Temporary Sanity (7 page)

A matron removes Sonia’s solitary cuff but leaves the shackles in place. Sonia drops into the seat next to mine. It’s obvious she hasn’t slept much, if at all. Her open eye is bloodshot. Except for the bruises, her face is a ghastly white. She doesn’t look at me.

The bailiff shouts “Court!” and we all rise. Judge Richard Gould emerges from chambers and strides to the bench, ignoring the bright lights and flashbulbs trained on him. When the judge sits, the rest of us do too, all but Dottie Bearse, District Court’s veteran clerk.

Dottie stays on her feet, holding a copy of the criminal complaint, and waits for quiet like a patient grandmother. Only when the room falls silent does she recite the docket number and announce:
“The Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Sonia Louise Baker.”
Geraldine is on.

“Your Honor, the defendant is charged with the first-degree murder of one Howard Andrew Davis.”

Geraldine hands me a thick document with multiple tabbed attachments-the medical examiner’s preliminary report, no doubt-before delivering the identical package to Judge Gould. She remains close to the bench, facing the judge.

“The deceased was found yesterday on his living-room couch, Your Honor…”

Geraldine pauses and turns a cold stare on Sonia.

“…in what can only be described as a bloodbath.”

I’m on my feet. This is arraignment, for God’s sake. Geraldine is acting as if we’re in trial. She’s performing for the press, of course. The next election is just four years away. Never too early to kick off the campaign.

Judge Gould is way ahead of me. He bangs his gavel just once, hard. “Attorney Schilling, please. No need for drama. Stick to the facts.”

I sink back to my chair.

Geraldine gives me the slightest of smiles before facing the judge again. “Of course, Your Honor. I’ll be happy to.”

The packed courtroom grows still and silent. The facts are what everyone came to hear, after all. The gory details of Howard Davis’s death are what drew this crowd to the courthouse. And I don’t need the medical examiner’s report to tell me they aren’t pretty.

“Howard Andrew Davis was stabbed eleven times.”

Sonia’s gasp is the only sound in the room. She raises her head for the first time today and gapes at Geraldine, horrified. The photographers are busy behind us; they can’t see her expression. But I can.

I don’t know much about criminal defense work. But I’ve met more than a few criminal defendants over the years. I’ve seen more than a few emotions-real and contrived-displayed on their faces. And I know one thing for sure at this moment. Sonia Baker didn’t kill Howard Davis.

“Five of the lacerations were to major organs, Your Honor,” Geraldine continues, “not to mention a fatal puncture wound that reached the aorta.”

She crosses the room to our table. “There’s no question there was a physical altercation between the deceased and the defendant, Your Honor.”

Geraldine gestures toward Sonia as if she’s Exhibit A. “Howard Davis lost the fight.”

Once again I get to my feet, but I hold my tongue. Judge Gould isn’t looking at Geraldine. He’s not looking at me, either. He’s reading the medical examiner’s report, his expression troubled.

The room grows quiet once more, the only sounds Sonia Baker’s small sobs, until the judge looks up. “I remember Mr. Davis, Ms. Schilling. He was an unusually large man.” Judge Gould removes his glasses and taps them on the medical examiner’s report. “Six feet four; two hundred sixty pounds.” The judge looks over at Sonia and shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem physically possible.”

I sink to my chair again. Never argue with opposing counsel if the judge will do it for you: one of the earliest lessons I learned from Geraldine Schilling.

Geraldine nods at Judge Gould, apparently having expected his reaction. “Your Honor, if you’ll turn to page four of the report, you’ll see that the victim’s blood alcohol content at the time of death was point three-three. The medical examiner tells us this level indicates he’d had twelve to fourteen drinks during the four hours immediately prior to his demise.”

Geraldine pauses to stare at Sonia again. “He would have been just about comatose when he was stabbed, Your Honor.”

Judge Gould’s gaze falls on me while he absorbs this information in silence. “Attorney Nickerson,” he says at last, “how does your client plead?”

I’m up again. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

I hand my written request first to Geraldine, then to the judge. Neither one of them is surprised. “The defense moves for a psychiatric workup pursuant to Massachusetts General Laws chapter 123, section 15(a).”

Judge Gould puts his glasses back on and peers first at my motion, then at me, through thick lenses. “Battered woman’s syndrome,” he says.

I head back to the defense table and stand next to Sonia. She’s quiet now, her head bowed, both eyes closed. “No doubt about it,” I tell him. “There’s no doubt in my mind that Sonia Baker meets all the requirements.”

Sonia doesn’t look up when I rest one hand on her shoulder.

“And we reserve the right to raise that defense if necessary. But there’s also no doubt in my mind that she’s innocent. Sonia Baker didn’t kill Howard Davis.”

Geraldine swivels her chair around and looks at me as if I just announced that the earth is flat after all. The judge stares at me too, but says nothing. There are defense attorneys who routinely proclaim their clients’ innocence, whether they believe it or not. Geraldine looks as if she thinks I might have joined their ranks. Judge Gould’s expression suggests he’s wondering too.

The judge turns his attention back to Geraldine. “Any objection from the Commonwealth?”

An objection from the Commonwealth at this point would be futile. Geraldine knows that. She raises her hands in the air as if she couldn’t care less. “None.”

“All right, then.” Judge Gould reads from my written motion as he rules. “The defendant’s request for a court-appointed expert under General Laws chapter 123, section 15(a) is granted. The defendant, Sonia Louise Baker, will be examined by a mental health professional-at the expense of the Commonwealth-to determine whether or not she suffers from battered woman’s syndrome. If she does, the expert should discern whether she is capable of assisting her attorney with her defense, and whether she has a rational and factual understanding of the proceedings against her.”

The judge looks out at the crowded gallery and flashbulbs begin popping again. “We’re adjourned until the assessment is complete.”

He escapes from the bench as the bailiff instructs us to rise. By the time we get to our feet, Judge Richard Gould has already disappeared into chambers.

The matrons appear at Sonia’s side in a flash.

“Give us a minute,” I tell them.

They do, reluctantly. One looks at her watch as if she plans to time us.

“I don’t want that battered woman thing,” Sonia says, looking at me for the first time today.

“I know you don’t.”

“Howard’s dead. Now you want me to trash him?”

“No, Sonia. It’s not about that.”

She stares at me, daring me to tell her what it is about.

“Look, we don’t need to decide anything right now. But we had to keep our options open. I’ll arrange to see you at the end of the day. We can talk then.”

The matrons hover.

“Try to get some sleep between now and then.”

Sonia gets to her feet and faces me, surrendering her wrist to the metal cuff attached to a matron. “Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

“For telling the judge I didn’t do it.”

I nod.

“I know you probably don’t believe me, but I didn’t.”

Sonia turns away, crosses the room, and disappears with the matrons through the side door.

I’ll tell her tonight, I guess. She should know. For whatever small comfort it might bring, Sonia Baker should know that I believe her.

The District Courtroom is empty when I leave, the nine-o’clock cast of characters not in place yet, still milling around in the lobby. I see through the courthouse doors that the snow is already falling steadily. I pull my hood up and head out into the frigid morning, steeling myself for the day ahead. In ten minutes, jury selection for
Commonwealth versus Hammond
will begin in Superior Court, Judge Leon Long presiding.

The Barnstable County Complex looks almost festive in its new white blanket, an appearance that belies the grim business conducted here. Small, heavy flakes drift down as I cross the parking lot. It occurs to me, as I reach the back door of the Superior Courthouse, that my new career is off to a rather humble beginning. I have two clients, and neither one is much interested in being defended.

Judge Leon Long is the only black judge ever to sit in Barnstable County. He has been on the Superior Court bench for more than eighteen years. A liberal Democrat who began his legal training during the turbulent sixties, Judge Long is the favorite draw among criminal defense lawyers. He is immensely popular with the courthouse staff and the bane of Geraldine Schilling’s existence.

I met Judge Long more than a decade ago, on Christmas Eve of my first year as an assistant district attorney. I handled only the small matters that year. Geraldine tried the serious cases, as she had for eight years before I was hired. Because of that arrangement, I knew all of the magistrates and judges in the District Court but almost no one from the Superior Court bench.

That Christmas Eve, though, the magistrate assigned to hear traffic offenses in District Court was down with the flu, and Judge Leon Long from Superior Court volunteered to fill in. Insisted on it, the bailiff reported. A civil trial in progress before Judge Long had settled on the courthouse steps that morning, the judge explained, freeing him to step in for his ailing colleague.

It was odd, I thought, for a Superior Court judge to seize the reins so eagerly in traffic court, especially on a Thursday morning, the slot set aside in Barnstable County for contested parking tickets. Every Thursday morning, the county’s aggrieved citizens packed into District Court to argue about how far their cars were, or were not, from the hydrant or the neighbor’s driveway. Not exactly the stuff that great judicial opinions are made of.

There he was, though, a portly man of average height who somehow filled the entire courtroom the moment he walked through the door. He wore his robe, but he didn’t take the bench. Instead, Judge Leon Long strode the length of the cavernous room, took my hands in his as if we were old friends, and flashed a dazzling smile. “Judge Leon Long,” he said. “Leon when it’s just us.”

Leon’s smile disappeared before I could answer. His eyes moved to the courtroom’s side door, and I turned to follow his gaze. There she was, glaring at the judge, just three feet away. Geraldine.

“Sit down, Martha,” she said.

I did, thinking that an odd situation had just taken a turn toward the bizarre. A Superior Court judge appeared more than eager to review parking tickets. And the First Assistant District Attorney, buried up to her eyeballs in violent crime, apparently intended to prosecute traffic infractions instead. I half expected F. Lee Bailey to show up at the defense table.

Judge Long retrieved his radiant smile for Geraldine. “Attorney Schilling,” he said, beaming at her. “Always a pleasure.”

In her spiked heels, Geraldine was almost as tall as the judge. She planted herself squarely in front of him, crossed her arms over her tailored jacket, and cocked her blond head to one side. “Go ahead,” she said to Judge Leon Long, “get it over with.”

The judge turned to the crowded gallery, his arms in the air like a televangelist addressing the living-room masses. “Brothers and sisters,” he bellowed, “how many of you are…”

I swear I thought he was going to say “without sin.”

“…here because you have been accused of a parking violation?”

I felt sorry for him then. I thought he didn’t realize they were all accused of parking violations.

They raised their hands. Every person in the jam-packed room put a hand in the air, but not one of them made a sound. Their eyes were glued to the judge.

“Brothers and sisters,” Judge Leon Long repeated, his bellow louder now, his drawl thicker, “I can’t hear you. Tell me. I want to know. How many of you stand accused of parking your automobile where it did not belong?”

“I am.” “Me.” “Me, too,” came from the gallery, the voices hesitant and low.

“And brothers and sisters,” Judge Long boomed, “how many of you stand wrongly accused? How many of you know in the depths of your soul that you had the right to park your automobile exactly where you did?”

Geraldine glowered at him as the answers began.

“I’m wrongly accused,” ventured one brave soul. “I am, too,” said another. “Me, too.” “Nothing wrong with where I parked.”

They all started talking at the judge then, a chorus of voices growing to a full crescendo in about ten seconds.

“Just as I thought,” the judge announced, his booming Baptist minister’s baritone silencing the room once more. “We are here today, brothers and sisters, to right the wrong that has been done to each and every one of you.”

At this point I thought I had seen it all. But I was wrong. Judge Leon Long turned his back to the crowd and, for the first time, ascended to the bench. He took a small figure from the pocket of his robe and wound the key in its back, set it on the edge of the raised judge’s bench, released his grip on it, and music began. Judge Long stepped back to enjoy the show, his smile enormous.

Santa Claus. An instrumental version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” lilted through the courtroom as the small mechanical Santa Claus marched the length of the judge’s bench, turned around, and marched back.

The judge’s arms were in the air again, this time brandishing a blank parking ticket. “Brothers and sisters,” he implored, “dispose of these false allegations.”