The Hanging Judge (39 page)

Moon glanced at Redpath. Some judges did this—confirmed directly that the defendant had made a knowing decision not to offer testimony—but Redpath hadn’t mentioned this possibility of questioning to his client. Redpath felt a wave of concern. What would Moon say? Redpath twitched his chin up, signaling his client to stand.

Moon got to his feet. “Yes, Your Honor, I understand.”

“And you’ve made a knowing and voluntary decision after discussion with your attorney not to testify?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Very well.” Norcross looked satisfied. “So, we’ll be moving on to arguments and charge tomorrow morning?”

“Well, Your Honor, may I be heard?” Gomez-Larsen’s tone was clipped, and her eyes still glistened with indignation.

“Of course,” Norcross said.

“The government will be calling a rebuttal witness …”

“I rarely allow rebuttal,” Norcross began.

“A very short witness, Your Honor, no more than twenty minutes on direct.” Gomez-Larsen paused. “I believe in the circumstances we have the right to do that, Your Honor.”

Redpath stood. “May I ask who this witness will be?”

Gomez-Larsen did not turn and look at Redpath but addressed the court, as though Norcross had asked the question.

“Zinnia Sanderson, Judge. The neighbor, Spanky, you just heard Ms. Hudson refer to.”

“Why didn’t you call this witness during the government’s case-in-chief?” Norcross asked. “You can’t drag a trial out by reserving ammunition for rebuttal just to get the last word. Give me a proffer of what you expect this Sanderson person to say.”

“We could not possibly have called her during our case-in-chief, Judge, because her testimony only became relevant after the defendant’s wife took the stand. As an officer of the court, I represent to you that Zinnia Sanderson will testify that, at the time of the murders, Sandra Hudson was
not
at home with her husband as she has just testified. She was, in fact, walking with Ms. Sanderson several miles away, as Sandra Hudson just testified they regularly did during the mornings, eating doughnuts and strolling with their infants in Naismith Park.”

52

T
om Dickinson sat on a metal chair outside the jury room, legs crossed, reading from a volume of his great-great-aunt Emily’s selected poems. He always brought the book with him when he was babysitting jury deliberations. The words soothed him.

Dickinson needed soothing on this occasion. It had been a long, frustrating vigil for the court security officer—six days since the jurors had heard final arguments and received their instructions on the law. Every day, Dickinson carried notes from the jury to Judge Norcross with some problem or other. The deliberation room was too hot. Could they have a chalkboard? Would the judge say more about what a racketeering enterprise was? Through the mornings and afternoons, a current of mostly indistinguishable voices hummed through the walls, people talking over one another, angry sounds sometimes, and occasionally loud laughter and hoots. Once he heard a male shout and slap the table, and in the frozen silence he thought he caught a high squeak, like someone crying. This morning so far, only low murmurs. Nothing he could catch.

The door clicked open, and Dickinson quickly stepped to the threshold. His position gave him a view of one corner of the table, where the Asian accountant had her hand on the shoulder of the bank teller with the spiky blonde hair, saying something he couldn’t hear. The girl’s face was pink, and she was blinking.

The kid who was the foreperson, who’d started out so perky, looked as though he’d aged a few years. A folded slip of paper hung in one hand against his side. He started to lift the note to Dickinson, then hesitated, and turned to the room.

“Is everybody okay to do this?”

There was a mumble of agreement.

“Janie? You all set?”

The pink-faced girl looked at her friend, then turned to the foreperson, and nodded.

“Okay,” the kid said. He handed Dickinson the slip of paper. “Tell him we’re ready.”

Dickinson found the judge sitting with Frank and Eva over sandwiches in his inner office. He mostly liked Norcross, a decent man who worked hard and wasn’t snooty. Lately, though, over the long trial, and especially during the endless days of deliberations, a dangerous silence had gathered around the judge, and Dickinson kept his contact to a minimum. The guy might be okay, but he still carried a lightning bolt. No point in standing within range.

“Another note from the jury,” Dickinson said, holding out the piece of paper.

Norcross sighed, took it, and unfolded it on his desk. His face changed as he read it.

“Well, well.” He pursed his lips. “We have a verdict.”

Eva went pale and stood up to look out the window at the plaza below.

Norcross pushed some papers aside. “Let’s get everyone collected, Tom. Tell the marshals. Do we know where Redpath is?”

“I can see him from here,” Eva said. “Same as always. Sitting on a planter, smoking a cigarette. Flicking his butts at the pigeons.”

The defendant’s wife, her mother, and her brother were at their usual post on the bench at the end of the hall near the elevators. The mother’s hand was resting on her daughter’s forearm, but they weren’t speaking.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Dickinson said, bending down. “The judge has asked me to let you know we have a verdict.”

“A verdict?” Sandra Hudson said. She seemed to be coming out of a dream.

“Yes, ma’am.” Dickinson pointed down the hallway. “Thought you’d want to beat the crowd.” A reporter hovering nearby overheard and strode quickly off toward the courtroom.

Mrs. Cummings squeezed her daughter’s hand. Sandra began looking around in confusion. “Where’s my pocketbook? Oh my God!”

The brother closed his cell phone, stood up, and touched the CSO on the shoulder briefly. “Very nice of you, Tom. We appreciate it.” He nodded in the direction of the courtroom. “We can find our way in now.”

Guy wants to get rid of me,
Dickinson thought as he shoved off.
Don’t blame him. Smart of him to get my name, though.

At the other end of the hallway, outside the courtroom, Jack O’Connor was waiting with his two older boys. The youngest either hadn’t come today or was in the john again. The little guy had been spending a lot of time on the disabled list.

Peach Delgado’s girlfriend, Carmella Díaz, was a few feet away, in the small marble foyer in front of the courtroom door, bending down to reread the plaque with the Bill of Rights. No one accompanied her.

“Folks,” Dickinson announced, “the judge wanted you to know the jury has reached a verdict. They’ll be coming in now.”

“About time!” the younger of the two O’Connor boys said with disgust. “Finally.”

O’Connor nodded to him. “Go get Mikey, Ed.” The boy stalked off, shaking his head.

Inside the courtroom, Ruby was already in position at her desk in front of the bench, organizing papers. Two deputy marshals were escorting the empty-faced defendant to his seat at the defense table; the other security staff were filtering in to their positions. Redpath entered and remained standing at the defense table. Gomez-Larsen and Torricelli took their places without speaking. The room filled quickly. There was very little noise for such a large group, maybe sixty people, including spectators, reporters, and security.

They barely had time to get settled before the judge’s door opened, and they had to stand up again. Dickinson called out, good and loud, “All rise!”

Norcross, looking around, hurried up into his chair. He told everyone to be seated and got right to it.

“As I believe most of you know, we have been informed that the jury has reached its verdict. As of this moment, no one other than the jurors knows what that verdict is.”

Dickinson let his eyes move around the room, watching the reactions.

Gomez-Larsen looked vaguely annoyed. Alex yawned nervously.

Redpath was flushed and leaning back in his chair, watching Norcross. He seemed to be readying himself to jump up if something needed to be done. Beside him, Moon Hudson sat with his hands clasped, elbows on the table, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest. It occurred to Dickinson that if Hudson’s life had been different, he might have made a good cop. He certainly knew how to keep his cool.

When Sandra Hudson, her mother, and her brother arrived in the courtroom, the defendant did not turn his head to look at them, and Sandra did not try to speak to her husband. Now, while Norcross went on, she sat looking into her lap, her mouth slightly open. Her expression made Dickinson think of a small child caught red-handed in some horrible misbehavior. The whipping hadn’t started yet, but the real torture was having to sit and wait for something she might not be able to endure.

The mother had placed a hand over her forehead, obscuring her face; the brother stared out the courtroom windows, as though miles away.

The O’Connors held the front row on the right. Jack and the oldest boy sat side by side, leaning back like matching statues, with their arms folded across their chests and their eyes fixed on the bench. Eddie shifted in his seat, scowling as though he thought the entire show was a pathetic joke. The face of the youngest kid, Mikey, had the same expression as Sandra’s. He’d done something bad, and he was going to get a whipping. The similarity was so startling, Dickinson looked quickly back and forth to compare.

Carmella sat by herself. She shook her head quickly and wiped her eye.

“I don’t want to drag this out,” Norcross was saying. “I know this moment must be very hard for some of you. But I have to say a couple things before we bring the jury in.

“First, I am ordering that there be no outward expressions or demonstrations of emotion, either positive or negative, in this courtroom when the verdict is returned, whatever it may be.

“Second, a final point for the lawyers.” Norcross dropped his eyes to counsel table. “As I see it, once the jury returns the verdict, we will proceed in one of three directions. First, if the defendant is acquitted on all counts, he will be discharged. Second, if he is convicted on one or both of the drug counts, but acquitted on the capital counts, I will be fixing a sentencing date. Third, if the defendant is found guilty on one or both of the murder counts, I’ll let the jury go until Monday, when we will begin the penalty phase of the trial. Ms. Johnson, please bring the jury in.”

After two long minutes of silence while Ruby retrieved them, the jurors filed in. Not one looked at the defendant.

Norcross asked, “Mr. Foreperson, has the jury reached a verdict?”

The kid stood, swallowed, and answered, louder than necessary, “Yes, we have.” He raised a rolled sheaf of papers the size of a relay baton toward the judge.

“Kindly hand the verdict slips to the courtroom deputy.”

Ruby took the papers; Norcross directed the jurors to be seated. He received the papers, checked them over quickly, and handed them back to Ruby. Dickinson noticed that, as usual, the judge’s face gave nothing away. Now there were thirteen people who knew the jury’s decision.

“Please listen carefully as the clerk reads the verdicts. I will be polling each of you afterward to confirm that you agree with them.”

“Will the defendant please rise and hear the jury’s verdict.” Ruby’s West Indian accent was curved at the edges, but, as usual, firm and clear.

Redpath stood first, and Hudson obediently followed, resting the tips of his fingers on the edge of the table. His face was gloomy and distant.

“We, the jury, unanimously find the defendant, Clarence Hudson, not guilty of possession with intent to distribute, and distribution of, marijuana.

“We, the jury, unanimously find the defendant, Clarence Hudson, not guilty of possession with intent to distribute, and distribution of, cocaine.

“We, the jury, find the defendant, Clarence Hudson, guilty of the first-degree murder of Edgar, aka Peach, Delgado during and in the course of a RICO conspiracy.”

A gasp rose from the gallery. Carmella’s head flopped back. Her eyes were squeezed tight, and she was breathing hard, trying to control herself.

“We, the jury, find the defendant, Clarence Hudson, guilty of the first-degree murder of Ginger Daley O’Connor during and in the course of a RICO conspiracy.”

A loud, hoarse voice burst through the silence. Eddie O’Connor stood, raised both fists, and shouted, “Yes!” Jack O’Connor reached over to snatch at his son’s shoulder, but Eddie shrugged him off and ran out of the courtroom. His cries of, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” echoed down the corridor.

53

I
t was hell. A familiar spot for Redpath, but one whose suffocating heat he always managed to forget until he found himself seared by it once more. Moon was to his right, motionless. Nothing Redpath could say, nothing he could do, but sit and feel himself being roasted alive.

His Honor went on for some time—God damn him for being a complacent son of a bitch!—instructing the jury to disregard the outburst from the O’Connor boy and polling the members individually to confirm their agreement with the verdict. While the judge rattled on, Redpath was blessedly unable to speak to Moon. Then Norcross turned to a summary of the next phase of the case, death or life, and Redpath’s mind began to wake to the terrible challenge that still lay ahead, the complicated path that could lead Moon to the execution chamber.

When Norcross finally paused before giving his last comments to the jury and letting them go until Monday, Redpath started to lean toward Moon, having no idea what quick words might come out of his mouth, but with the sense that to say nothing would be inhuman. The sound of Sandra’s crying behind them, however, cut off whatever he might have come up with. Moon’s dangerous look told Redpath not to lay a hand on him. He would bear no insult of comfort.

As soon as the jury made its way out—one or two members glancing nervously toward the defense table—and Norcross did his ostrich walk through his private door, the two deputies came quickly over to cuff up the defendant and get him out of the courtroom. They would want him back in Ludlow ASAP, to avoid any possible problems. The ante had just been seriously upped.