Maximum Security (14 page)

The judge’s words are the sanest ones I’ve heard so far today. For a split second, I breathe a little easier. But Geraldine laughs again, a real one this time, and I brace. Real laughter from Geraldine rarely means anything good.

“No,” she says to him, standing still now. “I don’t.”

The judge stares up at her, still cradling his chin, and I stare at him. We’re both silent.

“I think she had help,” Geraldine adds.

Judge Long studies his hands while we both absorb this information, then he sighs and looks up at Geraldine again. “And your theory is?”

Geraldine walks over and half sits on the edge of his desk, arms folded across her dark gray suit jacket, the pointed toe of one high heel pressing into the plush carpeting. “That the accused incapacitated her husband—and frankly, I don’t give a damn whether she meant to or not—and then panicked,” she tells the judge. “Decided she had to finish the job and get rid of him. Realized she couldn’t do that without help. And then got some.”

She shifts a little and turns her attention to me. “Beyond that,” she says, “I don’t have a theory. Unless the winsome widow decides to give me one.”

I return her gaze, but not her smile. “And why would she decide to do that?”

Geraldine stands again, turns her back to the judge, and takes a few small steps toward my chair. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe because I’d ask nicely. I’d even say pretty please.”

She pauses, apparently expecting a reaction to her stab at humor. I don’t give her one.

“Or maybe because she knows the cause of death was drowning, not head trauma.”

Now I see where she’s going with this. One look at Judge Long tells me he does too.

“Or maybe because as things stand at the moment,” Geraldine continues, “your Mrs. Rawlings is looking at life. Her only transportation out of Framingham is a pine box.”

MCI Framingham takes maximum security to a new high—or a new low, if you happen to live there. It’s the Commonwealth’s warehouse for the worst of its female violent offenders. Faced with a choice between Framingham and a pine box, Louisa Rawlings might just opt for the latter. She might climb in and close the lid herself.

“What are you offering?” I ask.

Geraldine smiles the way she does when she knows I’m sweating. “Not a damned thing,” she says. “At least not at the moment.” She moves back to her perch on the corner of the judge’s desk and crosses her legs. “Find out if your client is interested,” she adds. “And then we’ll talk.”

I hold one hand up to Geraldine, then rest my forehead in it, looking down at my lap. I need a few seconds to think. Something is wrong with this discussion. Technically, it doesn’t work. And Geraldine Schilling is nothing if not technically accurate. She never proffers a deal that isn’t. Never.

Louisa Rawlings can’t finger a third party, even if she’s willing, without damning herself in the process. To provide specifics—and Geraldine won’t barter with any defendant for generalities—Louisa will have to admit enough to cement her own conviction as well. As an accessory, at best. More likely as a co-conspirator.

Geraldine is still smiling at me when I look up from my lap. She knows what I’m thinking, but she sure as hell isn’t going to say it for me. “She’ll need immunity,” I tell her.

She nods, her eyes asking what in God’s name took me so long. “Qualified,” she says.

No surprise there. Qualified immunity is the best any prosecutor would offer under these circumstances, even one less rabid than Geraldine. Absolute immunity is almost unheard of. And at the moment, Louisa is lucky to be offered anything. She’s not exactly sitting in the catbird seat.

“She pleads to aggravated assault with intent regardless,” Geraldine adds. “And she does time, Martha, real time. But if she fingers the muscle in the operation, we can probably get her out before she needs a nursing home.”

Judge Long clears his throat. He’s got a packed courtroom waiting, he’s reminding us. There are other cases on his list.

“Give us until noon,” I urge him again.

He looks at his watch. “Eleven-thirty. And it might turn out to be the old hurry-up-and-wait routine. I’ve got a full docket this morning. But we’re going to get this thing on track—one way or the other—before we break for lunch.”

With that, Judge Long buzzes Wanda and tells her to send in the court reporter. Seconds later, Old String Tie joins us, a stenographer whose moniker stems from his self-imposed work uniform. He’s labored here, in the Superior Courthouse, for about a century. I’ve never seen him crack a smile.

String Tie perches on the end of an empty chair and purses his lips at the armrests. He’s annoyed. Court reporters sit on stools; chairs with armrests inhibit their elbows. Nonetheless, he sets up his narrow machine between his scrawny legs without complaint. He looks up at the judge, waiting.

Judge Long reads the docket number and case name from the paperwork on his desk, then dictates a short memo reflecting his decision to recess for the morning. The delay is necessary, he opines, so defense counsel can consult with her client regarding newly disclosed evidence. String Tie dutifully taps it all into his machine, then looks up at the judge again, fingers poised to continue. “That’s it,” Judge Long tells him. “That’s all for now.”

String Tie nods, packs up as silently and efficiently as he set up, and then leaves us without a word.

I stand to leave too.

“Attorney Nickerson,” the judge says, and I turn back to face him. He looks up at Geraldine, who’s still perched on the edge of his desk. She’s looking at me, smug.

Judge Long turns his attention back to me and lays a hand on the pile of documents in front of him. “Officially we’ve adjourned so you and your client can discuss the newest lab report.”

I nod.

“And you should do that,” he continues. “But, like it or not, I’m going to offer a word of advice here.”

A word of advice from Leon Long is fine with me. He’s probably the most fair-minded human being I know. And what’s the worst that could happen? Geraldine might think he’s in her camp, might think she has a leg up on us? I muster a small smile to encourage him to continue.

Once again, he glances at Geraldine and then back at me. “Regarding the Commonwealth’s proposal,” he says, “be sure to discuss that, too. Explain it to your client. Tell her to think about it. Tell her to think long and hard.”

The Kydd and Louisa were leaning forward over the defense table when I emerged from chambers, their heads bent low, almost touching. They were engrossed in discussion, oblivious to the chaos in the room behind them. I realized as I approached the table, though, that they were actually immersed in a monologue. The Kydd was doing all the talking, Louisa not uttering a word. She sat stone-still at first. But when I got closer, she began shaking her ponytailed head, over and over.

She looked up at me when I joined them, dark brown eyes brimming, and the unbridled alarm on her face told me two things at once. The Kydd had already explained the significance of Herb’s blood in the Queen’s Spa. And Louisa had no idea how it could’ve gotten there. That was more than two hours ago. She still doesn’t.

We’re in lockup, in a windowless space the county passes off as a meeting room. It’s about the size of a broom closet and it reeks of disinfectant. Louisa sits upright, posture perfect, at a small stainless steel table, the kind you might find laden with detergent in an industrial laundry. The Kydd slouches in his chair across from her. I’m between them, facing a cracked concrete wall painted government-issue green, and I’m just about talked out.

Louisa’s mantra has been constant since we got here. She couldn’t cut a deal with Geraldine even if she wanted to. And, for the record, she does not. She can’t finger a muscleman because she doesn’t know such a person. She had nothing to do with the attack on Herb. And she knows of no one who would want him dead.

It’s ten past eleven; our time is evaporating. I want to review the evidence with Louisa once more, and I’ll have to do it quickly. Every once in a while it’s possible to look back on a case and see the precise juncture in the road where it took an irreversible turn toward disaster. I’m afraid we’re at that intersection now. I’m afraid Louisa will look back in a year’s time and wish she’d cooperated with the Commonwealth, wish she’d ransomed her golden years. I’m afraid I’ll look back too, and wonder why I wasn’t able to convince her.

My old wooden chair creaks and the sound seems exaggerated in the stillness of the compact room. I press my hands into the armrests and stretch, ready to delve into my “save your own skin if you can” speech again, but Louisa beats me to the punch. She stands and paces the short distance to the far wall, staring at the concrete floor. “I have a question,” she says, not looking at us. “And I want an honest answer.”

Fair enough. We’re all entitled to that much. “Ask it,” I tell her.

She’s quiet a moment, takes a deep breath, and then looks up. “Do you two believe me?” She looks first at the Kydd, and then at me, as if there were someone else in the room who might field her query.

When I first moved to the defense bar, I was surprised by the number of clients who did
not
ask this question. It’s one
I
would ask, I’ve always thought, if the tables were turned. Now that I’m faced with a client who wants to know, though, I’d rather not answer. “Louisa,” I tell her, “what we think doesn’t matter.”

She steps backward abruptly, as if I’ve slapped her. “Yes, it does,” she says, her voice down to a whisper. “It matters to me.”

“
I
believe you,” the Kydd volunteers. And he means it. There’s not a trace of hesitation in his voice, not a glimmer of doubt on his face.

It occurs to me that the Kydd’s certainty might be ever so slightly influenced by matters outside the evidence, but I don’t say so.

Louisa nods at him, then turns back to me. She wants my answer too. “It doesn’t matter” isn’t good enough. She presses a hand against her throat, tapered fingers flat under the collar of her orange jumpsuit, and waits.

For a moment, no one says anything. And in the sea of silence that engulfs us, I realize I have to give her two answers. I
do
believe her. But I shouldn’t.

“I don’t think you’re lying to us.” I’m careful to meet her gaze while I respond. “My gut says you’re telling us the truth.”

She nods, only partially satisfied. She senses there’s more.

“But the evidence points in the other direction,” I continue. “All of it.”

She reexamines the floor.

“We’d be doing you a disservice if we didn’t tell you the truth.”

When she looks up, her eyes are brimming again. “Then tell me,” she says, almost laughing as her tears spill over. “By all means, darlin’, do tell me the truth.”

I decide to leave my chair first. She’s too tall for me to stand eye to eye with her, but I get as close as I can. “If you are convicted of murder one, Louisa, you will waste away in the women’s penitentiary until you’ve drawn your last breath. The Barnstable County House of Correction will become a distant, and
fond,
memory.”

Her eyes stay locked with mine. She doesn’t flinch.

“And twelve jurors faced with this evidence won’t have a choice, Louisa. They will convict you.
That
is the truth.”

This morning’s crowd has thinned by the time the Kydd and I return to the main courtroom, a testament to the fact that at least a fraction of today’s early birds hold down day jobs. The front benches are still crowded, but there are a few seats unoccupied in the back. No one’s standing in the aisles anymore except the photographers, who are there by choice. And the chairs at the bar, where attorneys wait for their cases to be called, are empty. The Kydd moves Harry’s old schoolbag to one of them so we can set up at the defense table.

Mrs. DeMateo’s arraignment has just ended. She’s here alone today, sans the mister, and she doesn’t seem to miss him much. She’s beaming at Harry, who’s still at the bench. Harry doesn’t notice, though. He’s busy beaming at Geraldine. He must’ve persuaded Judge Long to set a reasonable bail.

Geraldine gives Harry her best “it ain’t over ’til the Fat Lady sings” look, but he keeps beaming at her anyway. In this business, he always tells the Kydd and me, we have to savor the minor victories. Most days, that’s all we get.

Judge Long tells Mrs. DeMateo she’s done for today and she dutifully heads toward the courtroom’s side door. Halfway there, she turns and waves to Harry, calling out an effusive thank-you. Her not-quite-ready-for-Hollywood smile grows enormous when he waves back, and she keeps her eyes on him until the door slams shut between them. She seems to have gotten over her initial dissatisfaction with her court-selected lawyer.

“Ain’t she a peach?” Harry asks as he approaches our table. He doesn’t realize Geraldine is inches behind him. She stops in front of us just as he does and they face each other for a moment. Geraldine scowls. Harry grins. “Well,” he says to her, “ain’t she?”

Geraldine doesn’t deign to respond. Instead, she turns away from him and looks down at me. Harry is dismissed, though he doesn’t seem to realize it. Geraldine folds her thin arms, silently awaiting word on Louisa Rawlings’s willingness to sing.

“She’s wrongly accused, you know,” Harry interjects. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s still arguing the DeMateo case. “It’s that no-good scoundrel husband of hers who’s dealing. Not his blushing bride.”

Geraldine makes no effort to hide how annoyed she is. She’s done with the mom-and-pop shop for now. And she’s sure as hell done with Harry. She pivots slightly and points an index finger at him, her tapered nail not quite poking his lapel. “Mr. Madigan,” she says, “do the county a significant favor. Get lost.”

Harry looks genuinely wounded. “Now you’ve done it,” he mumbles pitifully. “You’ve gone and hurt my feelings.”

Geraldine reverses her pivot, flicking both hands to shoo Harry away, and then looks down at me again. Harry doesn’t go anywhere; he looks at me too.

“No deal,” I tell Geraldine.

She tosses her head back and laughs out loud.

I feel a little bit sick.

“And people wonder why I stay in this line of work,” she says, wiping her eyes as if her laughter had induced tears. “No federal judge has more job security than I do.”

Geraldine must be referring to people I haven’t met. No one I know has any doubt about why Geraldine Schilling stays in this line of work. She prosecutes criminals for the same reasons spotted leopards eat raw meat: it sustains her.

I consider offering the explanation for Louisa’s refusal to talk, but when I look up, it’s obvious Geraldine is distracted. Her attention is focused on something over my shoulder, in the gallery. Harry stares in the same direction, his eyes as wide as they get. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispers. “Morticia on steroids.”

The Kydd swivels his chair around and then does his best to swallow his reaction. He leans toward me, hiding his lips from the spectators with one hand, and mouths, “Anastasia.”

I force myself to sit still. We don’t all need to gape at the deceased’s daughter. She’s agitated enough already. And besides, my mental picture of Anastasia Rawlings is alive and well. As usual, Harry hit the proverbial nail on the head.

“Daddy’s little girl?” Harry asks.

“Right as always, Kimosabe,” the Kydd answers.

An abrupt barrage of flashes tells me Louisa has arrived. Geraldine turns and abandons our table without another word. She’ll be on in a few minutes, after all. She needs to polish her script.

Once again, Louisa stands tall, dignified, as she crosses the courtroom. Bursting flashbulbs dog her as she approaches, but her somber expression brightens as she nears our table. By the time she reaches us, she looks downright delighted.

“Harold,” she says, extending her hand.

Harry laughs, takes Louisa’s hand in both of his, and drinks her in.

“You look marvelous,” she says finally.

He laughs again, still clasping her hand, as if she might leave the room otherwise. “So do you,” he says, “considering.”

She giggles.

I’ve watched at least a half dozen men fawn over Louisa Rawlings in the past few days. Not one of them earned a giggle. Harry managed with four words.

“All rise,” Joey Kelsey intones. Joey always does his best to sound as if he’d sing bass if he were in a church choir. He should give it up. He’s a natural tenor and his efforts to prove otherwise make him sound like he’s thirteen.

Harry seems unwilling to release Louisa’s hand. She has to forcibly extract it from his grasp so she can take her place at the table. She blushes in the process, something I suspect Louisa Rawlings doesn’t do often. Harry walks backward to a seat at the bar, his hazel eyes melded with Louisa. All of her.

None of it is lost on the Kydd. He watches their slow-motion separation, then focuses on Louisa’s pink cheeks as she takes her place between us. When she turns toward him, he hangs his head and stares down at the table.

It hits me so hard I can’t breathe for a moment. A truth so obvious it’s almost tangible. And it was here all along, right out in the open, begging to be recognized and called by its proper name. But I ignored it, pretended it didn’t exist, until now.

I steal a glance back at Harry, whose eyes haven’t wavered, and then look over at the Kydd. He’s studying the table as if he’s never seen one before. And then the truth gels, crystallizes. Technically, the Kydd is the only lawyer in the room who has run afoul of the Canons of Professional Conduct. But in point of fact, when it comes to Louisa Coleman Powers Rawlings, we all have a conflict. All three of us.