The Hanging Judge (2 page)

PART ONE

1

F
ifteen miles south, well beyond the sound of the sirens, the Honorable David S. Norcross, U.S. District Judge for the District of Massachusetts, Western Division, looked down from the bench, preparing for his millennium. Today, according to his law clerk, would be his eighty-fourth sentencing. At an average of twelve years per sentence, which was conservative, this meant that in two years on the bench he would have handed down more than one thousand years in prison. He had assumed that by now this would be getting easier. He’d assumed wrong.

Fate had reserved an especially grim task for the judge this morning. The alleged crack dealer he was sentencing was an obese kid in his mid-twenties with a thin ponytail and a spatter of acne across his forehead. Unlike most defendants, however, this one was quite possibly innocent. Certainly, if the case had been tried to him, and not to a jury, Norcross would have found a reasonable doubt and acquitted the man. But the eight women and four men who made up the jury had believed the government’s informant, apparently, and Norcross’s hands were tied.

The defendant was hunched over the counsel table, bouncing his shoulders and knees as though he were chilly. Was he okay? He seemed to sense the judge’s concern and looked up. Their eyes met for a bottomless instant, and the young man squared himself and nodded. He was not going to fall apart.

Norcross, relieved, returned the nod, but as he drew breath to speak, a gulping sob rose from one of the two women seated at the rear of the courtroom. The judge held off, not wanting to seem indifferent, and curious to know which woman the sound came from. The mother or the girlfriend?

It was the defendant’s mother, bent forward with both hands over her face. It was almost always the mother. The girlfriend sat with a baby in her lap, her hard eyes staring into the air in front of her.

Norcross never knew what to make of this. The mother might be refusing to believe that her son had gone back to his old street life. The girlfriend might know, or suspect, that he had and might be royally steamed. But maybe these women just had different ways of confronting despair, an emotion Norcross knew well. He took a sip of water and replaced the paper cup at arm’s length where it would not soak the presentence report if he knocked it over.

All the applicable procedures had been respected; the defendant had received, technically speaking, his fair trial. The attorneys had made their pitches, and the defendant had exercised his right of allocution—his entitlement to speak before being sentenced, no matter how hopeless the situation might be. In a few minutes now, the sentencing would be over. This evening, the judge would go home, pour himself a Jack Daniel’s, and unburden himself in a long soliloquy to his dog.

Norcross shifted his gaze to the right, still hesitating. Through the tall windows behind the jury box a distant bouquet of red and orange was visible and behind that the gold line of a hill under a bright sky. The foliage was at its peak.

A murmur from somewhere in the courtroom brought him back. Time to put the knife in.

“Pursuant to the Sentencing Reform Act of 1984, and having considered the factors enumerated at 18 U.S. Code Section 3553(a), it is the judgment of this court that the defendant be remanded to the custody of the Bureau of Prisons for a term of life without possibility of parole.”

The mother’s moan—“Oh God!”—set the defendant’s knees jiggling again. He rubbed something out of his eye, but he held on. The baby, squeezed too hard perhaps, began whimpering in his mother’s arms. Norcross pushed his papers to one side.

“Defendant will remain in the custody of the United States marshal pending designation of the facility where he will be permanently housed. Will there be anything further?”

Defense counsel and the assistant U.S. attorney stood and spoke simultaneously.

“No, Your Honor.”

The defense lawyer’s eyes were smoldering with disgust, but he could not fairly blame the judge. The term was mandatory. The AUSA, compelled by the statute and, the judge suspected, by her politically ambitious boss to reject all deals and insist on a sentence she must have known was out of whack, looked away and shuffled her papers glumly.
Crack was bad stuff, sure,
Norcross thought
but, even assuming the defendant is guilty, do we really have to lock him up for the next fifty or sixty years?

“We’ll be in recess.”

The courtroom deputy called out, “All rise!” Everyone stood, even the mother and the stone-faced girlfriend. The defendant got to his feet, blinked back at the crying infant, and automatically pressed his wrists behind his back. While the judge walked out of the courtroom, he heard the familiar
scritch
of the cuffs going on.

David Norcross was a tall man, and as he loped down the hallway to his chambers, his head bobbed as though he were ducking under a beam every third step. His law clerk Frank Baldwin trotted two steps behind him like a fat squire pursuing a lanky knight.

“Well, that sure sucked,” Frank said amiably.

“Go talk to Congress,” Norcross said over his shoulder. “Two priors plus fifty grams of crack equals life. No discretion. I’m not a judge. I’m an adding machine for crying out loud.”

Frank drew closer. “Some priors! Senior year in high school he sells two baggies of pot. Then he hits some guy with a stick in a fight over his girlfriend.”

“It was enough to tie me down.” Norcross quickened his step, eager for the comfort of his large desk and the distraction of the next case.

“Do you really think he set up the deal? I mean …”

Norcross broke in. “The jury thought so, Frank. The buck stops there.” He shoved open the door to his chambers suite.

“How about the brain?”

Norcross frowned back at Frank. Then, without saying anything, he turned toward his inner office and the fresh stack of files waiting for him.

2

W
hile Judge Norcross was putting another life sentence behind him, Holyoke patrolman Alex Torricelli was stuck in traffic, late for roll call, and having the worst day of his life. He strained his thick neck to peer over the backed-up cars. What was the problem? Construction again? Some pileup?

Alex had been a police officer for eight years, happily married for the last five. He was crazy about his wife, Janice, but for reasons that were beyond him now he had celebrated the Columbus Day holiday yesterday with a foolhardy tumble at the Motel 6 in Deerfield, the first and only time he had swerved on his wife, and somehow—he couldn’t figure how—Janice immediately knew what was up. In thirty sick-making seconds during this morning’s breakfast, she’d managed to tip over the entire, well-rehearsed load of bullshit he tried to dump on her.

Groaning, he tried again to see what was causing the traffic.
Forget this,
Alex thought.
Try a shortcut.

He lunged into the oncoming lane, made a flagrantly illegal U-turn, and gunned it. A half mile through the broken-down Flats and then a left—a roundabout route, but it might save him two days’ suspension without pay.

While he drove, scenes from the morning’s horror movie replayed in his mind: his wife’s furious face as she pegged a jar of grape jelly at him, the crash of the kitchen clock hitting the floor, the looping image of his pathetic self, dodging shoes and crockery, begging her not to go, admitting in two languages that he was the duke of dipshits. Everything he really cared about down the drain, all because of his own unbelievable stupidity.

Now they were going to tear off a piece of his ass for missing roll call, and he couldn’t even tell the shift commander the real reason he was late.

It didn’t help that his older brother, Tony, would bust a gut laughing about this. A law-school grad with all the family brains and good looks, Tony enjoyed boasting nonstop about the many women he’d shagged behind Cindy’s back and the stupendous ejaculations he enjoyed on his junkets to Vegas. He never got caught, the prick.

The traffic thinned out on the back streets, and as Alex pulled through an intersection, his eyes began automatically skimming boarded-up storefronts, checking out groups of guys in low-slung, oversize pants with pockets that were way too bulgy, their gang colors displayed in red-and-white chokers or yellow-and-black wristbands. Down the block, somebody was leaning over, talking to a couple of white guys in a silver Mercedes with New York tags. Might stop and say howdy if he weren’t so rushed.

“Whoa! Who’s this bozo?” Alex muttered.

Half a block up, a gray Nissan Stanza popped out the wrong way from a one-way side street. Skinny little Puerto Rican driving. A big bite out of the rear window and dirt all over the plate. Somebody in the back? Who might these pinwheels be?

The traffic on his police radio had been so blah Alex had barely listened, but now he sat up straight: reported drive-by, Walnut and High. Male and female subjects down. Suspected vehicle a dark blue or gray sedan, possibly a Jap import, driver and at least one passenger, one or both armed. Shooter may have an automatic weapon, possible AK-47 or M16.

Alex sped up and leaned forward to get a look through the Nissan’s chewed-out back window. Definitely something shadowy shifting around back there.

The Nissan slowed, and the backseat passenger jumped out near the Elm Street projects.

“What the fuck?”

Alex registered time and location. Passenger probably Hispanic. Male. Twenties. Medium height or better. Well built, broad shoulders. Black jeans and black or navy hooded sweatshirt. Hood up.

A crumpled brown Vanagon cut in, blocking Alex’s view of the Nissan. The Hispanic guy was double-timing down the alley hugging his arms against his chest like he was carrying something under the sweatshirt. No point trying to chase him. The Nissan was taking off.

“Okay, Paco,” Alex said. “Let’s see where the party is.”

He punched the accelerator, squirted around the Vanagon, and nosed in behind the Nissan.

“Let’s get up close and personal.” He pressed in behind to a quarter car length. The driver sped up. Alex sped up. The driver glanced into the rearview and turned a corner with a squeal. Alex followed, hit the speed dial on his cell for the station, quickly described the situation. As soon as he mentioned the blown-out rear window, the dispatcher cut in and told him to stay with the car, continue to advise location. Back-up on its way. Almost immediately, in the distance, a siren began to moan, then another farther off. Alex reached into the back, retrieved his .357, and placed it on the passenger seat.

“Here’s where I get a bullet through my little tiny brain,” he whispered. Would Janice miss him? She could pay off the mortgage with the insurance, maybe hook up with a smarter guy.

Three blocks down, the Nissan jumped the curb, knocked over a garbage can, and skidded sideways to a stop in front of a group of sagging three- and four-story apartment houses. The driver leaped out, slipped on a board, and fell—crying out in pain—then took off in a hopping limp toward a fence that barred the gap between two moth-eaten three-deckers. To the north, the chorus of sirens was getting angrier.

Alex got out of his car, shouting, “Police! Stop!”

The kid glanced over his shoulder, black eyebrows over dark, angry eyes, then turned and kept hobbling away, kicking out with his right foot.

“Hey, shit-for-brains! Police! Stop!”

Alex started running, holding his weapon with both hands, barrel pointed up. After twenty yards, Janice’s cannolis were catching up with him, and he was puffing hard. His mind scratched away at the details: Hispanic male, probably a juvie; five six, maybe five five; 130 pounds; no beard or mustache; no visible scars or tattoos; no gang insignia.

Now the kid was trying to vault over the chain-link fence. Didn’t make it. Small, but not real graceful. Too freaked out, thank God, to notice a gap in the fence ten feet to his left. Out of his usual turf.

Behind Alex, cruisers were skidding in, sirens groaning down, doors slamming, red flashes reflecting off bits of broken window. Heavy footsteps and shouts. Here comes the cavalry. Kid slipped, staggered back up, and glanced over his shoulder again. Just out of junior high and scared shitless.

Son of a bitch,
Alex thought as he closed in,
I might just catch this little fucker.

“Okay, pal. It’s over.” Then, alarmed and much louder: “Hold it, right there!”

Twelve feet away, close enough for Alex to notice a few gauzy hairs on the kid’s upper lip, the boy reached down and picked up a piece of pipe. He swung his arm back uncertainly.

Behind him, Alex heard an urgent voice shout “Gun!”

Alex twisted around. There had to be at least four cruisers, all lit up, and half a dozen cops legging it toward him.

“No, it’s just a pipe—just a kid!”

There was a sound like a snapping board, and he felt a sharp sting as a wild shot nipped off a piece of his left ear.

Alex slapped his hand over the wound, then turned back toward his quarry—half expecting to see him on the ground, shot—just in time to have the flying pipe hit him square in the mouth. Alex felt his front teeth snap, tasted the rusty metal.

His bloody hand fumbled onto a pile of construction blocks for support; he leaned over to shake his head clear and spat. The kid had a hold of the top of the fence and was finally working a leg over, heading for greener pastures but still, maybe, within reach.

A black officer ran up. “Al, you okay? You’re a mess.”

“Hold this.” Alex handed the officer his gun.

Unencumbered, Alex dashed through the gap in the fence, intercepted the boy just as he was dropping to the ground on the other side, grabbed him around the waist, and slung him face-first into a brick wall. Then he flipped the kid around, kneed him in the groin, and punched him high in the gut to take the wind out of him. Grunting, Alex followed with a hard left to the side of the boy’s face, then held him up by the collar and reached down for a piece of brick. At this point, a baldheaded Holyoke sergeant grabbed his wrist.