The Hanging Judge (46 page)

Some time later, he noticed that the angle of the light had shifted again. Feeling bolder, he decided to see if he could change position. An extremely cautious turn of his head—it seemed to take him fifteen minutes—brought two objects into view on an aluminum stand next to him.

The first was his Wife of Bath bobblehead, displayed in profile with her expression of manic indomitability. And, just beyond her, the solemn face of a second bobblehead gazed directly at him, a sad Quixote-like visage, with a long mustache and the visor of his battered helmet pushed up onto his forehead: Chaucer’s “verray, parfit gentil knyght.”

63

I
t was only the second time in his twenty-eight years on the bench that an emergency had required Skip Broadwater to take over another judge’s case. And it was the first time he’d done it on almost no sleep, with borrowed help. A deputy marshal picked up the chief judge and Judge Norcross’s two law clerks at the Boston federal courthouse at six thirty Monday morning. The face of the male clerk, Frank Baldwin, was swollen on one side, and he spoke through gritted teeth. The female clerk, sitting in front, twisted around to pass him a thick packet of paper, the penalty phase instructions.

“Are these in final?” Broadwater asked. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Eva Meyers. Yes, they’re ready.”

“Lord,” Broadwater said flipping the pages. “Did Dave proof them?”

“The judge read them over Friday after court and made a couple changes,” Frank said.

“We were coming in on Saturday to give them one last look,” Eva added, but her voice cracked, and she shifted around to face forward.

From his discussions with the marshals, Broadwater had some notion of what the two clerks had been through. Frank’s trip to the E.R. and their debriefing with the FBI ran late into Saturday; around midnight, one of the agents drove them to Boston to join the vigil at Massachusetts General. They spent what was left of that night sitting in the waiting room, hoping for news. Eva burst into tears when Broadwater told them Sunday morning that their judge was probably going to pull through, and Frank walked down the long hallway with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the ceiling and breathing hard. Sunday afternoon, Broadwater lent them an office in his chambers at the Boston courthouse to finish their review of the instructions and reassure themselves that everything was in good order. Whatever their legal ability, they were certainly hard workers.

“Where did you two sleep last night?” Broadwater asked.

“Found a couple sofas in the courthouse,” Frank said. The young man had an unattractive habit of sucking on the end of his mustache.

Eva took off her glasses and ground the heel of her hand into her eye. “He snores.”

Broadwater turned his attention to the intricately organized penalty-phase instructions.

“Whew! The words are swimming a bit,” he said after a few minutes. He looked out the window, blinking to clear his eyes. “Have any motions come in?”

“The government filed one to postpone the trial for twenty-four hours,” Frank said. “It hit the electronic docket at three o’clock this morning.”

“The reason?”

“Unforeseen developments.”

“I should say.”

Two hours later, Chief Judge Broadwater was climbing up onto Judge Norcross’s bench. Presiding in this ill-fitting courtroom was like wearing someone else’s overalls. The chair was too low—Dave was a good ten inches taller than he was—and the court officer was louder than he preferred. The jury box was on the right instead of the left, and the windows provided a view of trees, which he found distracting. Boston’s elegant courtrooms had no natural light.

The shooting of Judge Norcross had been front-page news in all the Sunday papers, so of course the courtroom was packed. The Latina woman representing the government was looking up at him with unusual expectancy. Defense counsel was bending sideways whispering to his client.

Broadwater pushed off into the current.

“As you know, Judge Norcross is in the hospital in Boston. He is out of danger, but in view of his temporary incapacity the Circuit Council has authorized me to take responsibility for the final stage of this trial. I see that the government has filed a motion, with no details, for a one-day continuance. What’s up?”

Broadwater checked his notes to remind himself of the names of the attorneys. Lydia Gomez-Larsen, the assistant U.S. attorney, exchanged glances with William Redpath, the defense attorney. They nodded to each other, and Redpath stood. The man was enormous, and his voice seemed to come up out of a subway tunnel.

“Your Honor, may I be heard first? The defense has a motion to present orally that might render the government’s motion to postpone moot.”

“I’ll hear you.”

Redpath moved to the podium, coughed into his hand, and looked up at Broadwater.

“I’m moving to vacate the two guilty verdicts and for a new trial.”

“Really! On what ground?”

Gomez-Larsen got up to join Redpath at the podium; the defense attorney shuffled his large frame to one side to make room for her. The unusual move puzzled Broadwater.

“Judge,” Gomez-Larsen said, “you should know that the government does not intend to object. It’s an agreed motion.”

The words prompted a dozen reporters to drop their heads simultaneously and begin scribbling in their notebooks. The non-journalists leaned toward one another and whispered.

“An agreed motion for a new trial?” Broadwater asked. “You can’t be serious. How long has this thing been going on for?”

Redpath and Gomez-Larsen looked at each other. The AUSA gave a half smile, and the defense attorney shook his head.

“It’s been going on forever,” he said.

As it turned out, the facts made Broadwater’s ruling easy. According to counsel, that morning the government had provided the defense with a lengthy revised FBI-302, a new statement from the government’s star witness, Ernesto “Pepe” Rivera. During an interview on Sunday, the boy had substantially recanted his earlier testimony implicating Hudson in the murders. His new version now identified the shooter on that October morning as Pepe’s uncle Carlos, the La Bandera warlord shot dead by a Holyoke police captain on Saturday. Preliminary tests confirmed that a Norinco SKS assault rifle found in Carlos’s possession was almost certainly the weapon that killed Delgado and O’Connor. A statement from Pepe’s mother, Maria Maldonado, also implicated Carlos.

“So,” Broadwater said, “you’re telling me you got the wrong guy?”

“No,” Gomez-Larsen said. “At least not yet. What we are saying is that, the way things stand, we agree that Mr. Hudson is entitled to a new trial.”

“Only on the RICO murder charges? Or on the drug charges, too?”

Redpath looked over at Gomez-Larsen, and she nodded.

“Your Honor,” Redpath said, “it’s our position that the acquittals on the drug charges mean that any retrial on them would violate the Constitution’s double-jeopardy clause.”

Gomez-Larsen frowned. “Counsel is correct, unfortunately. Retrial, if it occurs, will be on the murder charges only.”

“In light of what I’ve just heard,” Broadwater said, “the joint motion for new trial is allowed.”

Two reporters strode quickly out, bumping the door loudly.

“Judge,” Redpath said, “there is one other matter, and on this one the prosecution and I disagree. If I might be heard?”

“Yes?” Broadwater said, a little sharply. “What else is there?”

Redpath braced his arms on the podium and looked back at his client. “I’m moving for reconsideration of the pretrial order detaining Mr. Hudson. He’s been in custody now for more than nine months. With these new developments, there is no justification to detain him any further. The government can’t admit that they have the wrong guy yet, but I’m pretty sure they will, soon. I am requesting that you set conditions that will allow Mr. Hudson to return to his wife and daughter pending the government’s decision about a retrial.”

As defense counsel was making his pitch, Broadwater became aware of the intense focus of the eyes of a young African American woman in the front row. She was leaning forward slightly, as though she might stand up and take a leap over the bar. An older woman beside her took the young woman’s hand, and a well-dressed man on her other side touched her shoulder. The energy coming off the group was so intense, Broadwater could feel it pushing against his face like heat from a sun lamp.

He looked over at Gomez-Larsen. “Counsel?”

She stood and spoke stiffly, without inflection.

“Your Honor, after consultation with my superiors in Boston, I am obliged to note the government’s objection.”

She was obviously not one of the better assistant U.S. attorneys, Broadwater thought. She sounded so stilted. Why on earth did Hogan pick her for a trial of this importance?

“Okay,” he said, “the government objects. On what ground?”

“It is the position of the government …”

Broadwater could feel his displeasure deepening. The position was absurd, and Gomez-Larsen’s deadpan tone was irritating.

“… the position of the government, following consultation, that this is still a capital case. I am therefore obliged to note that the risk of flight remains too great to justify the defendant’s release on any conditions.”

“Seems to me based on what I’ve just heard that this has become a highly triable case from the defense viewpoint.” Broadwater nodded at the defendant. “Fellow would be out of his mind to head for the hills now.”

At this point, Gomez-Larsen’s dark eyes locked on Broadwater’s for the first time, and her intention became clear.

Oh,
Broadwater thought,
shame on me for misjudging her.
He could feel the woman receiving the connection. The two of them understood each other.

“Nevertheless, it remains the government’s position …” Gomez-Larsen continued mechanically.

“I see. I understand. Thank you, Counsel,” Broadwater broke in. He’d faced this situation before. The transcript would reflect that Gomez-Larsen had followed her boss Hogan’s orders, but her tone made sure he knew what she really thought. If he weren’t so exhausted, he would have grasped the situation more quickly.

It was time to unscrew the top of the jar, and let Moon Hudson out.

64

T
he creak of the screen door hung in the silence as Moon and Sandra stepped into their front room. Grace was still on her way from Rochester, being fetched by her uncle Lucas.

Sandra watched as Moon hesitated by the coat stand, his eyes passing over the furniture, the sagging gray sofa, the oval hook rug, the yellow curtains she’d washed and ironed yesterday. Shyly, she saw his glance fall on the foolish vase of purple tulips she’d placed in the middle of their scuffed coffee table that morning. Moon looked at her, closed his eyes, and shook his head. He had not spoken a word the whole way home. The fridge clicked and started to rattle. A car horn tooted, and at the end of their block some child called out, and another answered, laughing.

Suddenly, it all hit Sandra at once. They were, really and truly, back home together, at last. She reached out abruptly and clasped Moon’s face in her hands, then put her arms around his waist pulling him to her as hard as she could. She felt his arms encircling her, and a sob burst up through her throat.

“I thought you’d never hold me again,” she cried. “I thought I’d never feel this again.”

“It’s okay now, baby,” Moon said, speaking for the first time. “It’s okay.” He held her tighter.

“I thought you’d never hold me again,” she repeated. Her breath was coming hard, she was sobbing uncontrollably now, and her face was wet with tears. Once more, she said, “I thought you’d never hold me again.”

“It’s okay now,” Moon said. “I’m here now.”

He began kissing her, first on her forehead and cheeks, pausing to press her against him. Then he started kissing her on the mouth, first softly and then with increasing urgency. After a while, he tugged the back of her blouse out of her slacks and slipped his hands up inside, slowly over her shoulder blades. As Sandra touched Moon’s face again, she found she could not stop her fingers from trembling. He was unhooking her bra, sliding his hands over her breasts. Her shuddering stopped, and her breathing got steadier and deeper, but still the tears continued to stream down her cheeks.

“I thought I’d never feel this again,” she said, more quietly, tipping her head back to look into his eyes. “I thought my life was over.”

Joining hands, they moved to the bedroom. When Moon saw the corner of the dark brown bedspread and green sheet turned back invitingly, he looked at Sandra and raised his eyebrows. “No chocolate on the pillow?”

Sandra wiped her cheeks with both hands and sniffed. “I got your candy right here, babe,” she said a little hoarsely.

The mechanics of their lovemaking unfolded easily, as though they had never been away from each other. Sandra was soon lost in the fireworks. When they lay together afterward, though, she found herself a little worried about whether Moon’s passion might have had a deliberate quality. Was this something he thought he owed her? Something he needed to get out of the way? She clung to his back and breathed in the warm bread smell. It was still early. Whatever it was, they’d get past it.

As she let herself drift into a doze, she heard Moon say, “I didn’t kill Peach …”

“Course you didn’t, baby,” she murmured. “You couldn’t. You’re …”

“Wait up,” Moon interrupted. Though he spoke softly, something in his voice lifted Sandra into wakefulness. After a pause he said, in a dead tone, “Time I finally told you what kind of man you got yourself married to.”

He turned over and searched her face. After a long while, he rolled around onto his back, drawing her with him so that her head rested on his chest just below his chin. Moon’s strong, fluid motion thrilled Sandra, even in his ominous mood.

He spoke to the ceiling. “Like I said, I didn’t kill Peach. And I never did hurt that poor boy’s mother.”

“Course you …”

“Listen to me now. I have taken a life, though. Somebody I didn’t hardly know, back when I was on the street. You hear what I’m saying? What I did wasn’t any different from what Carlos did, except they never did catch me.
Shhh.
Listen now. The exact same thing, babe. That’s who I am, no different from Carlos. The jury got me right. That’s who you’ve gone and married.”