The Hanging Judge (19 page)

What Gomez-Larsen had learned from skimming the questionnaires had not been good at all, and behind her poised façade, an ulcer of anxiety throbbed. A fear that she might tremble kept her elegant fingers folded in her lap.

She could barely remember the last time she had lost a trial, and she really,
really
did not want to lose
United States v. Hudson.
She’d known that Washington’s insistence on the capital designation would make her job harder, but she could now see that the situation was worse than she’d imagined. The questionnaires revealed that a great many of the pro-government jurors she normally relied on would be struck from the pool because of their strong views favoring the death penalty. The thought of having, possibly, to face the O’Connors and the Delgados, and explain the defendant’s acquittal—the image of Moon Hudson swaggering down the street with his gangbanger friends slapping him on the back—all because of some bullshit out of Washington, was too much. A deep breath dispelled the shakes.

The chair next to her creaked as Alex Torricelli shifted uncomfortably.

“Jesus, I’m suffocating,” he muttered. “Can’t believe you do this every day.” He dabbed at his forehead with a crumpled Dunkin’ Donuts napkin.

Alex’s chalk-white face was not going to inspire a whole lot of confidence. Maybe it was a mistake putting him up here, shoving him in front of the jury as the everyday hero. She punched him lightly in the shoulder.

“Relax,” she said soothingly. “This is fun. By the time we’re done, you’ll be ready for law school.”

Gomez-Larsen knew perfectly well that her case was not airtight. She had a star witness in Ernesto “Pepe” Rivera, the driver Alex had managed to grab immediately after the shooting. But if Pepe failed to impress the jury, her case would be in big trouble, and during preparations so far he was coming across as a sulky little twerp.

She patted Alex’s arm. “Everything’s going to be fine. All the women on the jury will be swooning for you.”

“Swell,” Alex whispered. “Exactly what I need.” Then he added more urgently, “Where the hell is His Honor? I need to hit the head again.”

“All rise!” the court officer called out.

Gomez-Larsen rose smoothly to her feet and watched as Judge Norcross bustled into the courtroom in that odd way he had, bent forward like a stork on ice skates, with his robe wafting out behind him. He was holding a manila folder, an unusual prop. What could that be?

While Tom Dickinson worked through the opening, the judge set the strange folder to one side and poured himself a cup of water. Then the sixteen potential jurors were led into the courtroom. As promised, the other members of the pool had been excused for the day, making their departure with relieved looks. Sleet was forecast for that afternoon, turning to heavy snow as the temperature dropped overnight.

Gomez-Larsen had to admit that, from his perch on the bench, Judge Norcross presented a credible image: tall, moderately good-looking, with just the beginning of gray at the temples—a picture of decency, good humor, and intelligence. In the time she’d been appearing before him, they’d developed a fair working relationship. Still, some judges could be counted on to rescue a floundering prosecutor, especially if they thought the defendant was guilty. Norcross, she knew, would call it straight; she’d sink or swim on her own.

The judge kept his hands folded in front of him and offered up his words slowly.

“All right. Thank you again. We have basically two things left on our plate this afternoon. First, I’ll have a few preliminary remarks and questions for you as a group. Second, after we let you return to the assembly lounge, we’ll be bringing each of you in, one at a time, for additional questioning from counsel, up to five minutes for each side.”

The jurors had been staring up at the bench with cowlike blankness, but at the mention of individual questioning, Gomez-Larsen noted that Three, Six, and Seven twitched noticeably and glanced from side to side. Timid? Perhaps more inclined to defer to authority? She shot a glance at defense counsel to check his reaction, but he was bent over a questionnaire, tracing the text with a large finger.

The judge went on: “As we go through this process, I will not be referring to you by name, but will be using the number our clerk assigned to you, which will help to avoid any unnecessary invasion of your privacy. Along those lines, you may notice that we have sketch artists here in the courtroom. They have been instructed not to draw the faces of potential jurors in any way that might make them identifiable.”

Now Six and Seven, two blocklike women in their sixties, looked even more uncomfortable and teetered toward each other for support. Gomez-Larsen noticed that Redpath had begun staring in their direction and was jotting something on his pad. Good or bad?

“I will now give you a brief overview of the charges against Clarence Hudson. Remember, the charges in this case are just that, only charges. They are not evidence in any way against Mr. Hudson. As I have already told you, Clarence Hudson is presumed innocent.”

Both the defense and prosecution watched the jurors carefully during this passage, hoping for a clue to measure the impact of the judge’s words. With some juries, these phrases would handicap the government badly; with others, they would be treated as lightly as the small print enclosed with a bottle of aspirin. Unfortunately, the faces of this group gave little away. Even moody Number Four, whom Gomez-Larsen had already decided to toss at all costs, was a blank. Were they zoning out?

The description that followed of the RICO charges—the government’s burden to prove the existence of a racketeering enterprise and to demonstrate that the murders had been committed to further its activity—was, to Gomez-Larsen’s ears, impressively simple and concise, but she could see from the jurors’ half-open mouths and crinkled foreheads that they were struggling to follow. By the time Norcross had trudged through this material, and had moved on to the drug charges and the admonition that they refrain from discussing the case or reading anything about it, it was clear that several of the jurors had pulled the plug and were daydreaming. Number Eleven, then Ten, then Three and Four simultaneously, yawned. The room was warm, and the hum of the ventilators, blending with the faint but continuous murmur and rustle of the spectators, was creating an environment ideally suited for a cozy nap. Then, between two of Norcross’s paragraphs, Alex punctuated the text with a soft fart, like a squeaking hinge. As the rankness drifted past her, Gomez-Larsen bent forward, rubbed her temples, and cleared her throat.

“Sorry,” Alex whispered. Redpath looked over at them, raised his eyebrows, and sniffed loudly. A stifled chuckle rose from one of the two tough-looking guys perennially in the front row of the gallery. Baldie and Ponytail. No one else appeared to notice.

But now their journey was approaching a dangerous curve.

“The trial of this case,” Judge Norcross was saying, “may have one stage, or it may have two. We don’t know yet.” He paused for a sip of water, set the cup at a distance, and pulled the manila folder over to him. Up to this point, he had been speaking extemporaneously, covering standard material. Now, in the deepening quiet of the courtroom, he was preparing to launch into some new segment of his instructions. The portentous folder, and the judge’s change in tone, seemed to bring most of the jurors back to the land of the living.

“The first, and perhaps the only, stage of this trial will concentrate on the question of whether the government can prove Mr. Hudson guilty of the actual charges against him, beyond a reasonable doubt. During this stage, the jury may not consider the defendant’s possible punishment in any way. If the jury concludes that the government has failed to prove the RICO charges beyond a reasonable doubt, it will return verdicts of not guilty on these charges, and its work will be at an end. Even if the jury finds Mr. Hudson guilty on the drug charges—and I’m not suggesting you should—his sentencing for them will be my responsibility. The jurors will go home, and there will be no second stage.”

Thanks a ton,
Gomez-Larsen thought.
Show them the wide, inviting shortcut to the exit door.

“On the other hand,” Judge Norcross continued, “the jury may find that the government has proved beyond a reasonable doubt one or both of the RICO murder charges, and return a verdict, or verdicts, of guilty on that charge or those charges.” He paused, lifting his voice slightly. “If this occurs, there will be a second stage to this trial.”

A stillness was spreading over the gallery, so that by now the loudest sound in the courtroom was the light scrape of the artists’ chalk on their sketch pads. It seemed to Gomez-Larsen that the judge was trying to shape his words one by one, suspend them in the air, and let them hang there before the jurors.

“The second stage of the trial,” he said, “if there is one, will focus on whether the defendant should be sentenced to death, or to a term of life imprisonment without possibility of parole. As you’ve heard, ladies and gentlemen, this is a death penalty case. There are two extremely important points I must make to you concerning this fact right now.”

Judge Norcross took a moment for another sip of water and turned to the next page of his notes. The sixteen men and women in the jury box were resolving into a kind of tableau. Even restless Number Four was immobile, her right hand covering her mouth. Number Ten, in the middle of the second row, had tilted his chair back against the courtroom wall as though pressed into it. He was resting the tips of his fingers together on his stomach in a gesture suggesting prayer.

“First, the jury is never required to impose a death sentence upon any defendant under any circumstances. Understand this clearly. Whatever the evidence, no juror will ever be placed in a position where he or she
must
vote for death.

“Second, I am also obliged tell you that, if there is a second stage to this trial, and if the jury at the conclusion of this second stage does unanimously find that the death penalty should be imposed upon Mr. Hudson”—and here Judge Norcross nodded at where the defendant sat looking rigidly at his hands—“I will be required as the judge to sentence him to death. I will have no choice in the matter.”

The silence had captured the room entirely.

“In other words,” Judge Norcross concluded. “I will have no power to change the jury’s decision. In the event that this trial moves to a second stage—what we call the penalty stage—the jury of citizens selected in this case, and not me, will bear the ultimate responsibility for deciding whether Clarence Hudson should be executed.”

23

B
arbara Cummings, Moon’s mother-in-law, heard a car door slam and hurried to the parlor window. There, finally, was her prodigal daughter stepping carefully over the flagstones, balancing Grace against her heart with both hands, and wearing that old dear, guarded look on her puss. Always the same, whether they were trying to convince her, as a third grader, to stay with her violin lessons or, as a sixteen-year-old, to sign up for AP physics. Never bad tempered, always unbendable. Now this.

Peeking around the curtain at her youngest, Professor Cummings felt something crowd into her throat and dam up against the back of her eyes. She loved the child to distraction, and yet she had never been able to do a single thing, no matter how much she worried or how hard she tried, to smooth the girl’s path.

With jury selection in Moon’s trial taking so long, mother and daughter had talked and, after some negotiations, had decided that Sandra should come spend a weekend in Rochester, to get a little break and to drop off Grace. This would free up Sandra to attend the trial every day once it started, something the lawyer said was essential. By good luck, Barbara was on sabbatical, correcting the galleys of a new book, so her time was flexible. She would love taking care of her granddaughter and, with Grace safe, Sandra’s father might finally relax a little. Lucas was coming home tonight, too, to spend some time with his sister.

Barbara watched Sandra pause halfway up the walk, sigh, and cast a look of wary exhaustion at the family homestead. Seeing this, Barbara felt tears begin to gather at the corners of her eyes and threaten to trickle down her cheeks. This would definitely not do. Sandy would hate it. Now her nose was running, for heaven’s sake. Barbara hurriedly restored herself with a couple of Kleenex. Brave girl! What must it cost her to come here now?

She thought of getting the door but decided to give Sandra time to collect herself. She sniffed and glanced at her face in the hall mirror. Sandra would probably be able to tell she’d been close to crying. She dabbed at her hair. Maybe not.

The knocker emitted two quick claps; Barbara counted three and went to the door.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Mom,” Sandra said, her voice cracking.

Barbara saw how thin Sandra’s face had gotten, and a tear escaped the corner of her eye, too hasty to blink away. Sandra, noticing it, heaved a sob and began weeping.

“Oh,” she gasped and stamped her foot. “Dammit! Here.”

She handed Grace to her mother and began searching in her purse for a handkerchief. Barbara bent to nuzzle the flannel-smelling bundle, her own silent tears flowing now so quickly that they dribbled onto the baby’s eyelashes and woke her up. Sandra gave up her search, and looked at her mother, trying to smile.

“Well, Mom,” she said, swallowing, “here I am again.”

“Honey.”

As they held each other, Grace began to bleat indignantly, wanting air, and some lunch.

The child’s cries helped rally the two women, and a half-hour later the arrival of Sandra’s dad provided further distraction. Then, just before dinner, Lucas pulled up in his Audi, and the family was all together. Their conversation that evening touched only lightly on the trial and concentrated on happier family chitchat, until later that night when Sandra was up in her old bedroom, getting Grace ready for bed, and Lucas came to talk.

He stood in the entry leaning against the doorframe, arms folded against his chest. A slim, elegant man, she had to admit, a real catch for somebody. Five years ahead of her in school, her brother had been an outstanding pole-vaulter, first in their region and second in the New York State finals, smack on the front page of the sports section. Then he was off to Yale on fifty-seven varieties of scholarships, just as she was starting eighth grade in her mostly white high school and really could have used a big brother around for advice.