”

  That’s a question I should have asked. Add guilt to the menu of emotions I’m carrying around tonight.

  “She’s okay.” Maggie leans forward, between Patty and me, and the dashboard lights illuminate her face. “She says it’s not too bad in there. She made a friend. One of the other ladies is real nice, Mom says. Her name is Cassie.”

  “That’s good,” Patty tells her. “She needs a friend. We all do.”

  “I want to go back tomorrow, see her on Christmas, if that’s okay with you, Marty. The guard ladies say it’s okay by them. And Luke says he’ll drive me.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I’m fairly certain I’ll be coming back myself, though, to pace the hallways and wait for Buck’s verdict.

  “I have a present for her. A necklace. I know she won’t be allowed to wear it in there, but I want to show it to her anyhow.”

  Presents. Double the guilt. Most years, Luke’s Christmas Eve schedule with his friends works out well for me and the presents problem. I shop until the last store locks its doors, then wrap till I drop. Not this year, though.

  This year I have only a handful of packages for Luke. And half of those, the items that aren’t strictly male, I’ll cull out for Maggie. They’re small things, for the most part, trinkets I purchased during early fall, when the weather was conducive to strolling through Chatham Center and I was unemployed. The good old days.

  Lucky for me Luke’s been saving for a pickup truck, a used one he spotted for sale at the local gas station. I’ll write a check in the morning, one hefty enough to bump up the total in his passbook to almost match the asking price. I figured out the math during one of our breaks this morning. Working for a living is expensive.

  I look into the rearview mirror, catch Luke’s eye, and fire a silent reminder into the backseat. He nods back at me, then rolls his eyes to the Thunderbird’s roof. Chill, he’s telling me; he hasn’t forgotten. His assignment, tonight, is to find out what Maggie’s saving for. Let’s hope it’s not a condo on the Riviera.

  “It’s beautiful, Maggie.” Patty holds a small white box in the dashboard lights, a glittering necklace dangling from its dark blue velvet lining.

  “It is,” I agree. And it is. “Where in the world did you get it?”

  “Luke and I found it today. At Pedro’s Pawn Shop. Have you ever been there?”

  Patty and I both shake our heads.

  “It’s on Main Street in Hyannis,” Luke volunteers. “You should check it out. Pedro cuts great deals.”

  Triple the guilt. My son cruises pawnshops while I’m working. Calls the owners by name. Cuts deals.

  Patty snaps the box shut and returns it to Maggie. “Well, your mom is going to love it. What a nice prese
nt to have waiting when she comes home.”

  Silence. It’s the coming home idea. It shuts us all down for a beat.

  Patty recovers first. “He’s pretty intense, isn’t he, that prosecutor?”

  I laugh. “J. Stanley Edgarton the Third? Intense? What gives you that idea?”

  Patty laughs too. “Does he do all the murder cases?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet. But eventually he will. He used to work in the New Bedford office; he was their lead homicide attorney. He’s new to Barnstable County; he’s only been here about a month.”

  She laughs again. “So for now he’s specializing in Forest Beach, I guess.”

  I don’t get it. “Forest Beach?”

  “Buck and Sonia. Probably the only two Forest Beach people in history to be accused of murder.”

  I still don’t get it. “And?”

  “And the intense guy is prosecuting both of them. Seems like a specialty, doesn’t it?” Patty smiles over at me.

  I glance back at her, but I can’t return the smile.

  “I’m kidding,” she says.

  I know she’s kidding. But my stomach isn’t laughing. On some visceral level, her words unnerve me. “Why did you say that?”

  My mind starts racing without a road map. My eyes alternate between Patty’s face and the winding, snow-covered road.

  “It was just a joke. Honest. I didn’t mean anything by it.” Patty looks at me as if I’m scaring her. I probably am. I’m scaring myself too.

  I pull onto the shoulder, stop the Thunderbird under the ENTERING CHATHAM sign. INCORPORATED 1712, it says. A nearby streetlamp casts a glow on Patty’s features. Luke and Maggie lean forward between us.

  “Patty, listen to me. It’s important.”

  Her eyes grow wide.

  “Why did you say Stanley’s prosecuting both of them?”

  She shrugs. “Because he is.”

  “Sonia Baker?”

  “Sure,” she says. “I saw him there on Monday, shortly after”-she glances sideways at Maggie-“it all happened.”

  I have an enormous urge to grab her by the shoulders, but I resist. “You saw him where?”

  “At the cottage.”

  “Whose cottage?”

  Another glance at Maggie. “Sonia’s.”

  “When?”

  “Right around two. I know because the kindergarten school bus went by, the one Billy rode last year.”

  “Why were you at their cottage?”

  Patty frowns and looks at Maggie again.

  “Go ahead,” Maggie says. “It’s okay.”

  “I heard the commotion earlier, so I thought I’d check in. Make sure Sonia and Maggie were all right.”

  “Did you go inside?”

  “No. I didn’t dare. Sonia’s car was gone and Howard’s truck was in the driveway, so I figured he was in there alone. Lord knows I didn’t want to deal with him.”

  Good instincts. “So how did you see Stanley?”

  “I saw him leaving. I was glad. I thought Howard had been arrested, thought Sonia had finally turned him in. I had no idea about…you know.”

  “How did you know who he was?”

  Patty shakes her head, looks at me as if she’s worried about my well-being. “Stanley? I knew who he was. I attended pretrial motions, remember? On Friday?”

  Of course she did.

  The Thunderbird does a U-turn on its own and retraces its tire tracks in the snow. I flip open my phone, though I don’t know why. I’ve no idea whom to call.

  And then my stomach knots, and I do.

  With almost no hassle, the hospital operator connects me to the nurses’ station in the ICU. I will myself to ask for Alice Barrymore, not Annie Wilkes. The unit secretary tells me to hold, she’ll put me through.

  Annie Wilkes picks up at once and listens to only a few words of introduction. “I know who you are,” she interrupts. “You’re the sassy one.”

  Not how I’d hoped to present myself. I press on the accelerator.

  “The one telling us all to shut up.”

  Oh, that. “Where are you, Nurse Barrymore? Are you in Judge Long’s room?”

  “Yes, I am, as a matter of fact. He’s sitting up nicely, thank you, having a bit of broth. And there’s no one here telling me to shut up, I might add.”

  “Listen, Ms. Barrymore, I need a favor.”

  “Oh, do you now?”

  “Yes. Ask the judge, please, if he was trying to say the word tassel last night.”

  “Now you listen,” she says, “you lawyers have got to leave this man alone-all of you.”

  “What?”

  “The three of you in here carrying on late last night and then another one here before dawn. When is the judge supposed to rest?”

  “Before dawn? Who was there before dawn?”

  “An entirely new one. Short, balding fellow. Why don’t you lawyers talk to each other?”

  The knot in my stomach doubles. “Did he say what he wanted, the short, balding fellow?”

  “Certainly. The same thing you all want. He wanted to ask more questions. Marched into the room as if he were the chief of surgery, telling me he’d need a few moments alone with the judge.”

  Panic tightens my grip on the phone. “And?”

  “And I told him he’d be spending more than a few moments alone with security if he didn’t turn around and march right out again. The judge was sound asleep. I think that lawyer would have wakened him if I hadn’t been there.”

  My gut tells me Annie Wilkes is wrong about that. Terribly wrong.

  “Nurse Barrymore, please. One question. From you to the judge. It’s important.”

  Silence on her end.

  “Ask if he was trying to say the word tassel last night. Remember? We couldn’t understand him. Harry made the Irish joke because it sounded like ’tis.”

  “Oh, for the love of Peter.”

  “Please.”

  Silence again. And then a rustling sound.

  Annie Wilkes covers the mouthpiece, but I can still decipher her words. “Judge,” she says, “it’s the woman from last night, the younger one, the one telling us all to shut up. Damned if I understand it, but she wants to know if you were trying to tell them about a tassel of some sort…”

  Annie’s words trail off. “Oh, for the love of Peter,” she says again, speaking to the receiver once more. “Listen, Miss, I enjoy a good word game as much as the next person…”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not a blessed thing. But his head’s bobbing up and down like one of those little statues people put in the backs of their cars.”

  “Thank you, Annie. Thank you.” I snap the phone shut. It takes a few seconds for me to wish I hadn’t called her Annie.

  I press harder on the accelerator, concentrate on negotiating the curves. My passengers remain silent, Luke and Maggie leaning so far forward they’re almost in the front seat. Patty presses her hands against the dashboard as the Thunderbird tears through the black night.

  When the pieces come together, I take a deep breath and open the phone again. Three more calls, I tell myself. One to the state dispatcher. One to the Barnstable Police Station. And one to the Kydd.

  Howard Davis was a disgrace to the criminal justice system. J. Stanley Edgarton the Third said so. On a normal day, Stanley wouldn’t have stood a chance against Davis. But on Monday, Davis was drinking himself into oblivion and Stanley knew it. He knew because I told him. I told him when I called from the hospital parking lot.

  Judge Leon Long is despicable. Stanley said so. Nicky Patterson interrupted Stanley on Thursday morning. Not the other way around.

  Harry Madigan is vile, reprehensible. Stanley said so just a few hours ago. And now Harry’s asleep in a holding cell at the all-but-empty Barnstable County Superior Courthouse. Stanley’s in the courthouse too.

  And Harry sleeps like a dead man.

  Chapter 47

  Swirling blue and white lights from a dozen police crui
sers bathe the Superior Courthouse. The four granite pillars that frame the front entrance seem to sway as strobelike beams pulse over them. Uniforms pepper the courthouse steps and the hillside in front, most holding two-way radios close to their faces. Inside, the building is lit as if it’s nine in the morning instead of nine at night.

  The Thunderbird rolls silently down the snow-packed road, west bound, past the county complex and the courthouse. I pull over in the darkness on Historic Route 6A, under an ancient, leafless oak tree. There’s no way I can get back into the county lot; the cops have blockades set up at both entrances. I’ll have to go on foot from here.

  Patty Hammond slides over to take the wheel. She’ll keep Luke and Maggie in the car, she promises, won’t bring them near the building until she’s sure it’s all clear. I motion for her to wait while I trudge through the snow to the trunk and retrieve the tire iron. Her eyes are wide in the side mirror as she pulls away.

  I wave to Luke and Maggie, both still in the backseat, their faces pressed against the rear window, their breath making small side-by-side circles on its glass. When they’re out of sight, I grab the Lady Smith from my jacket pocket, release the safety, and hurry across the street.

  The cops have the north and east sides of the courthouse heavily covered because that’s where the doors are. I approach from the west, avoiding the squad cars and the streetlamps, and run in the darkness of night up the steep hill to the courthouse. There, at the top of a grassy knoll on the west side of the building, is a window I can reach. I stop a few steps away from it, tuck the Lady Smith back into my pocket, and brace the tire iron with both hands.

  With strength I don’t ordinarily have, I hurl the heavy tool through the window and hear what I knew I would hear: the whoops and shrieks of the security system. I wonder, as I pull myself up on the outer sill and kick out more of the glass, if the alarm will unnerve Stanley, throw him off course somehow, make him slip just enough for Harry to react.