The Hanging Judge (36 page)

“Did this person say when the bomb was supposed to go off?”

“Three thirty.” Dickinson looked at his watch. “In about thirty-five minutes.”

“How often do these calls come in?”

“Now and then,” Dickinson said. “More in the high-profile cases.”

“And how often does it turn out to be an actual bomb?”

“For us, so far, never. Course we haven’t had a trial like this monster before. They weren’t so lucky in Oklahoma City.”

“Got a recommendation?”

Dickinson leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Safest thing would be to knock off for the day, Judge. To be honest, that’s what I’d recommend to cover my own tail. I hate these whackos. But it’s your call.”

It was an easy decision, really, which didn’t necessarily make it right.

“We’re not stopping,” Norcross said after a pause.

Dickinson breathed deeply and nodded. “Want to stretch out the break? Let Sheba have another good sniff around?”

“We’d end up burning most of the time we have left today, and the reporters would notice. We’ll go back in.”

“Yes, sir,” Dickinson said slowly. “How about, once you get started again, if we just take Sheba for a trot around the halls where the jury can’t see? This call gives me a bad feeling. We’ll make it look routine.”

“Fine.”

“Want me to evacuate nonessential staff?”

Norcross shook his head. “That would get us in the papers, too, and we’d have a new nut calling every day. Thanks. I appreciate this.”

“Yes, sir.” Dickinson stood and turned to go.

“Think Emily would have any words of wisdom for us?”

Dickinson turned in the doorway. “How about ‘To die takes just a little while, they say it doesn’t hurt’? It’s a comforting thought, sort of.”

“It’s also untrue,” Norcross said, remembering Faye. “Dying can take quite a while sometimes, and it can hurt a lot.”

As he resumed his seat back up on the bench a few minutes later, Norcross caught himself looking with special attentiveness at the courtroom clock. Five after three. He let his eyes drift over the crowded gallery, wondering if any of the spectators had managed to sneak a package in. When the big hand dropped down to the six, he’d know. This time he wouldn’t have to wait for the Court of Appeals to tell him if he’d made the wrong call.

“Mr. Deluviani,” he said to the witness. “We’re going to pick back up on Mr. Redpath’s questioning now. It is not necessary to readminister the oath. You are still sworn to tell the truth.” He nodded to defense counsel. “Mr. Redpath. Your witness.”

Redpath quickly returned to the podium.
Wants to keep his momentum,
Norcross thought.
Can’t blame him for that.

“Mr. Deluviani, let me ask you this. How many times did you meet with Ms. Gomez-Larsen before today?”

“Two, three times.”

“How many times with law enforcement officers?”

“The cops? A lot of times.”

“And was one of the officers Captain Sean Daley, the uncle of Ginger Daley O’Connor?” Redpath turned to point into the gallery. “That gentleman there.”

Deluviani stretched his neck, but didn’t seem to see who Redpath had pointed to.

Probably a ploy to make the jurors wonder about the witness’s eyesight,
Norcross thought.
Clever
.

“There was one named Daley,” Deluviani said, squinting into the gallery. “He didn’t mention any relatives.”

Redpath placed his elbows on the podium, slowing things down a bit now. Norcross looked up at the clock again and found himself musing about Claire. If something happened, would Lucille think to call her, or would Claire just learn about it on the news? How much did people know about the two of them?

“And how many times did you meet with Captain Daley?”

“Oh, boy. He came by maybe six, eight times.”

“Looking for evidence against Mr. Hudson?”

“Looking for evidence against anybody.”

“And Ms. Gomez-Larsen asked you, and the officers asked you, and Captain Daley asked you, every time they talked to you, about the man you say you saw running by?”

“Every single time.”

Redpath scratched the back of his neck meditatively, letting the questioning slow even more now, down to a crawl.

Fifteen minutes after three,
Norcross noticed.
My, how time flies.

“But in all those conversations, you never mentioned any scar to any of them, did you, Mr. Deluviani?”

“Never asked me.”

Redpath raised his voice. “Never mentioned any scar in all those conversations?”

“Never asked me.”

“I see.”

Redpath searched through his notes for a count of five, then looked up, and resumed.

“But you did tell Officer Torricelli, this gentleman here, right? Months after the incident, isn’t that right?”

“Right.” Deluviani looked over at Torricelli.

Norcross noticed with displeasure that Torricelli, his mouth open, was nodding faintly in Deluviani’s direction. Was Torricelli signaling the witness? He’d have to call Gomez-Larsen up to sidebar and tell her to have Torricelli cut it out if he caught any more gawping or twiddling. Torricelli, perhaps noticing the judge’s stare, dropped his head and began writing on his yellow pad. He made a couple of emphatic underlines, whatever that meant.

“And, in fact,” Redpath continued, “your testimony is that Mr. Torricelli never asked you about any scar, either, did he? You brought the topic up yourself.”

“Just happened to think of it when we were talking.”

“Just happened to think of it. For the first time in all those months, after Moon Hudson was arrested, and after everyone knew about his scar, you finally just happened to think of it?”

“I had thought of it. I just didn’t tell anybody about it.”

“Didn’t you just say, twenty seconds ago, that you ‘just happened to think of it when we were talking’? Isn’t that what you said?”

“I guess so.”

“But now you’re saying you
had
thought about it before. You just didn’t think to tell anybody about it until you happened to be talking to Officer Torricelli months after the police first contacted you and months after everyone had seen my client’s scar. Is that your testimony?”

Deluviani turned to the side and looked annoyed. “I guess so.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Deluviani, that it was, in fact, Officer Torricelli”—Redpath pointed back at the prosecutor’s table without looking around—“or perhaps Captain Daley, who first told you about my client’s scar, and then, and only then, you miraculously remembered seeing it on the arm of the man you supposedly saw running past your shop? Isn’t that what really happened?”

“No.”

“I see.”

Not suspending the trial was turning out to be a good thing, Norcross thought. It was important for the jury to have this testimony under their thinking caps—a good thing, that is, assuming they all weren’t blown to kingdom come in a few short minutes. No problem about any death penalty for Hudson then. They’d all go together, including quite a few innocent spectators and court staff, and the catastrophe would be his fault.

Redpath was flipping pages. “Now, a few minutes ago, you said the distance between you and the gentleman running past was about fifteen to twenty feet, correct?”

“About.”

“Roughly the distance between you and me right now, correct?”

“Just about.”

“And you weren’t wearing your glasses then, just the way you aren’t wearing your glasses now, correct?”

“Like I told the police, I’m not sure one way or the other.”

“Okay. But you might not have been wearing your glasses, isn’t that fair?”

“Might’ve been, too.”

“And you never saw the gentleman’s face? I mean, you don’t recognize my client’s face here, correct?”

“He had his hood up.”

“You mean, whoever ran past your store that morning had his hood up, am I right?”

“The hood was up. Couldn’t see a face.”

“Whoever it was?”

“Whoever it was.”

Redpath checked his watch and looked up at the bench. “Your Honor, I’m just about done. Could I have a moment to review my notes?”

“You may.” Norcross glanced from Redpath to the clock. Three twenty-five. Nothing was going to happen, of course, but it was interesting to notice how precious and distinct each morsel of time felt. The judge looked over at the jury and drummed with his pencil eraser on his blotter. They were looking, on the whole, blissfully relaxed and attentive. If he’d known Redpath was going to be this quick, he might have let Sheba have a trot through the courtroom.

Redpath resumed, musingly, flipping pages again.

“The hooded gentleman ran past from your right to your left, you say?”

Deluviani sagged a little. He’d obviously been hoping his ordeal was over.

“Yeah.” He waved with his finger, right to left. “Like that.”

“So this gentleman’s left side was toward you as he ran past?”

Deluviani looked into the distance and nodded. “I guess. Yes.”

“And the sleeve of the sweatshirt, on the arm toward you, was pulled up?”

“The sweatshirt was way too small for the guy’s shoulders, that’s for sure.”

“And it would have been the left arm that was toward you as the gentleman ran past from your right to your left, right?”

“I’m sorry? Left, right?”

The jury foreman wriggled with amusement.

Redpath continued patiently. “Am I correct, Mr. Deluviani, that it was the left arm that you saw that morning when you observed the scar?”

“I’m not exactly sure.”

“Well, you certainly could not have seen the gentleman’s right side as he ran past, correct?”

“I guess.”

“You saw the scar on his left arm, the arm toward you, isn’t that true, sir?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, the left arm was toward you, correct?”

Gomez-Larsen rose, shaking her head. “Objection, asked and answered.”

“Sustained,” Norcross said. “The witness’s testimony is that the gentleman’s left side was toward him as he ran past.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Redpath said, keeping his eyes on Deluviani.

Unless Redpath had a rabbit to pull out of a hat, Norcross thought, this didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Three twenty-nine.

“Your Honor,” Redpath said. “I would request that the defendant be permitted, once more, to display his arm to the jury.”

“Go ahead, if you think it would be helpful.”

“Moon, please just stand where you are. But this time, show the jury your left arm. They can see it from there.”

Moon rose slowly and slipped off his jacket. He rolled up his shirtsleeve and displayed his unscarred left arm, rotating it side to side.

“Now your right.”

Moon showed the jury his right arm again, with the pink scar.

“Thank you. Thank you very much.” As Moon resumed his seat, Redpath nodded up to Norcross. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

The clock’s minute hand had crept past three thirty. Everything was going to be all right, as Norcross had known it would be—assuming the courtroom clock or the bomb’s timer wasn’t off.

In almost every trial he’d ever done, as a lawyer or as a judge, there came a moment in the testimony when the effort to re-create the past entered the Twilight Zone, when all the possible realities were implausible. Was Deluviani deliberately lying about seeing the scar? Maybe, but that seemed unlikely. Had he convinced himself that he’d seen something that wasn’t there? Had Torricelli, who was not exactly Mr. Smooth, done such a great job of manipulating the little guy? Or had someone else, with the defendant’s same build and height, and with an identical scar on his other forearm, happened to run past Deluviani’s shop?

Norcross would never know. It was unlikely anyone would know for sure. A year from now, even Deluviani—if he were being honest—wouldn’t be able to say for certain what he saw. But these mysteries arose in every trial, and it was up to the jury and not the judge, thank heaven, to decide what to make of them.

Gomez-Larsen’s redirect repaired Deluviani’s credibility somewhat; then Redpath had another short whack at him on recross. They wrapped up by four o’clock, and the judge sent everyone home for the day, all in one piece.

Two days later, the government rested. The defense, Redpath told the judge, would be short. They’d be calling no more than two witnesses: Sandra Hudson and possibly the defendant.

50

“
It’s your decision,” Redpath said. “But I’m telling you, Moon …” A peppery sneeze surged up into his nose, interrupting him for the third or fourth time. “I’m telling you, uh, ah …”

The final syllable of the sneeze was so loud, so like a shout for help, that the rankled face of a guard appeared in the mesh window of the conference room door.

“It’s a bad idea. Jesus Christ, where’d I get this cold?” Redpath drew a very rumpled gray handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and blew his nose. The correctional officer shook his head and vanished.

Tomorrow, Judge Norcross would expect the defense to begin presenting its case, and Redpath felt like he was drowning in mucus. His eyes itched, his throat was sore, his nose was blocked up, and at night when he put his head on the pillow to sleep, his sinuses drained down the back of his throat and had him up half the night coughing. On top of this, he and Moon were facing the biggest decision of the trial. It would have to be made in the next few minutes, before Redpath returned to his room at the Marriott to finish preparing the direct examination of Sandra Hudson, his first witness, due to take the stand in less than eighteen hours.

Redpath thought yearningly of the hot bath he planned to take before he got down to work. A quiet smoke in a steaming tub, maybe a quick call to his son, Tom, in California. That always cheered him up. Then, later, three Extra Strength Tylenol PMs and a dive under the sheets. Heaven.

Moon was on the opposite side of the table, leaning back in his wooden chair and staring up at the ceiling. His eyes were half closed, and his nostrils dilated as he inhaled methodically—as though he were making himself wait to let a current of pain, or anger, move through him and drift far enough away to give him space to think. After several breaths, a sigh of disgust hissed through his lips, and he shook his head. Through the long trial, Redpath and Moon had grown closer, but now Moon spoke as if he were alone.