The Hanging Judge (31 page)

The two women spoke in Spanish.

“What is it?” Maria asked.

“It’s nothing. Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, Hannah! I can see by your face. In the name of God, tell me what it is.”

Hannah did not reply but tipped her head toward the closet.

Maria stooped, putting her hands on her knees as she peered into the shadows. A broken floorboard was lying next to a dark space with something inside it that she could not make out. Crawling into the closet on her hands and knees, she saw a piece of green canvas and, protruding from the top of the cloth, the barrel of a gun. She pulled back the canvas and felt the cold metal. There was a big space under the boards; the gun was large, not just a pistol. An oily smell rose from the hole.

At the back of Maria’s mind, a dormant memory shifted and pressed itself against her consciousness: Carlos, back in October, on the morning of the shooting, coming by the apartment as she was cleaning up from breakfast, and disappearing for a few minutes into her son’s room. She recalled it had been a beautiful fall day, cool and sunny. She’d asked no questions—not even how he’d gotten in without knocking. The dark look on her brother’s face told her that he would take no questions. One peep and she’d get the back of his hand.

In the dimness, Maria became aware that Hannah was working her way into the closet next to her. She pulled Maria’s hand away from the cloth and slid the broken board so that it fit snugly back in the hole.

“Leave it,” Hannah said. She struck the board with her fist to seal it in tightly. “We never saw this. We know nothing. Nothing! Come.” When Maria hesitated, Hannah tugged on her cousin’s arm and spoke more urgently. “Come on, Maria!”

They moved back into the bedroom and stood up, whispering fiercely although no one was within earshot.

“It’s terrible. Carlos must have put it there,” Maria said, pointing at the closet.

“Carlos is dead. No one will know.”

“But Pepe told them the black man Hudson threw the gun into the river. I was there, Hannah! They wrote it down.”

Hannah placed her hands on her hips. “Do you want your son to spend the rest of his life in prison? I tell you, Maria, we know nothing about this.”

Maria, breathing hard, looked into her cousin’s eyes and saw something she didn’t like. Hannah’s new boyfriend came from a bad group, and Maria sensed a kind of desperation in Hannah’s desire to please this man. Could her cousin be trusted?

“You’re right, Hannah,” Maria said, dropping her eyes. “We’ll forget this.”

The shadow in Hannah’s eye faded, and she wrapped her arms around Maria, murmuring, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Maria allowed herself to be held. Standing in her son’s old room, with the aromas of his childhood still gathered around her, she stared over Hannah’s shoulder through the cloudy window and out into the darkness. A pale light fanned across the ceiling as the sound of a car drifted by and disappeared into the night.

41

B
ill Redpath arrived in the courtroom early. As he unloaded his briefcase, the door from the lock-up swayed open, and the two marshals entered, escorting his client. Moon Hudson stepped gingerly into the room, looking up at the ceiling and rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been. His face had clouded up again, and he nodded to his wife and then his lawyer without changing expression.

Neither Hudson nor Redpath felt good about the new jury. They were especially uncomfortable with the foreperson, a white kid in his late twenties who sold time-shares. The guy’s knee jigged constantly, and he’d responded to questioning during voir dire by saying, among other things, that he thought being on a jury in a death penalty case would be awesome. Like TV. The long process of sifting the jurors had produced only two minorities on the panel: a Latina who was married to a correctional officer, and an African-American alternate—just enough “diversity” to insulate the process from any legal challenge, but not enough to make a real difference in the jury’s basic sympathy.

“What’s up?” Moon asked dully as he slid into his seat. “Still the cop?”

Redpath looked over at Gomez-Larsen, eight feet away at the government table. “Captain Torricelli still your first witness?”

“Uh-huh.” The prosecutor was facing away, talking inaudibly but with some urgency to her lead-off man. She seemed to be ignoring the “captain” dig. Might not be a bad idea to twiddle her dials, since it seemed like she had something important to say to her guy. See if he couldn’t fuzz up her reception.

“Think you’ll be all morning with your direct?” he asked.

“Hope so.” She didn’t bother to look Redpath’s way, but kept talking to Torricelli, now holding her hand out to him. Redpath caught the phrase, “Don’t do this to me, Al.”

He leaned toward her. “You folks enjoying this nice spring weather?”

“Fuck off, Bill.” She was gesturing at Torricelli with both hands.

“All rise!”

Norcross hurried in. He was leaning forward, as usual, looking as though he were trying not to crack his head on something.

Everyone got up while Dickinson droned through the call to order. Norcross’s two law clerks slipped in behind the judge, each clutching a yellow pad, and took seats at a table off to one side. Redpath had been speculating during the pretrial proceedings about whether he might have an ally in the female clerk. She looked Jewish, which could sometimes be a good sign, and her facial expressions, so far as he could read them, conveyed a mighty discomfort with something. He’d have to find a pretext to exchange a friendly word with her. Nothing directly about the trial, of course, but some chummy comment if he could dream one up. The fat male co-clerk looked like a dud.

Once everyone sat, Judge Norcross leaned forward and spoke. “We’ll be bringing the jurors in here in just a moment, but I wanted to warn you that we’ll be breaking early today, at noon. I’ve got a massive motion for a temporary restraining order this afternoon, unfortunately.” He paused, looking weary. “They’re about to bulldoze another wetland. It’s maddening, but I doubt the jury will mind taking off early before the weekend.”

Dammit. This was bad. Gomez-Larsen would have no trouble dragging her direct out for the entire morning, and the early break meant that the jurors would have all weekend to think about Torricelli’s testimony, with no chance for Redpath to smudge it up on cross.

When the jurors filed in, Norcross informed them of the shortened day; the foreperson rewarded him with a grin of delight, and the other jurors, the lazy bastards, seemed either pleased or indifferent.

Then Norcross nodded at the prosecutor. “Government’s first witness, please.”

Gomez-Larsen rose, pausing before she spoke to ensure that she had all thirty-two of the jurors’ eyes on her. “Your Honor, if it please the court, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the government calls, as its first witness, Officer Alex Torricelli.”

Redpath noticed with pleasure that Torricelli’s shirt collar was too tight, and this had forced him to leave the top button undone and push his tie up as high as possible to look tidy. But the knot had slid down, revealing the subterfuge and leaving the cop with a slightly unkempt appearance, as though he were already at the end of an exhausting day.

“Raise your right hand, please.” Ruby Johnson stood behind her desk with her hand up. “Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you give at this trial will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.” It did Redpath’s heart good to see Torricelli so uncomfortable. The man was keeping his face unnaturally staunch, trying to imitate some tacky movie-star hero or something.

Torricelli squeezed into the box, bumped against and quickly rescued the water jug, and finally settled down with a heavy plop. His eyes flickered around the courtroom. No easy escape.

A noisy shuffling and throat clearing arose from the front row of the gallery. Were they about to be interrupted again? This time, Redpath wouldn’t mind.

A tall, overly handsome, dark-haired man in a gray silk shirt was shoving into the front row. He clearly had some special connection to the trial. His expression was proprietary, and his presence was having some kind of effect on Torricelli, who was so studiously
not
paying any attention to this pushy guy that something had to be going on.

Gomez-Larsen took her time getting to the podium, letting the disturbance fade, and smiled briefly at her witness.

“All set in there?”

Torricelli nodded back. “Ready to go, I guess.”

“Would you please introduce yourself to the jury, and spell your last name for the record.”

“My name is Alex Torricelli. T-O-R-R-I-C-E-L-L-I.”

“Mr. Torricelli, are you married or single?”

“Married.”

“How long?”

Torricelli hesitated, working back the math.

Gomez-Larsen smiled and glanced at the jury. “Take your time.” Two of the jurors chuckled.

“Seven, no eight, years.”

“Sure?”

“Pretty sure.” More chuckles.

“And children.”

“One. A girl, Angie.”

“How old?”

“Fourteen months.”

“No problem with that one?”

“No, ma’am.” More little smiles and toasty glances passed among the jurors. A pair of older women side-by-side in the back row were fluttering maternally.

Redpath tossed his pencil down with a carefully measured half teaspoon of impatience and leaned back, folding his arms. The eyes of several jurors wavered over to him, and things settled down.

“Are you employed?” Gomez-Larsen continued.

“I’m a police officer for the City of Holyoke.”

“How long?”

“Ten and a half years.”

“Please describe the course of your employment since you first became an officer and tell the jury generally what your duties have been.”

An unremarkable summary of the officer’s shifts and assignments followed. Redpath jotted “No Promotions” on his pad and leaned back again.

“Now, Officer,” Gomez-Larsen went on, “I want to take you back to the Tuesday after the Columbus Day holiday, just this past fall. Do you recall that morning?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you?”

Torricelli described his route from home toward the center of Holyoke. Redpath jotted another note for cross: “Late for shift? Why?”

“Did you notice anything unusual at that time.”

“Yes.”

“Would you please describe to the jury what you observed and what you did?”

Torricelli cleared his throat. “I saw a vehicle, a gray Nissan sedan, coming out a side street, the wrong way on a one-way. Part of the back window was blown out and the rear tag was covered with mud.”

“Tag?”

“License plate.”

A pivotal moment in the testimony was approaching. Redpath casually reached forward and drew a folder toward him, setting it so that more than half of it protruded over the side of the table. He placed his left hand on the folder to prevent it from falling and continued jotting notes with his right hand. Moon Hudson leaned forward and gave his attorney a curious glance.

“What happened next?”

“Can I have some water?”

“Of course.”

Torricelli pulled a paper cup from the stack. His hands shook slightly as he filled it carefully and took a sip. “I noticed the Nissan slow down, and a guy jumped out, very quick. He had a hand up against his chest, like this.” Torricelli put the cup down and demonstrated. “Then he, like, trotted down the alley alongside the Elm Street projects.”

Redpath drummed his fingers on the file folder.

“Can you tell us what this person was wearing, and his approximate height and weight?”

“Dark pants and a black or navy blue hoodie with the hood up. Between five ten and six feet, maybe two hundred pounds, give or take.”

“A hoodie?”

“One of those hooded sweatshirts, with the hood up.”

“Were you able to see this man’s face?”

Redpath lifted his left hand to scratch his ear, and the file slithered onto the carpet. He emitted a stage whisper, “Oh dear!” and bent hastily to retrieve the scattered papers. He forced himself to stay down, pulling the loose sheets together, but Torricelli’s answer was taking a long time coming.

“Did you hear the question?” Norcross’s voice broke in.

“Yes. And the answer is …” The witness paused, and Redpath heard a slurp of water. “No. I was looking from the side, and he had the hood up. I couldn’t see his face.”

“I’m sorry,” Redpath said, finally sitting up and slapping the messy file on his table. “I didn’t catch that answer.” He patted the papers back into the folder.

Gomez-Larsen turned. With her back to the bench and jury box, she tossed defense counsel a glare.

“Your Honor,” she said, turning again, “may the stenographer read back that last series of questions and answers, so we can be sure that Attorney Redpath will know exactly what Officer Torricelli said?”

Redpath reckoned that Judge Norcross knew what was going on, but he also knew that the fact of his knowledge, like the true reality of what was happening, would never make it into the cold transcript. The judge would have to protect the record by having the passage read back. As defense counsel looked up at the bench with an expression of innocence, however, he could see in Norcross’s eyes that he’d played this particular trick for the last time. Once more, and His Honor would find a way to skewer him in front of the jury.

Judge Norcross nodded coldly at the court reporter, and she drew out a band of white recording tape.

“Question: ‘Were you able to see this man’s face?’

“Question from His Honor: ‘Did you hear the question?’

“Answer: ‘Yes. And the answer is no. I was looking from the side, and he had the hood up. I couldn’t see his face.’ ”

A shuffle broke out behind Redpath, and as he turned he caught the retreating form of the handsome spectator in the gray silk shirt banging out through the courtroom doors. He was about to face forward again when he noticed something else. The two goons who’d been attending the trial all along, one bald and one with a stubby ponytail, also rose and made their way more slowly out of the courtroom. The bald one was chewing gum, and he did not look happy.