The Hanging Judge (42 page)

“Please take care as you cross the courtroom, Mr. O’Connor,” Norcross said. “There are some wires taped down for our electronics.”

The boy peeked apprehensively over the barrier at the crisscrossing duct tape.

“It’s all right,” Norcross said reassuringly, and a couple of the jurors smiled and nodded at the child as if to help him out. “Come on in. The water’s fine.”

In silence, the boy nudged the wooden door the minimum necessary to squeeze through, then walked, with an oddly bobbing step—as though the carpet were made of marshmallows—across the well and around behind the witness box.

“That’s the ticket.”

He was a small, elflike child. His face was thin and pale, with a pointed chin, and his eyes were strikingly large and dark. From Redpath’s perspective, they seemed the color of shiny tar. Michael wore parent-approved, special-occasion attire: pressed khakis, bunched at the sides from being a little large in the waist, a blue blazer, and yellow shirt with a blue and yellow tie whose knot was so large compared to the boy’s face that it seemed the size of a baseball. His hair was deep black and a little disordered; a strand of it danced over his forehead as he moved.

He looked, Redpath thought, like a fragile version of his mother, the pert, dark-haired woman who smiled out of the eight-by-eleven photos offered into evidence by the government.

“Raise your right hand, please,” Ruby said. Michael was so short that only his head and the tops of his shoulders were visible over the witness box. He lifted his hand to the level of his lower lip. His pale fingers curled.

“Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to give to this court and jury will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

Michael nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Please be seated.”

The silence in the courtroom by this time was so stark it was almost a species of sound. For the first time in the trial, the faint squeak of the hinge on the door to the witness box was audible, as well as the scrunch as Michael settled himself onto the corduroy upholstery of the witness chair. The seat, which was designed to allow the witness to rotate, swiveled unsteadily.

Redpath took no notes to the podium to assist him in his questioning, merely folded his large hands on top of the wooden frame and looked up at Norcross.

“May I proceed?”

Norcross nodded, and defense counsel began his examination.

“Michael, we haven’t met before, have we?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll tell you my name is Bill Redpath, and I’m here representing the defendant Clarence Hudson, who most people call Moon. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Michael’s gaze drifted uncertainly toward his father and back to the lawyer. “Yes, sir.”

“And you understand that Mr. Hudson has been found guilty of two murders, including the murder of your mother, and that this jury will very shortly be deciding whether he should be put to death?”

Michael nodded. “I understand.” He tried putting his elbows up on the chair arms, but they were too high. He gave up and dropped his wrists to his sides.

“How are you feeling right now, Michael?” Redpath’s voice changed, and he sounded concerned.

“Scared.” The boy breathed deeply. His glance floated up to the judge’s perch, ten miles above him, as if he were afraid he’d admitted something that might get him into trouble, then his eyes dropped again.

“But you asked to be here, right, Michael? You called me, or you asked your dad to call me”—Redpath turned to where Jack O’Connor sat in the gallery, bolt upright with his mouth open, then back toward the jury and continued, slightly louder—“because you wanted to come here, and sit where you’re sitting now.” He faced Michael and concluded quietly. “Isn’t that true?”

“That’s true.”

“Why?”

Redpath’s question broke a cardinal rule of trial advocacy: Never ask a “why” question when you don’t know what the answer will be.
Here we go,
he thought.

“Because Mom wouldn’t want …”

“I’m sorry. Just a little louder, please, Mr. O’Connor,” Norcross broke in.

Michael cleared his throat and shot a look at his dad. “Because Mom wouldn’t want him …” He nodded at Hudson. The defendant, like the jurors, was as still as wood, his eyes fixed on the floor in front of the defense table.

“Wouldn’t want him to be, you know. To die. I know she … wouldn’t want that.”

Redpath waited until he assumed the witness had finished his answer. But Michael had only been looking down, gathering himself, and so both voices resumed simultaneously.

“How do you …” Redpath began.

“She’s not …” Michael said, looking at his lap.

“Hang on, hang on,” Norcross broke in quietly, holding up one hand. “Let’s be sure the witness has finished his answer. Nice and loud now, Michael, okay?”

The boy was still looking down, taking careful breaths. He opened his mouth to speak but his chin trembled, and he closed it again. He lifted his elbows high up onto the chair arms, inhaled deeply, and looked at Redpath.

“She’s not. She can’t, like, be here to talk for herself. Somebody has to talk for her, so I have to. I have to say what she would say if she could be here.”

“And what would she say if she were here?”

Michael looked searchingly over at Hudson, who still stared at the carpet in front of counsel table. The boy shook his head.

“She wouldn’t want him to die.” His chin dropped, and the hair tipped over his eyes. “She never wanted anything …”

“Just a bit louder please,” Norcross said gently.

The twelve jurors and three remaining alternates were leaning forward in their seats. Two had their hands over their mouths. Redpath noticed Norcross take off his glasses and begin cleaning them with a tissue.

“Mom never wanted anything to die.” He looked at his feet and then up. “Not even bugs. Even baby birds, we’d keep them in a shoe box and try to, like, help them fly. It never worked. She wouldn’t want anybody to die on purpose, no matter what.”

“What kind of effect would Moon’s execution have on you, Michael? How would it make you feel?”

“Bad.”

“Why?”

“Because I know it would be making Mom sad, and that would make me even sadder. It would make everything worse.”

“Thank you, Michael. No further questions.”

As Redpath turned, Michael’s shoulders dropped with relief, and he began to slide out of his chair.

“Hold on a minute, please, Michael,” Norcross said. “We may not be quite done with you yet, I’m afraid.” He looked at the prosecution table. “Will there be any cross?”

Gomez-Larsen was examining the eagle behind the bench, scratching her chin absentmindedly. After a beat of three, she rose to her feet.

“Yes, Your Honor, very brief.”

“Proceed.”

Gomez-Larsen walked to the side of the podium closest to the jury and put one hand on the heavy frame. She carried herself with an air of delicacy, as though she were determined to preserve something in the mood of the courtroom that might dissolve. She stood for a moment, apparently in some inner debate, then shook her head sadly, answering herself, and began.

“Michael,” she said. “I have just two questions for you.”

“Okay.”

“What’s the first thing you think of when you wake up in the morning?”

It was terrible to watch. At first, Michael sat back and looked at the ceiling with an air of relief, to give this simple question his honest attention. His chin lifted slightly, and his head tipped to one side as he pursued the trail of recollection. But, when he reached the end of his search, his face darkened, and his fingers bunched on the chair arms.

Gomez-Larsen had been reading his expression as the seconds passed. When she saw the click, she said in a low voice, “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m so sorry. What’s the first thing?”

Michael’s face was paler than ever, and he leaned forward, speaking with a quaver. “Mom’s gone.”

“Yes. And what’s the last thing you think of when you go to sleep at night?”

This time, no search was necessary.

“Same.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

57

M
aria Maldonado stood at the bottom of the dark stairway leading up to her apartment. Another ten-hour day at the nursing home, and she was so tired that she could feel gravity pulling her shoulders down, as though she were carrying buckets of sand.

It really made no sense to keep this place. Hannah was off with her new boyfriend most nights and had stopped contributing to the rent; her parents, both ill, wanted her home. Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant she had to be up by six for her job at the Sheraton. With no rent or utilities to pay, she could at least drop the hotel job, maybe help out more at church.

Upstairs, in the darkness on the landing it took some fiddling to get the lock to turn. When Maria finally managed to get inside the apartment, she paused to stuff her key back into her purse before flipping on the light. Suddenly, she caught sight of a tall figure in the shadows by the sofa, gliding in her direction and reaching its arms out. A bolt of terror shot through her, and with it came the sickening certainty that she was about to be raped again. Her knees went weak, and she started to scream. But someone behind her clapped a hand over her mouth and twisted her head back. The man’s other arm snaked across her, grabbing her breast and squeezing her painfully against him. She couldn’t breathe; her heartbeat was slamming in her ears.

The dark figure came closer, his hands ready to tear at her blouse. He flashed a penlight across his face so she could see him.

“Quiet,” he said in Spanish. “Quiet. It’s only me.”

The grip relaxed a bit, but the hand stayed over her mouth.

“It’s me, it’s Carlito. It’s okay.” He waved at the person behind her, and the hands dropped and smoothed her shoulders.

“Sorry,” a soft voice behind her said in English. “Did I hurt you?”

Maria stared, astonished, at her older brother, come back from the dead.

“Carlos, is that you?” She spoke to him in Spanish, as they always had. “How can this be? The paper said you were killed. Your body was floating in the ocean.”

Carlos sniffed and moved back over to the sofa. “You need to work harder on your English, Maria. The newspaper only said the body was ‘thought to be’ me.”

“We were sure you were dead.”

“Not yet, little sister. Not yet.” Carlos snapped his fingers and pointed. “Mannie!” He gestured down the hall, switching to English. “In the bedroom, like I said, in the back of the closet. Close the door and stay in there until I call.”

“Are you all right?” the voice behind her asked.

Maria looked over her shoulder but saw only the shadow of a very large man. She said nothing.

“Mannie!” Carlos repeated, gesturing furiously toward the bedroom. Maria watched the man’s shadow as it disappeared, and she heard the sound of the door closing.

“Come sit here,” Carlos said, pointing next to him on the sofa. “I need to talk to you.” He nodded in the direction of the bedroom. “He speaks very little Spanish. He won’t understand us even if he tries.”

Maria didn’t move. Her voice trembled. “Carlos, my God. I can’t believe it’s you. I thought …” She began to cry. “It’s too much. You know what happened to me.”

“It’s all right, Maria. I’m very sorry we scared you. Now please come sit here. We need to talk.” He patted the cushion next to him.

As Maria drew closer, her heart still banging against her ribs, the familiar features of her brother’s handsome face drew together. He had regrown his beard, and now it was silver up toward his sideburns and halfway down his cheeks. A pair of tinted, black-framed glasses concealed his eyes. Without looking closely and hearing his voice, she might not have realized who he was.

She sat down on the sofa, still shaky, pulling her skirt over her knees.

“Who is Pepe talking to?” Carlos touched his sister’s hand. “I need to know. The papers say he’s blaming me now. Why is he saying these things?”

“The police captain told him you were dead. Truly dead. I was there.”

“That old trick? The little fool!” Carlos took the glasses off and put them in his shirt pocket. He wiped his eyes with the heels of both hands. After a few seconds, Maria saw that he was focusing back on her, realizing she might be offended. He waved his hand. “It’s not his fault. I should have prepared him better. Damn it, though! He’s fucked up my life.” He took a deep breath and frowned, sucking through his upper teeth like a man steeling himself for a sting, a habit Maria had seen many times. He continued. “Is it true, do you think? Do they really suppose I’m dead?”

“That’s what they told us. I believed them.”

Maria watched her brother, rubbing his hands over his knees and shaking his head, and she began to recall the depth of her anger at him. The terror of being grabbed like that had driven the rage out of her head. Now her bitterness was like blood seeping back into numb flesh.

“Carlos, I have to ask you something.”

“No questions,” he snapped. He stood up abruptly. “I may be going away.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “South. You may never see me again, or you may see me tomorrow.” He turned toward the bedroom, his voice a sharp whisper. “Mannie!”

Maria remained on the sofa. “Was it really you who put Pepe, your own nephew, in that car? Could you, his uncle, do such a thing to him?”

Carlos looked down. His mind had obviously moved far away again, fixing on the next problem. Maria saw her brother’s face grow cloudy as he turned to her, heard him sucking through his upper teeth again. If he started to hit her, she would not even try to duck.

“Maria, I swear I did not do this. It was the nigger Hudson. I don’t know why Pepe is saying these things.”

“Pepe says the judge keeps doing things to help Hudson. The jury found him guilty, but Pepe says the judge could change that if he decides that Hudson didn’t do it. What would happen to Pepe if the judge thinks he is being a false witness? I don’t understand these things.”

But Carlos was staring out the small living-room window, his attention, apparently, turning once more to other problems. The silence brought him back, and he gave a quick, wolflike smile.