The Hanging Judge (33 page)

“Will, you know, will this make a difference for Tyler?” Spanky asked, searching them with eyes like those of an enormous, frightened bird. The social worker, arriving without prior warning, had backed her into her untidy living room, and Spanky’s huge body, tipping backward onto her overused sofa, was threatening to sink into the cushions. With her behind sagging so low, Spanky’s knees were almost level with her chin. Wallace, the social worker, had taken a seat on the edge of Spanky’s green lounge chair.

Daley was leaning against the entryway’s doorframe. The police captain had declined Spanky’s offer to sit down, with thanks, telling her that a back problem made it more comfortable for him to stand. This was not true, but it gave him a better vantage on the situation.

“Well,” Wallace began, patting the clipboard on her knees, “your willingness to help might …”

Daley quickly broke in. “Not at all, ma’am. Not one bit. And I want you to remember that.”

Gomez-Larsen had given Captain Daley clear instructions about this visit: They needed Spanky to play ball, but they did not want her testifying in court that they’d pressured her. It would be the easiest way for Redpath to attack the woman’s credibility.

Daley took a step into the room and gestured down at Spanky. “Your hanging on to your grandson does not have anything to do with whether you help me out with some questions. Will you remember that for me? Please? In case anyone ever happens to ask you?”

“Okay,” Spanky said uncertainly. She flapped the ends of her housedress down to mid-calf. From her sunken position, Daley seemed gigantic, standing above her in his uniform, with his gun in his holster. Spanky’s lips quivered as she spoke, and her big eyes darted from the lounge chair to Daley.

“Thing is, I don’t think Tyler would do that good in a stranger’s house, that’s all.” She tried to make eye contact with Wallace, but the caseworker was looking down as she wrote on her clipboard. Daley, on the other hand, smiled at Spanky encouragingly and nodded sympathetically as she spoke.

“He’s a lot better off with me. With …” She hesitated, not sure whether she was speaking to the point. “With somebody who loves him.” Wallace continued to write without changing expression.

“I bet you’re absolutely right,” Daley said. “And there’s nothing I’d like more than to be able to put in a good word for you.” He held his hands out. “Can you spare me just five minutes?”

44

S
andra Hudson was finishing her Monday morning visit with Moon. She had come, as directed, to the marshal’s lockup to drop off her husband’s courtroom clothes, so he could change before the trial resumed. The marshal’s suite included no formal visitors’ area, so she spoke to Moon standing outside his cell. Redpath, who was finishing up with his client as she arrived, had already hurried off to grab a cigarette before court.

Sandra pointed at Moon. “I want one more thing from you before I go.”

He was facing her through the chipped gray bars. The expression on his dark face was grave; the pleasure he took at seeing his pretty wife had softened his brooding eyes only a little. He shook his head.

“What do I have left to give you, babe?” he asked in a low voice. He lifted his hands up and looked around the empty cell. “You think I’ve got a bunch of roses or something hid in here?”

“Oh, you’ve got what I want,” Sandra said. “I know you have it, sugar.”

Moon rocked his head back and folded his arms. The posture accentuated his broad shoulders and his muscular arms and hands.

“Okay. You tell me what I have. Tell me what I can give you, in this place, and I’ll give it to you. Anything you want.”

Two deputy marshals, one white and one black, were seated on metal chairs on the far side of the small, windowless room. The men had enough experience to know when to be strict and when they could slacken a little. They were comfortable allowing this defendant and his wife a few moments together. The distance of eight feet between their desks and the cell provided the couple an illusion of privacy, but Sandra knew the men couldn’t help hearing. It was part of her plan.

As she hesitated, Moon paced off the corners of the cramped lockup.

“Let’s see now. I’m looking around, and I don’t notice any flower garden in here. I don’t see any four-leaf clovers, or any rabbits’ feet.” He turned back to Sandra. “So you tell me what you want.”

“Well, here it is,” Sandra paused. “I want you to give me one of your smiles.”

Moon put his head to one side and touched the tip of his tongue to the middle of his upper lip. Sandra knew he tended to do this when he was trying to figure something out. After a moment looking at her this way, Moon retracted his tongue and shook his head solemnly.

“Girl, you’re tough. You know I don’t have a whole lot of smiles in me right now.”

“But, I can’t recognize you without your smile, baby. How do I know this is you?” She lifted her chin. “It’s been so long. Just give me a little one.”

Moon was looking down at the floor. The two deputies had abandoned any pretense of ignoring the drama.

“Well, you know,” Moon said. “I don’t …”

“Moon Hudson,” Sandra broke in, “if you don’t give me a smile, I’m going to take all my clothes off right here.”

“What?”

“And I’m going to sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ while I do it.”

“What?”

“Here I go.” She started pulling her arm out of her jacket. “ ‘Oh say, can you see …’ ”

The two deputies looked at each other nervously. Nothing in the regs covered this.

She had the top button of her blouse open and was working on the second.

“Here I go now! ‘By the dawn’s early light …’ Don’t fool with me.”

Moon’s transforming smile, brilliant and shining, burst onto his face.

“Girl, you are something else. Damn! You are crazy, just crazy.” His amazed grin was crinkling the corners of his eyes. “What in the damn world am I supposed to do with you?”

“Aw,” Sandra said, dropping her hands and nodding at the marshals, “you see what you’ve gone and done now? You just cheated these boys out of the best free show they’re going to see all year.”

“Got that right,” the white marshal drawled.

Moon took hold of the bars and looked over at the deputies. “And this woman’s a librarian, man. A librarian! Shit!”

“Okay,” Sandra said with a sigh. She buttoned up and readjusted her collar. “Now I know it’s you, I can go. Stick that smile in your pocket, lover, and I’ll see you upstairs. You don’t have to look for me; I’ll be right over your shoulder.”

She blew him a kiss, picked up her purse, and left the room.

On the ground floor of the courthouse, Jack O’Connor and his three sons were making their way onto a crowded elevator. The older boys had gotten into one of their screaming matches before they’d left the house, and the two were avoiding looking at each other. Jack still didn’t know what the fight was about. Then, Michael had vomited over the porch rail just as Jack was trying to corral everyone into the van. A hint of rotten egg smell still clung to the boy, and his father was keeping a watchful eye on him. Mike’s mouth twisted as the rising elevator pressed his stomach down.

“You a juror, too?” a dark-haired woman in her early thirties asked Jack. She was pretty, but her eyes had a worried look.

“No,” Jack said, with a glance at his sons. “Just spectators.”

“Huh!” she said. “Lucky you!”

45

M
onday had always been Judge Norcross’s favorite day, especially the morning, when the workweek still had the dew on it. Through the tall windows by his desk, a generous orange light poured down onto the chambers’ burgundy carpeting and splashed against the tan and crimson volumes of federal appellate decisions that lined the opposite wall.

The memory of Claire, and of the previous day’s adventure, hung in this rinse of brightness like warmth inside a sun porch. Never in his life had Norcross laughed so hard with anyone. With some difficulty, he’d gotten Claire to agree to a change of venue from the top of the uncomfortable bench to the large sofa in his office. Afterward, they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms for more than an hour, then taken turns using the shower in chambers. When he’d emerged from the bathroom—dried, deodorized, and reassembled as a respectable adult—Claire, who’d gone first, had been right where he was sitting now, in this very chair, fiddling with his computer, as artless and composed as one of those girls in the J.Crew catalog. Nothing in the past five years, not even the call from the White House, had so thoroughly filled him with joy.

Now he knew he would manage. Now he knew he was loved, and no matter what happened he could not fall out of the universe. Even the latest offering from crazy Mrs. Abercrombie, a wrinkled heap of single-spaced pleadings on the corner of his desk, could not darken his mood. It was okay; he’d get to it. He tapped in the code to access his computer and buzzed Frank and Eva. Time to confabulate.

Frank had been down the corridor to check with Tom Dickinson and confirm the arrival of the jurors and attorneys. He reported a long stream of reporters and spectators inching through the metal detectors, setting purses and wallets on the conveyor belt, and standing with arms outstretched to be sniffed by the wand.

“One box cutter, two canisters of pepper spray, four knives,” Frank said as he sat down opposite Norcross.

“Any trouble starting on time today?” Norcross asked.

“I doubt it. Ruby’s checking the courtroom. Everything looks good.”

“Are you still thinking you’ll let the government put in Hudson’s priors if he testifies?” Eva asked. “You know what I think.”

Her fervent brown eyes reminded Norcross of Marlene praying for a cashew. He knew Eva was having a hard time with the trial, and he wanted her good opinion, but the problem she raised was not simple. The basic rule was that if the defendant testified, then the government could attack his credibility by pointing out his prior convictions; if he didn’t testify, the jury would remain ignorant of his criminal record. But it was tricky; there could be exceptions.

“We’ll see,” Norcross said. “We don’t know yet whether he wants to testify.” He tapped his blotter with the eraser of his pencil and looked out the window. “I have an idea about how to tackle the problem that might be reasonably fair to both sides. Let me just think out loud with you for a minute here, and … what?”

Norcross, puzzled, turned back from the windows. Frank and Eva were alternately glancing over his shoulder and peeping sideways at each other with tightly controlled smirks, scarcely even pretending to follow what he was saying. Eva clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes glistening with merriment. Frank began pulling on his ear, looking down, and biting his lip.

“What?” Norcross could feel himself getting irritated; this was a serious topic. Their stifled amusement was turning infectious, though, and his own temptation to burst into a grin was making him even more annoyed. He started looking down and patting himself to see if he’d forgotten to button his shirt or left his fly open or something. Finally, following his clerks’ eyes, he looked back at his computer.

While they’d been talking, the computer’s screen saver had kicked on, set as usual on the scrolling marquee. Today, however, the inspirational quote was different. It was a message from Claire, tapped into the machine’s software the day before while he’d been showering, as a surprise memento of their afternoon.

The words made their way across the screen in big red letters: “Here’s to dear Judge Norcross—Best lover in the Land!” Norcross sensed himself starting to color as a bubble of confused happiness took shape in his chest. This was, in a way, wonderfully sweet, but he was shy, too, and the ice here felt thin.

It got thinner. A second line continued: “I crave his playful Frankfurter—Adore his Learned Hand!!!!”

Norcross quickly tapped the mouse to get out of the screen saver and turned to face his two clerks, trying to compose himself. But there must have been something in his expression that burst the balloon of mirth they had both been struggling to hold in.

Eva exploded first, bending forward and holding her stomach with one hand while the other was clapped over her mouth. She rocked, emitting faint yips, like a dog having a dream. Frank, more restrained, had thrown his head back and was making huffing noises at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath.

“Right,” Norcross said. Then, after a pause, “Okay, okay.”

Eva, at last, reeled herself in and looked at him with an attempt at sobriety, but the corners of her mouth were twitching and another squeak burbled out of her. Frank had both hands over his face and was taking deep breaths.

“You realize that message was not from Lucille,” Norcross said.

“Yes,” Eva managed. But her voice was more high-pitched than usual, and she wiped a tear out of the corner of her eye.

“Rule Seventeen,” Frank said.

Another explosion from both of them instantly followed.

Norcross shook his head. They’d never get back on track. He let it go on for another minute, trying to maintain his dignity, but feeling like a man caught stepping out of the bathtub.

“Okay,” he said, “in the words made immortal by Dave Brubeck, let’s take five.”

46

T
he spring deepened. The forsythia and the daffodils bloomed and faded, then the tulips, azaleas, and lilacs. The days lengthened out. To Lydia Gomez-Larsen’s intense disappointment, they lost the no-nonsense-looking Latina juror, who went down with appendicitis. She was replaced by an older, white mail carrier from Stockbridge with a face that was far too empathic for Gomez-Larsen’s taste.

The witnesses flowed through the box. The jury heard the medical and ballistics experts and the testimony about the inner workings of street gangs with reasonable patience. Moon Hudson’s employer appeared, with his newly discovered records confirming that Moon left work at six thirty a.m. on the day of the murders. Since she knew from Bill Redpath’s opening that Sandra Hudson would be testifying that Moon was home with her, Gomez-Larsen made sure the jury realized that the records left Moon ample time to kill Delgado and O’Connor after he clocked out. She looked on with studied indifference as Redpath tore into the floundering, inconsistent testimony provided by Nono and Spider, and the junkie Fournier’s disjointed description of buying the assault rifle for Carlos Arcera in exchange for heroin. Finally, the trial reached a crucial moment: the appearance of the government’s star witness, Ernesto “Pepe” Rivera.