Temporary Sanity (9 page)

“Coffee.”

“Is that all?”

“Yup.”

“Nothing to eat?”

I turn around to face him and his expression makes me laugh. Not eating when offered the opportunity is a concept Harry can’t grasp.

“Oh, I get it,” he says, headed for the courtroom doors. “You don’t fool me. You’re every bit as hungry as I am.” He smiles at me over his shoulder, then narrows his eyes. “But it’s the hungry lioness who kills.”

Jury nullification. I knew the day it happened that Buck Hammond’s defense attorney would ask the jury to nullify the law, to acquit Buck Hammond even though the facts that prove his guilt are uncontroverted. I felt sorry, that day, for the poor lawyer who would end up in that unfortunate position. I would have felt sorrier if I’d known I was that lawyer.

That’s not our stated defense, of course. Officially, we’re relying on a temporary insanity plea. These jurors may conclude, if they so choose, that Buck Hammond was insane when he pulled the trigger. We’ll present expert testimony to that effect. The jurors might find that Buck was unable, during that isolated time span, to distinguish right from wrong, to conform his behavior to the requirements of the law.

But generally speaking, jurors don’t like the temporary insanity defense. Neither do I. It’s too convenient, too tidy. More important, Buck Hammond doesn’t like it. He won’t cooperate with that portion of our defense, he says. He’ll tell the jurors he knew exactly what he was doing. He’ll say he knew he was breaking the law, he did it anyway, and given the opportunity, he’d do it again tomorrow. Further evidence of insanity, I might have to argue.

Not now, though. Now it’s my job to paint with broad strokes, to give these jurors the gut-wrenching facts they should bear in mind as they listen to the prosecution’s witnesses. It’s my job to invite each one of them to stand in Buck Hammond’s shoes as they evaluate the testimony against him. It’s my job to help them reach a conclusion they almost certainly won’t want to accept: Put in Buck’s circumstances, any one of us is capable of pulling the trigger.

Stanley ended his opening statement with the television footage of the predawn shooting. The panel sat in sober silence as they watched the chopper land at Chatham Municipal Airport amid squad cars, canine units, and television crews. The jurors were motionless as Hector Monteros emerged, cuffed, flanked by U.S. marshals, their weapons drawn. The panel held its collective breath when Monteros descended to the floodlit runway and Buck Hammond stepped from the shadows of the airport’s only hangar, six feet away.

Not one juror blinked when Buck Hammond raised his hunting rifle and took careful aim. They flinched, though, and some of them raised closed fists to their mouths, when Buck fired and the bullet found Hector Monteros’s temple. Not one of them breathed, it seemed, as Monteros bled to death-in vivid color-on the airport runway.

Stanley would have shown that videotape a hundred times if he could have. The judge limited him to two runs during the course of the trial. Stanley used the first one today, and my bet is he’ll wrap up his closing argument with the second. J. Stanley Edgarton III knows what he’s doing.

When Stanley sits down, I leave my seat and roll the television table away from the jury box. I station myself in front of the panel, but I don’t speak. Not until the silence grows uncomfortable. Not until a few of the jurors start to squirm.

“Seven-year-old Billy Hammond lived near the beach his entire short life,” I tell them quietly. “He loved to fish.”

Twenty-eight eyes are glued to mine just as they were glued to Stanley’s moments ago. These eyes remind me why I once loved the practice of law, why I once believed there was no higher calling. Even now, jaded as I am, I stand in awe of this particular piece of the puzzle that is our criminal justice system. Whatever failings the system may have-and they are legion-the jury is its jewel. These fourteen conscientious people will struggle with every fiber of their beings to do the right thing.

“On June nineteenth,” I tell them, “just six months ago, seven-year-old Billy Hammond went into the kitchen with his fishing pole and bait bucket. He told his mom he was headed to the beach.”

I gesture toward Patty Hammond, who is seated in the front row, directly behind her husband. The jurors all look in her direction, and she is ready.

Patty nods to the panel, making eye contact with one juror at a time, just as we planned. She’s a striking woman, with classic cheekbones and thick brown hair cropped close in a boyish cut. But at the edges of her eyes and the corners of her mouth, the ravages of grief are evident. She is much older than her twenty-nine years, much older than she was on June 18.

“You’ll hear from Patty Hammond during this trial,” I tell the panel. One by one, their gazes leave Patty-reluctantly, it seems-and return to me. “She’ll tell you she gave little Billy a Popsicle and a kiss that morning.”

I pause and look at each of them. “She never saw him again. And she never will.”

The creak of Stanley’s chair tells me he’s getting to his feet even before he clears his throat. “Your Honor,” he whines, “I hate to interrupt my Sister Counsel’s opening statement. Really I do. But we’re getting off-track, I’m afraid, heading awfully far afield.”

Stanley’s objection is bogus. Having raised a temporary insanity defense, we’re entitled to discuss almost everything that had an impact on Buck Hammond’s state of mind during the days leading up to the shooting. The fact that I’d like the jurors to use this evidence to nullify the law is beside the point. But the objection makes me wonder if Stanley is more worried about the possibility of nullification than I thought.

Judge Long knows I’m within proper limits; he doesn’t need me to tell him. I’d rather the jurors hear it from him anyway. I face the bench and stare at him, but say nothing.

Judge Long leans on his elbows and rests his chin on his fingertips, white cuffs and gold cufflinks sandwiched between the black of his robe and the near-black of his hands. “I’ll allow it,” he says. “It goes to the defendant’s state of mind, an issue that’s paramount in this trial.”

Score. Most of the jurors look eagerly at me when I face them again. The wise judge says the defendant’s state of mind is paramount. They want to hear more about it.

Stanley remains on his feet, looking as if he has more to say, but I resume my opening statement anyway. I never uttered a word in response to his objection, never even looked in his direction. My ignoring him sent a message to the jurors, I hope. J. Stanley Edgarton III doesn’t matter, people. Listen to the wise judge. And then listen to me.

“There’s a reason Patty Hammond will never see her little boy again,” I tell them. “There’s a reason Billy Hammond will never go fishing again.”

I cross the room and position myself behind Buck’s chair, careful that the jurors can still see both him and Patty.

“There’s a reason Billy Hammond will never celebrate his eighth birthday.”

Patty lets out a single sob and Stanley jumps to his feet, looking personally wounded. Patty covers her mouth and raises one hand toward Judge Long, nodding her head and pumping the air as if calling a time-out. She’s okay, she’s signaling, and she’s sorry; she won’t make another sound.

“Sit down, Mr. Ed-gar-ton the Third,” the judge says.

Stanley does so with a thud, shaking his oversized head at the jurors, and their eyes move from Patty to him. I had wanted to let their gazes linger on Patty a little longer, but Stanley’s theatrics are effective; he’s in the spotlight again.

I walk toward them slowly and wait until their attention shifts to me. “Hector Monteros is that reason.”

Stanley jumps up again. “Your Honor, once more I apologize for interrupting. But my Sister Counsel is assuming facts that won’t ever be in evidence.”

“Not so, Judge,” I tell him. “Not so.”

Harry knew the day it happened that Buck Hammond’s defense would necessitate a postmortem attack on Hector Monteros. He ordered complete DNA testing on both Monteros and the boy before either one was interred. Stanley knows that. So does the judge. Buck Hammond won’t necessarily walk if we prove Monteros’s guilt, but he doesn’t stand a chance if we don’t.

Judge Long raises his hands to silence Stanley and me, then turns to the jurors. Instantly, he has their undivided attention. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “it seems I should explain to you what an opening statement is. But first”-he flashes his smile at them-“I’m going to tell you what it isn’t.”

I slip into my seat beside Buck and pour a glass of water. When Judge Leon Long has the stage, there are no costars. Stanley, though, seems to expect a supporting role. He remains on his feet.

“Opening statement is not an argument,” the judge says, glancing first at Stanley, then at me. “Though you wouldn’t know that from what you’ve heard so far.”

The jurors laugh and Judge Long leans back in his leather chair, relaxed and smiling. “Opening statement isn’t evidence, either. It’s nothing more than each lawyer’s opportunity to talk to you.” The judge leans toward them in a conspiratorial pose and lowers his voice, as if he doesn’t want Stanley and me to hear. “And we all know how lawyers love to talk.”

The panel laughs again, a good-natured chuckle, and so does the judge. Stanley, though, shifts on his feet and runs a nervous hand across his sizable scalp. A long wisp of lifeless hair from his comb-over separates and falls to the right side of his head, forming a single pageboy loop. The end of it just touches the collar of his starched white shirt.

I’m pretty sure it’s not the lawyer joke that bothers Stanley; it’s the laughter. This is a murder trial. There shouldn’t be any laughter.

“Opening statement is not the same as closing argument,” Judge Long continues. “Closing argument is a fight.” He glances over his shoulder at me, then at Stanley, before turning back to the jurors. “And believe me, in this case it’s going to be a real one.”

The jurors chuckle again. They look from me to Stanley and back to the judge. He continues his monologue.

Harry leans forward on the defense table, in front of Buck, to whisper. “Defer.”

“Defer?” I stare at him.

His return gaze is steady. He’s serious.

No defendant-civil or criminal-has to give his opening statement at the beginning of the trial. He can defer until the close of the plaintiff’s-or prosecutor’s-case. In criminal cases especially, there are distinct advantages to waiting. It leaves the prosecutor in the dark, unsure of the defense strategy until after the Commonwealth rests its case. More important, it allows the defendant to hammer twice on the weaknesses in the evidence against him-after the prosecutor rests and again at the end, in closing argument.

But rarely does a criminal defendant opt to defer. The stakes are too high. If he waits that long to give the jurors a glimpse of his side of the story, it may be too late. The prosecutor may have been too persuasive. Too many jurors may have already made up their minds. Harry knows that at least as well as I do.

“Why defer?”

“You can’t do any more.”

Harry leans closer and Buck lowers his head between us to listen.

“You told them enough about Monteros to whet their appetites. The judge told them that Buck’s mental state is the key issue in this trial. What else can you accomplish at this point?”

The answer, of course, is nothing. Harry’s right.

“But we can’t defer now, even if we want to. We’ve already started. It’s too late.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Stanley hasn’t let you finish a thought without objecting. Tell the judge you’ve been interrupted enough for one day. Tell him at this point, you’d just as soon defer.”

Buck shrugs when I look at him for an opinion.

Judge Long isn’t talking to the jurors anymore. He’s facing our table, waiting semipatiently for our whispering session to end. “Attorney Nickerson,” he says when I look up, “we’re ready when you are.”

I steal a final glance at Harry. “It’s worth a shot,” he says.

Stanley drops into his seat as I get out of mine. I pause to set my glasses on the defense table. “With all due respect to the Court, Your Honor, the defense opts to defer its opening statement.”

The judge wasn’t expecting this. He drops his chin to his chest and stares at me over the flat rims of his half glasses.

Stanley jumps up so fast his chair topples backward. “Defer? She can’t defer. She’s already started her opening statement.”

The judge’s eyes move to Stanley, then back to me, his brows arched high.

“Barely,” I tell him. “I tried twice, and twice I was silenced.” I gesture toward Buck to suggest that this is his idea. “We’re not up for strike three. We’ll defer.”

I turn toward Stanley but my attention is on the jury box behind him. They’re listening intently to this exchange, some eyes on the judge, others on me. Their expressions are impossible to read.

I face the judge’s bench again. “Maybe Mr. Edgarton will calm down a bit-and allow me to open properly-after he rests his case.”

“Don’t believe her,” Stanley sputters. “Don’t believe her for a minute.” He points his pen at me, then at the judge, and finally at the jurors. His forehead vein turns blue. “I didn’t silence her. The National Guard couldn’t silence her.”

I’m flattered.

Judge Long continues to peer at me over his glasses. “Attorney Nickerson,” he says, “this
is
unusual.”

“It is, Judge. I can’t remember another case when I was shut down twice without getting a single fact in front of the jury.”

That wasn’t what he meant, of course. But he folds his arms on the bench and nods, conceding the point.

“We haven’t been able to start, Judge. Not in any meaningful way. And now we opt to defer.”

The judge nods again. “All right,” he says.

Stanley runs up to the bench. He’s so close to it the judge has to lean forward to see him.