The Hanging Judge (28 page)

Gomez-Larsen now took three steps from her position in front of the jury over to the government’s table. She passed the assault rifle to Alex Torricelli, murmuring, “Thanks, Al.” Alex propped the weapon, which had a safety strip of thick orange plastic through the magazine and barrel, against the wooden partition behind him, following Lydia’s instructions to keep it in full view.

Gomez-Larsen retraced her steps to the jury box, put her hands behind her, and gazed down at the carpet, giving the jurors plenty of time to return their attention to her. Since she used no notes, her body seemed exposed and defenseless. Her posture told the jurors that here was a woman who neither could, nor would, engage in any sort of deception. After the pause, she lifted her face and continued, in a lowered tone.

“Good morning. As you heard earlier, my name is Lydia Gomez-Larsen, and it is my privilege and honor to represent the United States of America in the case against Clarence Hudson, also known as Moon Hudson. As His Honor told you, this is the government’s opportunity to present its opening, a summary of the evidence it will offer—evidence that will convince you beyond any reasonable doubt that the defendant, Clarence ‘Moon’ Hudson, committed the four crimes he is charged with: the two murders I described, plus possession with intent to distribute marijuana, and possession with intent to distribute cocaine.”

Gomez-Larsen proceeded to serve up the government’s evidence in simple, easily digestible slices. First, that past fall, Moon Hudson had been selling drugs up at the university. A student would testify to buying substantial quantities of marijuana and high-quality, so-called “fish-scale” cocaine from him. Second, the defendant was an associate of the street gang La Bandera. Two gang members, called Flags, would confirm this. They would also testify that Hudson got his retail supply from a drug wholesaler, Carlos Arcera, the La Bandera warlord. Third, around Columbus Day, Hudson and Arcera were both having problems.

Some jurors leaned forward; others sat with their heads cocked to one side, taking it all in. The judge jotted on his yellow pad. Redpath rocked back in his chair with his arms folded against his chest. Occasionally, he whispered something to Moon and shook his head.

To illustrate her third point, the AUSA stepped over to the table, picked up a stiff square of paper, and returned to the jury, holding the object behind her back. The jurors looked intrigued. “Arcera’s problem was that people were invading La Bandera turf in Holyoke, cutting into their drug business.” She held up an eight-by-ten photograph.

“One of Arcera’s competitors was this man, Edgar Delgado, a drug dealer like Clarence Hudson, who used the street name Peach. Hudson’s problem was that his business couldn’t keep up with demand. He needed more drugs, but he had no money to pay for them. By coincidence, Hudson also had a grudge against Delgado, who’d beat him up a few years back and put him in the hospital with, among other things, a deep gash in his forearm that left a scar.”

Gomez-Larsen paused for a moment here to check off one danger avoided. After a sharp argument, Norcross had allowed her to mention the fight between Hudson and Delgado, but barred her from revealing that it had occurred while the two were in jail. The ruling still rankled, but she had cleared this pothole with no forbidden hint to the jury.

She replaced Delgado’s photo on counsel table, picked up a second document, and resumed.

“Three witnesses, Jesús Santiago, Manuel Ortiz, and most importantly Ernesto ‘Pepe’ Rivera, Arcera’s nephew”—she displayed his photograph—“will testify to being present when Arcera made his agreement with Hudson: five thousand dollars up front, plus a half kilo of cocaine to take down Delgado. With this deal, Arcera would remove an obnoxious competitor. Hudson would have his revenge on an old enemy, and he would get the money and product he needed.”

In the minutes that followed, Gomez-Larsen detailed the dramatic eyewitness testimony Pepe would be offering about Moon’s ambush; in the corner of her eye, she saw the figure of the judge bent over his pad, jotting rapidly. Several jurors were glancing up at him, clearly noticing Norcross’s interest in this portion of the evidence, underlining its importance. Excellent!

When Gomez-Larsen had exhausted this topic and was ready to move on, she paused, cleared her throat, and stepped over to the government’s table to pour herself a cup of water. She could have filled a cup ahead of time and left it on the edge of the table, but the pouring gave her a longer break. She managed the operation coolly, drank the entire cup, and returned to her spot in front of the jury.

“I’ve been going on for some time. I only need a few more minutes to finish up, so I hope you’ll be patient with me just a little longer. What I’ve told you so far is a sad, sad comment on what one particularly vicious human being, Clarence Hudson, was capable of. But the evidence in this case will show heroism as well. Because almost as soon as those shots were fired, things began to fall apart for the two men in that Nissan Stanza: Pepe Rivera and Moon Hudson.

“Rivera will tell you he drove immediately after the shooting from Holyoke toward Springfield to ditch the car. He will tell you he was very, very frightened. Near the Elm Street projects, he dropped Hudson off. Hudson ran down an alley, holding the Norinco under his sweatshirt, up against his chest like this. We will present another witness to you, a tailor named Marco Deluviani, who had a shop adjoining the alley, and who saw that man, Clarence Hudson, running down that alley, holding an object, what we now know was the assault rifle, against his chest.

“Now, here is where the heroics start. After Hudson got out of the car, Rivera looked into his rearview mirror and who did he see? He saw that man.”

She pointed to Alex Torricelli and paused. As the two of them had practiced, Alex looked at the prosecutor and then slowly turned to face the jury. The effect was heightened, as Gomez-Larsen knew it would be, by Alex’s self-conscious half smile.

“Officer Torricelli noticed the Nissan and something didn’t seem right. The rear window was broken out, and the license plate was partially covered with mud. He will testify that he saw Hudson leave the Nissan at the Elm Street projects and trot down the alley carrying the assault rifle, right where Mr. Deluviani will say he saw him. Officer Torricelli began to follow the Nissan.

“Now you’ll get this story from two sides. Because when Rivera realized that Torricelli was following him, he panicked. That’s the only way to put it. You could say he lost it.”

Gomez-Larsen noted an amused nod from the foreperson. Good. He was enjoying the story. The other jurors stayed right with her, too, as she described the apprehension of Rivera and the wounds Alex received.

“Of course, as you now know, two blocks away from where Delgado lay dead in the street, Moon Hudson’s cold-blooded crime took on a new dimension.” She selected another photograph from counsel table. “This woman, Ginger Daley O’Connor—coming to work at the clinic she had helped to found, coming to give her services for free, and bending to pet a little puppy who happened to be tied to a parking meter—Ginger O’Connor, the mother of the three young boys you see with her in this picture, was struck in the neck by a bullet deliberately fired by this man, Clarence, aka Moon, Hudson. The wound ripped her throat open, ladies and gentlemen. Ripped her throat open.”

Gomez-Larsen stopped, allowing the jury to see that she was struggling to control her disgust. Her voice resumed after a few seconds in a more matter-of-fact tone.

“There’s another piece of the puzzle I want to mention before I sit down. Remember, the type of cocaine sold by Hudson up at the university, fish-scale cocaine? Agent Swann will tell you that this type of cocaine is rare and gets its name from its shiny, scaly appearance, like the scales of a fish. It is extremely high quality, often more than ninety percent pure, and a seller has to mix in something to dilute it before sale. When the officers arrested Moon Hudson at the apartment he was sharing with his girlfriend they found, in plain sight, a large quantity of inositol, a common cocaine dilutant.”

Gomez-Larsen took another drink of water and exhaled a long breath to steady herself. A pang of disappointment rippled through her as she thought of the powerful evidence Judge Norcross had suppressed: the bagged marijuana and the cash, found right in Hudson’s closet, and the fish-scale cocaine discovered in the basement—all unavailable to her now because of the defective warrant. But she forced the thought out of her mind and concluded softly.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, at the close of this case, I will have another chance to address you. I submit that, when that time comes, all the pieces of the puzzle will fit. At that time, you will have no reasonable doubt about Clarence Hudson’s responsibility for these terrible crimes. I will be asking you to return verdicts of guilty on all four charges: guilty of possession with intent to distribute marijuana, guilty of possession with intent to distribute cocaine—the drugs Bobby Thompson will tell us Moon Hudson sold him up at the university—and, much more importantly, guilty of murder in aid of racketeering in the killing of Edgar Delgado, and guilty of the same offense in the killing of Ginger Daley O’Connor. Thank you.”

37

“I
don’t know,” Tony Torricelli said, popping a French fry into his mouth, “sometimes I feel like there’s not one single thing in this lousy world that means diddly to me anymore.”

“Uh-huh,” Alex responded.

Tony’s my-life-as-tragedy horse manure was ancient and boring, but Alex was content to let the conversation drift down this familiar channel. In maybe fifteen minutes now, he’d be able to beg off and make a run for it. Lydia and Redpath had been at sidebar for so long after Lydia’s opening that Norcross had put Redpath’s opening over to the afternoon. Even Tony, who’d set up this fucking lunch, would realize his brother couldn’t be late getting back to court.

“There were so many things that I used to believe in, Allie, but they just don’t have the same buzz anymore.”

“Really?” Despite himself, Alex was curious. “What in the world did you ever believe in, Tone?”

At least the restaurant was nice—a popular Springfield institution called The Fort, two blocks from the courthouse. It featured excellent German food and an outstanding selection of international beer. Tony swallowed a forkful of Weiner schnitzel and sighed; his tongue wriggled out to swipe a dab of ketchup from the corner of his mouth.

“Well. Take big boobs, for example.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“No, it’s just an example.” Tony lifted his hands as though Alex were arresting him. “They’re like life. You start out, when you first get married, and everything’s bouncing around like pink grapefruit. Every day is Christmas, and every night you unbutton your presents and you get exactly what you asked Santa for. You know what I mean?”

“Sort of.”

“But then a few years go by, you have a couple of kids and, jeez, all of a sudden, they’re like … ” Tony dropped his voice. “They’re like empty water balloons. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, rummaging around in them trying to find her belly button.”

“Come on,” Alex broke in. “The years let some air out of all of us—even you.” He forced himself to look into his brother’s face. “She’s a nice, nice lady, Tone. And let’s face it, neither of us is winning any blue ribbons in the husband department. She’s a great mom, she’s …”

“Allie,” Tony interrupted, “I got to tell you something.” He set his elbows on the table, put his hands over his face, and sucked in air as though he was taking an ice pick in the gut. It took him three deep breaths before he dropped his arms on the tablecloth, revealing a face that was flushed and, worst of all, apparently on the verge of tears. If this was an act, he was doing a terrific job.

“Jesus, Tone, what’s wrong? Did Cindy find out about … anything?”

“No, no. It’s not that. I could handle that easy.”

“So what’s the problem this time? I mean, if I can help at all, you know I’ll …”

“You won’t help! That’s my problem.” Tony snorted. “The sewage is up to my chin, and the joke is you’re all I’ve got for a life preserver.” He sniffed up juicily, swallowed, and shook his head. “I’ve been sitting here for half an hour now, yakking away like a dickhead, trying to think of some way to bring this up, but there isn’t any easy way.”

“I’m not following you.”

“It’s your fucking trial.” Tony addressed his brother as though he were six years old. “Think hard now. Remember the trial, Allie? Well, Janice was right on the button, as usual. I’ve got my own reasons …”

Alex cut in. “Tony, we’re not talking about the trial, period. Especially not out in public like this.”

He glanced around. No one seemed to be within listening range, but he couldn’t be sure of the table directly behind him without turning around, and he didn’t want to make himself conspicuous. A paranoid thought flew through his mind that Tony might be wearing a wire. Backed into a corner, his brother was capable of anything.

“I’m sorry, Allie, but I don’t have any choice here,” Tony was saying. His voice was turning acid. “I have to talk about it, or …”

“Well, we’re not talking about it, and that’s it! We just got the damned thing started. Jesus Christ! Lydia finds out I’m talking, she’ll cut off my nuts with a rusty putty knife.” Tony opened his mouth to protest, but Alex leaned forward and banged his forefinger on the table. “I mean it. Don’t push me on this, Tone. I’ll get up and leave right now.” He tossed his napkin onto his plate.

This was exactly what Alex had been dreading about this lunch, but fortunately he was prepared. He just wasn’t going to talk about it, that’s all. Still, sticking to his guns wasn’t turning out to be as easy as it had been when he’d practiced the “rusty putty knife” routine on the way over. His heart was hopping around like a jackrabbit.

The two brothers stared at each other. Tony was clenching and unclenching his softball-size fists. He was capable, Alex knew, of reaching across the table and grabbing him by the shirt collar. The room was full of lawyers who regularly ate here, maybe even a judge or two. Not good.