The Hanging Judge (24 page)

A chief judge’s authority was entirely persuasive, not mandatory. Broadwater lacked the power to order Norcross to do anything. Still, he was a valued colleague, a far more experienced judge, and someone whose administrative responsibilities gave him the ability to make Norcross’s life miserable if he wanted to. To Norcross’s relief, Broadwater veered off to the side, and onto another topic.

“And what’s this about your niece, Lindsay? Secretary Norcross’s daughter? Her views on capital punishment have filtered all the way to Washington. Barely fourteen, and they tell me the
Today Show
is after her.”

Norcross sighed. “It was a term paper she did for a class at Deerfield Academy. Her teacher leaked it to the Associated Press.”

“Called you a Nazi, Dave. That was a little harsh.”

“Me and some others. ‘Resurgence of Fascism in Twenty-First Century Jurisprudence,’ I think was her title. She’s a sweet kid, but she takes after her daddy and likes to sound off. Ray’s been out of the country pretty much nonstop, but I imagine he’ll feed that teacher to the crocodiles when he gets back.”

“Mmm, not a bad idea.” The conversation melted into an awkward silence while Norcross waited for Broadwater to resume. The poor guy was obviously hating having to make this call.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” Broadwater continued. His breezy tone changed, and his voice deepened. “I guess I just have one other piece of advice, or observation, if I can call it that. You’ve got a pistol of a trial. Keeping it under control will be like trying to cram a German shepherd into a cello case. You’ve only been on the bench, what, three years?”

“Little more than two.”

“I’d be very careful about the publicity, Dave. It will make everything ten times harder for you. I’ve seen it happen. If the papers smell blood? You might find yourself so far up the creek no one will hear your screams. Don’t forget O.J. If I can do anything at all …”

“I appreciate it, Skip. I think I’ve got things under control here.”

“Good, well …” Broadwater was turning distant. “I hope you didn’t mind my calling.” In the silence that followed, the chief judge was either trying to think of something to say, or deciding not to say something he was thinking—or possibly reading a phone message on his desk and getting distracted. “Good,” he said finally. “When do you start jury selection?”

“Should be done by next week. Openings the Monday after.”

“Wow! That soon? What?” The indistinct voice broke in again in the background. “Have to run. I’m late already. Call me if you need anything.”

As he hung up, Norcross could hear Broadwater saying something under his breath, but he could not tell if it was about him.

30

S
unday morning. David gradually became aware of the soft light, the touch of the sheets, and the ache in his left shoulder. He shifted off to Claire’s side, carrying his weight on his wrists and elbows.

It was heaven to lie with her like that, two pieces of a puzzle still snugly connected, both of them dozy and sated with pleasure. The dinner and movie Saturday night had been wonderful, and after a sound sleep their happy date had blossomed again, into a perfectly delicious Sunday morning. Now, for a few short minutes, the two of them were the sanest human beings in the universe, warm as mittens and smelling like Cupid’s boiler room.

“Grade A,” he heard Claire sigh as she rolled toward the cloudy window. David tucked up behind her, placed his hand on her silky stomach, and buried his nose in the tickling fragrance of her hair. His body relaxed into the warm blankets.

Yes,
David thought,
Grade A. Like the richest maple syrup.

Drowsiness settled over him.

With Claire settling into his life now, David could acknowledge some uncertainty about this area of his life over the years. Was he a good lover? The mechanics had always gone smoothly, and he had always had a fabulous time, but when he looked at himself in the mirror, he sometimes wondered what it was like for the women he’d been with. His long, loose-jointed body seemed ill suited to the gymnasium of love.

In the far-off days of his marriage, Faye had been very sweet about everything, of course. They had been shy early on. Then, when they were more comfortable with each other, they fell into, and stuck with, the two or three reliable formats they’d gotten the hang of. In his half dreamy state, with Claire’s sweet warmth beside him, he did not feel guilty exactly, but he wondered if Faye somehow knew what was happening now—this fresh and wonderfully satisfying part of his life. What would she think? Everything had been very nice during his marriage, everything that was supposed to happen happened, but he’d never received any gold stars. No “Grade A.”

Claire’s compliment stuck in his mind and touched him profoundly. In the shower later that morning, he looked down at himself happily while he rinsed off.

“You are one lucky boy!” he whispered, smiling and nodding down at himself.

In the strain of jury selection, the echo of Claire’s remark remained for him a cherished comfort. From time to time, he would murmur to her as they kissed and he headed once more to court: “Grade A!” He barely resisted the temptation to wink.

Claire’s face in response to David’s comment was always a little bemused. It seemed right to encourage her new boyfriend, but his meaning was elusive to her. The fact was, that particular morning as they lay entwined, she hadn’t said “Grade A” at all. When she had turned onto her side toward the milky window, she had noticed the cloud-covered skies behind the trees.

“Gray day,” she had murmured, to herself and to him, as she dropped off.

As for the sex, it was lovely. She had no complaints at all.

31

A
fter five weeks, the pool of fifty-six eligible jurors was selected. The attorneys then exercised their forty peremptory challenges, and the twelve men and women who would decide
United States v. Hudson,
along with the four alternates, took their final places in the jury box.

To Bill Redpath, the panel was a defense lawyer’s dream. The chosen sixteen included not one, but two Smith College faculty, the administrator of a children’s museum, an organic farmer, a sculptor, and a nurse who worked on an AIDS unit. As he waited at counsel table for Judge Norcross to enter, Redpath measured his breathing, slowly in and slowly out, preserving his expression of wary indifference. But he hardly dared to look over at the jury box for fear he might laugh out loud with joy and spook the flock of angels perched inside. Never before in his career, certainly never in any of his capital cases, had fate blessed him so lavishly.

He did not, of course, comment on this incredible luck to Moon or Sandra—optimistic remarks of any sort would be unthinkable—but he knew the defendant’s street smarts were picking up the change in the courtroom’s atmosphere. The jurors chosen in the final round had dropped into place like the tumblers of a combination lock that might, when the last one clicked, open and set Moon Hudson free. The courtroom’s fresher environment was finally permitting Moon enough oxygen to breathe a little, providing a view of the defendant as an ordinary human being. This was very good.

The jury could not be allowed to overlook this nuance, and Redpath put his hand on Moon’s shoulder reassuringly. His client, he knew, would be hating this and working hard not to pull away, but Redpath kept his large paw up there anyway, appearing to console his vulnerable-looking client, until he was sure most of the jurors had time to take this tender moment in.

Redpath spoke in a low whisper, pretending to scratch his nose with his free hand, screening his mouth, “During her opening, Gomez-Larsen will probably point at you. When she does, don’t look down, don’t look at your hands. That’s what she wants you to do. It’ll make you look guilty. Look sad but don’t look down. Just nod your head slowly if you understand me. Please don’t say anything.” He didn’t want to take the chance that Moon’s deep, virile voice might carry and put someone off.

Moon nodded, and Redpath patted him twice on the shoulder before turning back to his notes. Where the hell was Norcross? The courtroom was packed and getting warm. Redpath could not help noticing one spectator in particular, a young woman, college-aged, with platinum hair and a pretty, pissed-off face. Arriving early, he had seen her with two friends bickering as they settled into spots in the gallery’s front row.

The girl had a lisp and was berating a boy with sideburns. “Gerry told us to thit in the front row!” The group’s early arrival had managed to displace the two knuckle-draggers who always sat there; now, with sour looks, they were relocated two rows back. Redpath had wondered more than once what this ugly duo might be up to.

But now, who cared? Never before in a capital case had Redpath felt so freed to concentrate on the question of whether his client actually committed the goddam crime. Always in the past, he had been distracted by the possible trial to come, the brutal second phase where, if the jury did find his client guilty, the prosecution moved in for the kill.

This time around, he was virtually certain that, even if they convicted Moon, this group would never produce a unanimous vote for the death penalty. This time, at least, he would not end up with blood on his hands. Juror Number One, the likely foreperson, was a lifelong Unitarian—a
Unitarian
for heaven’s sake!—who’d miraculously slipped onto the jury, promising she really, truly, could vote to impose the death penalty if she felt it was warranted. Gomez-Larsen, having burned all twenty of her peremptory challenges, had fought like a banshee to get Norcross to strike this radiantly liberal bird-watcher for cause, but the judge, God bless him, had kept her on.

Breathe in. Breathe out. He’d just had a record-breaking run of luck, that’s all, like a man at a roulette wheel betting on red or black and, with each spin of the wheel, blessed by Fortune. Perhaps, this time, he could bring one of those Chinese boys he’d machine-gunned back to life. Maybe this spring, when the trial was over, he’d take a trip to California and visit his son, Tom. Maybe catch a ball game.

“All rise!”

Judge Norcross strode onto the bench, bobbing his head and fiddling with the top of his robe, looking as usual like the Tin Man with half his bolts loose. Redpath and Moon rose respectfully, putting their hands behind their backs, keeping their faces neutral but softened and respectful. Gomez-Larsen had a pad in her right hand and was tapping lightly on the table with her pointer finger. She appeared to be in a foul mood. Wonderful!

“Please be seated,” Norcross said. After the usual rumbling shuffle, the judge leaned forward and began.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in a moment I am going to direct the clerk to administer the oath to you, and then I will be selecting the foreperson. After that, we will proceed with the first formal step in the actual trial, the openings—first on behalf of the government and then on behalf of Mr. Hudson, the defendant.”

Gomez-Larsen was on her feet. She wanted one more toss of the dice, apparently, but what about?

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” she said. “May I be heard at sidebar?”

“Now?” Norcross asked sharply. “What for?”

The prosecutor glanced over at the jury, smiled as winningly as she could, and said, “Well, that’s what I need to tell you. At sidebar, Your Honor.” She paused. “It’s important, of course, or I wouldn’t interrupt.”

Moon looked at his lawyer. Redpath shrugged and raised his hands palms-up in an exaggerated fashion, letting the jury see that he, at least, had nothing to hide.

When both attorneys had gathered at the far end of the bench, Gomez-Larsen began quickly, in a low voice.

“I know Your Honor’s usual custom …”

“Wait a minute,” Norcross said. “Wait for the stenographer, please. Let’s be sure we’ve got this on the record.”

The court reporter, normally positioned in front of the bench, elbowed her way in among the attorneys and planted her machine, then looked up and nodded at the judge.

“Okay. Make it quick,” Norcross said.

“I know it’s Your Honor’s usual custom to select as the foreperson of the jury the person who ends up in Seat Number One.” Gomez-Larsen was being especially careful to keep her voice down.

“Right,” Norcross said. “I always do that, criminal or civil. That way I’m sure my own biases don’t taint the process. It’s pure chance.”

“Well in this case, Judge, because it’s so important, we’d ask that the foreperson be drawn by lot, or that the jurors be allowed to elect their own, as many other judges do.”

“Nope,” Norcross said.

“I’d object to that,” Redpath said, knowing instantly what Gomez-Larsen was up to. God save the Unitarian.

“But in this case, Your Honor …” Gomez-Larsen whispered.

“I’d object strongly,” Redpath said, slightly louder, not minding if the jury happened to hear.

“Nope, nope, nope,” Norcross said. “It’s the way I always do it. It’s within my discretion. I’m not changing.” They were leaning so close, Redpath could smell the Listerine on the judge’s breath, catch the scent of the prosecutor’s lilac shampoo.

“Very good, Your Honor.” Gomez-Larsen had drained any trace of resentment from her voice. Right, Redpath thought. This was no time to piss off Norcross.

“And I very much hope we’re not going to be having endless sidebars during this trial. Let’s keep things moving. Life is short.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Absolutely,” Redpath said, another notch louder, making sure his voice carried. This was an easy victory, but the jurors might as well know he’d won even if they had no idea what the contest was about.

The attorneys resumed their seats. Gomez-Larsen whispered something to Alex Torricelli, nodded in a pleased way, and folded her hands in front of her. She looked not at all bothered, just the way Redpath would look if he were in her position.

“I was just saying,” Norcross continued, turning to the jurors, “that we will be leading off with the openings from each side. Before we do that, however, I am going to have the clerk place you under oath. Please stand and raise your right hand. If you are willing to undertake the oath, please say ‘I do.’ ”