Maximum Security (11 page)

“Nothing makes sense to me right now, Taylor, so tell me both.”

“Theoretically,” he says, “it’s possible that someone clobbered the guy on land, loaded him onto the boat, and then motored out to the Great South Channel to dump him.”

“Theoretically,” I repeat. “Why just theoretically?”

“Because to do that,” Taylor answers, “whoever it was would have to know boats. And he’d have to know a hell of a lot about these waters. Because he’d have to be able to negotiate the cut.”

The cut is a treacherous stretch off the coast of Chatham that keeps the Coast Guard’s helicopter rescue team busy year-round. It’s redefined every time a winter storm pummels the coastline; every time the beaches and sandbars get rearranged; every time a waterway opens up where none existed before.

“And anybody who knows how to negotiate the cut,” Taylor points at my pop-up again, “would know a TFR when he sees one. He’d sure as hell know better than to try to hide a body with it.”

“And the other possibility?” I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming.

“Simple,” he says. “The now-dead guy was alive and well when he left the dock. He motored out to the Great South Channel himself. And
then
he bought the farm. Whoever did him in was on board. Someone he knew.”

“And someone who
didn’t
know the nautical world,” I add. “Someone who didn’t know a damned thing about pop-ups.”

Taylor tilts his head to one side. “Looks that way to me,” he says. He stops pacing and eases back onto his bait bucket. “One thing we know for sure,” he adds. “The dead guy surfaced on schedule.”

Leon Long has been a Barnstable County Superior Court judge for two decades. Other judges of that tenure might claim to have seen it all. Not Leon. He’s fond of telling anyone who’ll listen that he hasn’t seen anything yet, that he’s just getting started. He says each day on the bench delivers spanking-new issues to tackle—both legal and moral.

And tackle them he does. A criminal defendant in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts couldn’t handpick a better judge than Leon Long. In his courtroom, the Commonwealth’s burden of proof is onerous, the presumption of innocence sacrosanct. He is one of a dwindling number of jurists who still believe the Bill of Rights exists for good reason. He has a myriad of fans in the county, many of them courthouse workers and members of the criminal defense bar. Harry and I are among them.

Geraldine Schilling isn’t. It’s not that Geraldine doesn’t like Judge Long. Deep down, she does. But she’d like him a hell of a lot better if he’d get out of her way, if he were as jaded—as uninterested—as most other judges. She’d like him even more if he’d retire.

She doesn’t seem to mind being in his courtroom today, though. She’s here with her newest sidekick, Clarence Wexler, a nervous young fellow who’s been out of law school all of five months. Clarence is busy sorting out documents, arranging them in neat piles on the table for Geraldine’s convenience. She ignores him, her nose buried in a police report.

The Kydd and I both used to work for Geraldine. We were ADAs back when she was the First Assistant. I prosecuted cases for more than a decade, until I resigned a little over a year ago. The Kydd worked for her for about eighteen months, until Harry and I stole him last December. Geraldine is still furious with both of us about that. Then again, Geraldine is usually annoyed with me over one thing or another. And she’s eternally mad at Harry.

When it comes to the Kydd, though, I can’t really blame her. Even now, when he’s on my to-strangle list, I have to admit he’s a hot commodity. He’s a quick study, a competent litigator, and a damned hard worker. Geraldine hasn’t had much luck with ADAs since we snagged him. I don’t see a boatload of promise in Clarence Wexler either.

Harry bursts through the double doors just as the bailiff tells us to rise. He hurries down the center aisle and drops his battered schoolbag on the last seat against the bar, two down from me, on the other side of the Kydd. He leans forward and winks, buttoning his suit jacket. “Showtime,” he stage-whispers.

Judge Long takes the bench and tells us to sit. There are only about a dozen people scattered around the room: the two prosecutors at their table, a half dozen defense lawyers in the chairs at the bar, a few curiosity seekers in the gallery, and Steven Collier, the money guy, in the front row. Louisa would have been allowed a single phone call when she got to lockup. Apparently she called her financial advisor. It occurs to me that the Kydd might not be the only sailor in this port.

Judge Long turns his radiant smile on each of us in turn, white teeth in dazzling contrast with his ebony skin. He reserves his final beam for Geraldine. She frowns at him.

Wanda Morgan is the courtroom clerk. She recites a docket number and then calls out
Commonwealth versus DeMateo
. One of the lawyers seated near us moves to the defense table and sets his briefcase on it. He’s Bert Saunders, an overweight, perpetually tired-looking man who’s been around the courthouse for as long as I can remember. “Saunders for the defense,” he announces as he takes his place in front of the bench. “Your Honor, we have a problem with this one.”

Judge Long chuckles and scans the paperwork the clerk has handed him. “I’m sure we do, Mr. Saunders. We have a problem with most of them, don’t we?”

Harry leans forward and whispers to the Kydd and me, “What are you two doing here?”

He hasn’t heard.

The Kydd looks at me and shakes his head. He’s not willing to be the messenger on this one.

I return Harry’s stare but say nothing. That’s all it takes.

“Uh-oh,” he says. He looks down at his shoes, then back up at me. “Uh-oh,” he repeats.

Sometimes Harry is downright eloquent. He stares at me for a moment and then raises one eyebrow. I know what he’s asking.

“First degree,” I whisper.

He winces.

Geraldine and Bert Saunders are arguing about marital privilege when the side door opens and two shackled arrestees—a man and a woman—shuffle into the courtroom. The DeMateos, I presume. They’re wearing street clothes, so they must have been picked up today. And they seem quite upset about it. They’re shouting at each other, apparently unaware that there’s a case in progress. Their case.

“I told you to shuddup,” the man yells over his shoulder at the woman.

“So what else is new?” she fires back. The missus seems to be missing a couple of teeth. Her esses aren’t quite right.

One of the court officers—visibly struggling to swallow his laughter—hurries to silence his charges. The DeMateos look surprised when he points to Judge Long. Their baffled expressions ask who the hell invited him to this meeting.

“See what I mean?” Bert Saunders says to the judge. “It can’t be done.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geraldine responds.

Geraldine doesn’t think much of Bert Saunders and she makes no effort to hide it. She turns away from him and speaks to the judge as if Bert isn’t in the room. “It’s a rolling domestic,” she says. “Nothing more complicated than that.”

A rolling domestic is a marital battle that happens to take place in a car—while it’s moving.

“Attorney Schilling,” Judge Long says, “it
is
more complicated than that. Far more complicated.”

Bert Saunders nods up at the judge, vindicated.

“An unlicensed handgun, six thousand dollars in cash, and two kilos of cocaine,” the judge continues. “I’d say this one is a little dicier than your average rolling domestic, Attorney Schilling.”

Sounds like the DeMateos operate a little mom-and-pop shop.

“I’m going to allow the motion to appoint separate counsel for the codefendant.”

Geraldine shakes her head at the judge, feigning resignation. Her argument was a loser from the beginning and she knows it. Defendants in joint possession of contraband—whether they’re married or not—are always entitled to separate counsel. Add the sticky wicket of marital privilege to the mix, and it’s a no-brainer. But Geraldine would argue against the existence of gravity if Bert Saunders were its proponent.

“Now let me see,” Judge Long says, looking over the flat rims of his half-glasses at the handful of us seated at the bar. His eyes settle on Harry, then move back to the paperwork on the bench. Harry doesn’t notice, though; he’s reading Rinky’s thick, tattered file. The Kydd elbows him.

It takes a second for Harry to digest what’s happening. “Oh no, Your Honor. Please. Don’t appoint me.”

Judge Long finishes writing, signs off with a flourish, and smiles at Harry. “I just did,” he says.

Harry’s on his feet. “But, Judge, I’m up to my eyeballs. I’m flat out.”

“That’s good,” Judge Long replies. “You know what they say about idle hands.”

Harry looks confused—as if maybe he doesn’t know what they say about idle hands—and Judge Long takes advantage of the momentary silence. “Mrs. DeMateo,” he says, “this is Mr. Madigan. He’s your new attorney.”

Mrs. DeMateo is wearing a crushed-velvet baby blue pantsuit with matching eye shadow. She takes a moment to look Harry up and down, then turns to the judge, shaking her head. “He ain’t too happy about it,” she complains.

The judge hands the file back to Wanda Morgan. “Not to worry,” he says. “Mr. Madigan will take good care of you.”

Mrs. DeMateo smacks her lips and stares up at Judge Long. She doesn’t buy it.

“Mr. Madigan,” the judge continues, checking his list, “you’re here on…”

“Snow,” Harry answers, looking like he can’t quite believe what just happened. “I’m here for Rinky.”

The judge smiles at the mention of Rinky’s name. “Call the Snow matter next,” he tells Wanda. She leaves her desk and consults with one of the court officers. He hurries through the side door, presumably to retrieve Rinky from the ranks of those waiting to face the music.

The guards herd the not-so-happy couple toward the side door. “Mrs. DeMateo,” Judge Long says as she passes, “Mr. Madigan has other business to attend to right now. He’ll come see you when he’s through, so the two of you can get acquainted.”

She pauses in the doorway, looks Harry up and down again, and then smirks at him. Her expression says she ain’t too happy about him either.

Rinky Snow stumbles into the courtroom as Mrs. DeMateo exits, the two of them eyeing each other warily. Rinky’s been here since Saturday night, so he’s wearing the standard prison-issue orange jumpsuit. He walks freely, no shackles on his ankles, but his wrists are cuffed behind his back. The guards know Rinky well. He wouldn’t run, but he’d haul off and deck one of them in a heartbeat.

They deliver Rinky to the defense table, where Harry is waiting. When Rinky sits, Harry rests a hand on his shoulder and whispers in his ear, both gestures no other mortal would get away with.

Geraldine jumps up like she’s been waiting all day for this one. And she has. At least since she and Harry had their little phone spat this morning.

“Your Honor,” she says, approaching the bench, “Mr. Snow is charged with assault with a dangerous weapon, to wit, a knife, to wit…”

Geraldine stands still and glares over her shoulder at Rinky, a practiced dramatic pause.

“…
this
knife.” She passes an evidence bag up to Judge Long.

Rinky is on his feet before Harry can stop him. “Hey,” Rinky shouts at the judge, “that’s mine.”

Everyone freezes. It’s unlikely that Harry was planning a mistaken identity defense, but if he was, he isn’t anymore.

“That’s mine,” Rinky shouts again, in case we didn’t hear him the first time.

Judge Long sets both the evidence bag and his glasses on the bench. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and massages the bridge of his nose. I know Judge Long; he’s battling an urge to laugh out loud. And he’s giving Harry a chance to tell his client to shut the hell up.

Rinky isn’t taking Harry’s advice at the moment, though. “Where’d you get that?” he demands of Geraldine.

She ignores him. “The defendant assaulted two women with that knife in Chatham on Saturday evening.”

Now Harry’s on his feet. “He didn’t
assault
anybody.”

Rinky’s still standing. “Where’d you get that?” he insists again. “I been looking for that!”

Geraldine continues as if Harry and Rinky don’t exist. “The women were on Main Street,” she says, “at about six-thirty. They’d just attended a wedding at St. Christopher’s Chapel. We have a dozen witnesses—other wedding guests—in addition to the two victims.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Harry says, “there weren’t any
victims
.”

“Where the hell did you get that?” Rinky’s shouting louder now and growing more agitated, banging his cuffed wrists together and rattling the chain between them.

Judge Long opens his eyes and pounds his gavel, just once. “I want quiet,” he whispers.

He gets it. Everyone in the room shuts up, even Rinky. His cuffs settle down too.

The judge spends a minute reading the police report, then he looks up at Rinky and points at Geraldine. “Mr. Snow,” he says, “do you know who this is?”

Rinky has faced Geraldine in this courtroom a hundred times before, but he gapes at her now without a flicker of recognition.

“This is Attorney Schilling,” Judge Long says. “Her first name is Geraldine. But do you know what we call her?”

Rinky’s eyes are glued to Geraldine. He shakes his head.

“We call her Geraldine the Guillotine.”

Geraldine groans. The Kydd stifles a guffaw. Harry doesn’t bother; he laughs out loud.

Rinky stares at Geraldine the Guillotine a moment longer, then looks back up at the judge and swallows.

“So I suggest, Mr. Snow, that you sit down now and remain quiet. Mr. Madigan is here to speak for you.”

Rinky checks in with Harry. Harry nods. Rinky sits.

“Now,” Judge Long says, looking first at Geraldine, then at Harry, “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do here.”

Harry leaves the defense table, walks up to the bench, and stands beside Geraldine. She steps away as if she’s certain he has leprosy.

“We’re going to continue this matter without a finding,” the judge says, “for six months.”

Harry nods in agreement.

Geraldine shakes her blond head, annoyed. “Did you
look
at that knife, Judge?”

“I most certainly did, Ms. Schilling. I also looked at the police report. There’s no suggestion here that Mr. Snow intended to harm anyone with that knife.”

She throws her hands in the air, the way a frustrated parent might when dealing with an impossible teenager.

“Mr. Snow,” the judge says.

Rinky stands again. “Do I get my knife back now?”

The Kydd tries to stifle another bout of laughter, but he’s only partially successful this time.

“No, you don’t, sir.” Judge Long leans forward on the bench, rests on his forearms. “You don’t get your knife back now and you don’t get your knife back later.”

Rinky looks perplexed.

“No knives, Mr. Snow. Mr. Madigan will explain what we’ve done here. But the bottom line is: no knives.”

What they’ve done here is humane. Rinky won’t do time on this charge—other than the two nights he’s already served—unless he gets in trouble again. And he will. When he does, he’ll be sentenced on whatever the new offense is as well as this one. But by then, just maybe, it will be winter. And though the Barnstable County House of Correction offers little in the way of creature comforts, it does have heat.