The Hanging Judge (47 page)

“Moon …”

“Wait now. Let me do this.” He paused and breathed. “And the stuff they found. That was all me, too, just like they said. The shit I sold got us the bed we’re lying on, the table we eat off, the TV we watch. All of it. And I can see now I can’t never stop. Who do I think I’m fooling? Even some fat white college boy with no more brains than a monkey can see just exactly what I am.”

Sandra waited. Moon’s left hand stirred on her shoulder, stroking her. His right arm lay palm up at his side, revealing the long scar. His voice was tired.

“Seems like I been in the blood and the dirt so long there’s no way now for me to ever get clean again. The street can see it, the street can smell it, and the street can give me a tug anytime, and I’ll just come. Just like my poor mama, belting up in the bedroom to get high one more time. All her promises, nothing but dead words. You see what I’m saying?”

“Not really.” Sandra could feel something building in her.

“You see what I did to you? And Grace? Where I went and put you? If that crazy old lady didn’t shoot the judge, I’d be on my way to Indiana—that’s where they take you—waiting for them to bring in their big damn needle and stick me. And if some clerk or somebody hadn’t messed up, I’d be looking at twenty years for the stuff I was selling, bottom. And in Ludlow all this time? I had to lie the tongue practically right out of my head, just to stay alive. Fact is, it was a plain miracle put me back here in this bed with you. And there’s no telling when the street will call again, and you and Grace be right back there with me, only there won’t be any miracle next time.”

“Can I talk?”

“Even if I can stay away, babe—and I know I won’t—even if I could drop that string back to the old life, and even if Carlos’s friends decide to leave me alone,which I doubt they will, I’m maybe twenty dollars an hour, tops. That’s it. That’s what I am. And every time we’re up short, I’ll be hearing the old call. Even if I stay clean for you and Grace, we’re just bad streets, and beat-up cars, and ugly old school buildings with spray paint and hoodlums and crackheads on the street corners. That’s the best I got for you. You’ll fly a lot higher without me, a lot higher. And Grace will, too.”

“Can I talk now?”

“You don’t have to.”

Sandra rolled off Moon onto her side and rested her chin on his shoulder so she could speak directly into his ear.

“Just how dumb do you think I am, Moon Hudson? You think I didn’t know what I was doing when I married you? You think I couldn’t have had ten guys just like Lucas if I wanted? Okay, five. And not bad guys, either. Some of the ones Mom made him bring around were sweeter than you and almost as good looking. But I fell in love with you, Moon, and you are the one I want. And now you want me to go all strategic.”

“Strategic.”

“Plan it all out on a piece of paper. Say to myself, ‘Now Moon is probably not going to be a partner in any Boston law firm. So I better step off this streetcar and give Lucas a call.’ Give up the man I love, and go find somebody else who’s less trouble and has a bigger gravy boat. That’s the strategy. As though love never happens.”

She stopped for a moment, then rushed on before Moon could interrupt.

“Have a smart plan and follow it even if I could search through that plan from the top to the bottom and never find even one ounce of real love in the whole thing.”

Moon rolled over onto his side toward her, ready to start arguing, but she wouldn’t let him.

“I didn’t marry you because it was the smart thing to do. How stupid do you think I am?” Sandra shifted up onto her elbow and looked down at Moon. “And don’t tell me you’re going to go back to your old life, like you’re some kind of pitiful robot or something. I don’t care if we have to eat Corn Flakes for dinner, sitting on boxes. And if you ever lie to me again, I’ll …”

The sound of a car door slamming and voices outside jerked both of them upright. Sandra hastily pulled the sheet up over her breasts, and Moon swung out of bed, lithe and silent. He grabbed a fistful of clothes and then peered around the doorframe into the living room with its big window that looked out onto their front walk.

When he got a good look, he leaped back into the room and began hopping on one foot, working furiously to pull on his pants.

“Shit! It’s your folks.” He hesitated and, for the first time since they left the courthouse, broke into one of his smiles. “Girl, what is so damn funny?”

65

B
ill Redpath sat at his desk behind a crenellated bulwark of case files and volumes of appellate reports, smoking a cigarette and reading a draft memorandum in support of a motion to suppress. Perched precariously on the extreme corner of his desk, occupying the only three inches of bare surface, a lime green ashtray was overflowing onto the floor.

Redpath became aware of Judy’s presence in the doorway, and he lifted his rumpled face. He was still recovering from
Hudson
, and he didn’t feel good.

“What’s up?” He blew out a lungful of smoke. His tie was loosened down to the second button on his shirt, and his sleeves were rolled up over his elbows. The Suffolk County Superior Court was expecting this memorandum from him this afternoon; it would have to be walked over and, even then, it was going to be tight.

A long drag on his Lucky allowed Redpath time to absorb the ominousness of his secretary’s face and posture. Her arms were folded, and she was looking around the room, always a bad sign.

“What?” he asked, knowing very well what the problem was. While he’d been working in Springfield, Judy had undertaken the massive task of tidying up his office. For nearly a week after his return, he couldn’t find a thing. Now the place was finally getting comfortable again.

As if in reply to his not very innocent question, a three-foot stack of papers abruptly toppled off the radiator and shot its contents across the carpet toward Judy. She poked a folder away with her toe and looked at Redpath darkly.

“Oh dear,” he said, craning his neck over the mess on his desk to get a better look. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it in a minute.”

Judy shook her head. “It’s okay, Bill. I can pick everything up in a year or two.”

“I’ll give you this draft in half an hour, tops,” he said. “We’re kind of up against it, I’m afraid.”

“
We’re
up against it. That’s rich,” she snorted. “Anyway, you got a message over lunch from Tom, wishing you happy Father’s Day.”

“Father’s Day? That was—what?—ten days ago?”

“He’s been on trial.”

A sad look darkened Redpath’s face. “Story of our lives.”

Judy waved a message slip. “You also got a call from Gomez-Larsen, and it sounds like good news.”

“Oh God!” Redpath started to get up, then fell back, wincing. “God, that’s fantastic!” He grimaced and massaged his upper arm.

“Any place special you’d like me to stick it?” Judy gestured with the slip, then stopped and leaned forward. “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” Redpath said, standing up and plopping down again. “Could you bring it here? I’ll call her right now.” He pressed his hand over his stomach and groaned. “No more KFC for lunch.”

As Judy left the room, she looked over her shoulder. “Good luck finding your phone.”

66

B
edtime, and newly promoted Sergeant Alex Torricelli had hopes. He stood in the bathroom, looking into the mirror and trying to imagine what his wife could possibly see in his large, square, hairy body. His frame was decked out in a pair of fresh pajamas, green ones with white stripes. Before he met Janice, he’d been a T-shirt-and-boxers guy. The pajama outfit was still warm from the dryer and smelled of Tide. After a close exam, Alex decided he looked like a bulldozer with a tarp thrown over it.

It had been a long, long, really long, time. He watched his misshapen lips as he brushed his teeth, his mouth bulging and rotating as though it had laundry inside. Janice was the only girl who’d ever told him he was cute, and that only once. Maybe she’d changed her mind. The scarred right ear still gave him a loony kangaroo look. He wouldn’t blame her. Things happened; people changed.

He spat. The aroma of the aftershave he’d purchased at CVS was making his eyelashes tingle.
She’ll catch the smell and realize I’m fishing,
he thought anxiously. That would ruin everything.

The last time he’d done the deed had been months ago at the Motel 6 in Deerfield with Dina the Vagina, and the memory of this crime all but smothered any sense of possibility. If he was remembering that, she probably was, too. How long would it last? He splashed cold water on his face to dilute the Old Spice and toweled himself off, then tried to dab away the wet blotches on his pajama top. No matter how hard he tried, he always came out the same.

No gurgles from the baby drifted toward him as he made his way down the hall. The coast was clear.

Janice was in bed already, sitting with the daffodil-colored sheets pulled over her knees, reading one of her John Grishams in a pool of light from the nightstand. It was a relief that his wife’s mood seemed okay, meaning she wasn’t giving off that arctic wind he’d been turning blue in for so long. On the other hand, she didn’t have her pink chiffon nightie on, either. It was the regular cotton, with the kittens, the one they’d taken to the hospital when their daughter was born. As Alex hesitated by the bed, Janice patted his side encouragingly, but without looking up from the page. Her brown hair against the yellow pillowcase was more beautiful than anything Alex could remember.

He lowered himself carefully, as though Janice were asleep and he did not want to wake her, pulled up the covers, interlaced his fingers on his stomach, looked at the ceiling, and waited. There was a papery flap as a page turned. Under his hands, Alex felt the thump of his heart, not fast but hard. Janice breathed. Another page turned. The bed creaked as she leaned over and took a sip of water.

“I talked to Cindy today,” Janice said, distantly. She was still looking at the book. “She called after lunch.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Great. She’s enjoying having the house to herself.”

The mattress creaked again as Janice put her book on the nightstand and turned out the light. A series of bounces rocked Alex for a few seconds, while his wife pulled her pillow down and got settled. They lay in the darkness, not touching.

“Tone’s living at his office, sleeping on the couch.” Alex spoke to the ceiling.

“Serves him right.”

Janice shifted onto her right side, away from him, and one of her feet brushed his ankle. It was her old sleeping position. Maybe tomorrow, or next week. The touch of her foot was so thrilling it made Alex’s Adam’s apple swell. He had trouble speaking.

“Tony’s got medical problems,” he said, and cleared his throat.

“Does he now.”

A pause. A breeze of early summer swished and blew a puff of sweet-smelling air in through the window. A car crackled by on the street outside, fanning a fluffy gray light over the ceiling. Janice turned toward him. He felt her knee against his upper thigh and her voice close to his ear.

“What kind of problems?” She sounded concerned, or at least interested, despite herself.

“Don’t tell him I told you, but he’s … He’s got genital warts, I guess.”

“Oh, that’s perfect! More than one?” Janice was wriggling happily, and parts of her body were brushing against him. It was close to driving him nuts. Her movements released the scent of her hair; the aroma of her cotton nightgown was flooding up from the sheets and over his face. Outside, the breeze got stronger. It was time to take his chance, but he felt ill with dread that he would screw it up. He wasn’t smooth at jokes.

“I think so. I’m not sure.” Then he added, in as serious a voice as he could contrive, “But it’s bad, Jan. It’s real bad, I guess.”

Her movements stopped, and her body broke contact. Alex maintained the same position, face to the ceiling, hands on his stomach.

“How bad is it? Is it …” She hesitated. “You mean, they think it might be cancer or something?” Janice Torricelli was vengeful, but only up to a point.

“No, but it’s bad enough they may have to try and operate.”

“Well,” Janice said with a sigh, “that sure won’t be pleasant for him.”

“Yeah. But the real problem is, cause it’s gotten so bad, the doctors can’t tell anymore.”

“Can’t tell what?”

“Can’t tell which is the genital and which is the wart.”

A pause followed and, since it was very dark in the room, Alex was not sure how he’d made out. A gust of muffled laughter finally burst out from the other side of the bed, and out of nowhere he was being playfully thumped over the head and chest with a pillow. Janice’s body was partly on top of him and he felt her breasts against his ribs. Then, as he reached up to put his arms around her, he felt a sob shudder through her shoulders, and tears of jubilation springing into his eyes.

67

D
espite the hospital’s confounded plastic chairs, which always made his low back hurt, Skip Broadwater had come to enjoy his visits with Dave Norcross. The man was almost young enough to be his son, and the chief judge felt a certain pride as he witnessed, over the weeks, Norcross’s determination to recover, the return of his sense of humor, and, most of all, his disinclination to complain. One afternoon when he was dropping by, he brought a newspaper with him that included a profile of Mrs. Abercrombie and the details of her indictment. The article mentioned that a judge from Connecticut would be coming up to handle the case; all the Massachusetts federal judges had recused themselves.

“Do you think,” Norcross asked, “if she had been a better shot, the attorney general’s death committee would have approved a capital prosecution for her?”

“Oh, Dave, please!” Broadwater peered over his half glasses in mock astonishment. “How can you say such a thing? A nice old Caucasian lady like that?”

“I can see why she did it,” Norcross said. He squirmed uncomfortably. “But I sure wish she hadn’t.”

Broadwater shifted and crossed his legs. Given his colleague’s condition, he couldn’t bring himself to whine about the chair, so he directed his impatience at the legal system.