The Hanging Judge (43 page)

“Then perhaps I’ll have to get you a new judge.”

The shadowy man, Mannie, floated into the room, holding a long, dark object. He took a position by the door. Carlos looked at him and nodded.

“Good.” Then he leaned over so his face was very close to Maria’s. “I was never here. Do you understand? You know I would never hurt you, but I cannot always control others. It would be very bad for you, and very, very dangerous for Pepe, and maybe even for our parents, if anyone ever knew I was here. Do you understand me, Maria? I was never here. You never saw me. I am dead.”

“I understand.”

Carlos pulled the glasses out of his pocket and set them on his face. Mannie opened the door, and Carlos stepped out ahead of him. The bodyguard hesitated in the doorway. “I am very sorry if I hurt you,” he said, and then he was gone, too.

Maria sat on the edge of the sofa for nearly an hour, hugging her elbows and staring into the darkness. Eventually, one fact in the swirl of confusion became clear; its force pinned her where she sat. She had been watching her brother carefully for more than twenty-five years, gauging Carlos’s moods—ready to dodge a slap, a fist, a thrown stone. Now she knew one thing absolutely, knew it with solid intuition even before the truth took shape in words. Carlos was lying. He’d put Pepe in that car. That much, at least, was the truth.

58

T
he Friday-night crowd in Springfield’s Entertainment District—a few square blocks of upscale bars, restaurants, and gentlemen’s clubs not far from the courthouse—had pretty much evaporated by three a.m., when Tony Torricelli nosed his Firebird up to a dumpster behind a hot spot called the Fish Eye. A stocky man positioned by the back doorway wiped his hands on his apron, nodded, and went back inside, leaving Tony in the spidery darkness. The Firebird’s engine idled softly, echoing off the trash bins. Scraps of paper clawed over the blacktop in puffs of warm breeze that smelled of cooking grease.

Tony checked his watch—he was on the button—and lit a cigarette, doing his best to look unconcerned. News of Alex’s unhelpful testimony at the Hudson trial had reached the South End, and it wasn’t long before Tony received a call from one of the runners he’d placed bets with, a mid-echelon wise guy named Perez. Seemed Perez’s boss wanted to talk to Tony.

“What’s he want to talk about?” Tony had asked Perez.

“Chill out, Tone.”

“I’m just asking …”

“He’s not upset with you, man,” Perez had said. “He’s just, you know, disappointed. Now he’s got another idea to get you out from under.”

“What kind of idea?”

“You think he’d tell me? Come talk.”

Tony had met Perez’s boss once, briefly, at a wedding. He remembered the man’s deadly stare as they shook hands. No way you refused a meeting with this guy. So now here he was, and God help him.

The rear door of the Fish Eye reopened, and three shadows drifted out. The first two split off, one moving to his left toward the driver’s side and the other toward the passenger door. The interior light popped on as the guy on the passenger side slid in next to him.

“How you doing?” Tony asked. He’d never seen the man, a big, bald-headed bruiser.

“Fuck you.” The man reached over, turned off the Firebird, and took the keys. He nodded toward the third man, who’d trailed up and was standing opposite the front left fender with his hands in the pockets of his gray sport coat.

This was Perez’s boss. His crisp white shirt was open at the collar, and he was looking down at Tony with a sad, almost fatherly smile.

The man in the passenger seat spoke again, “Out.” Tony’s keys gave a plaintive clink as the guy stuffed them into his jeans pocket. The man on the driver’s side opened the door, and Tony stepped onto the blacktop.

“Mr. Calabrese, how you doing?” Tony transferred the cigarette to his left hand and held out his right. Calabrese kept his hands in his pockets, looking even sadder. A crunch on the gravel told Tony that the guy on the passenger side had exited, walked around the rear of the car, and was coming up behind him.

“Not too good,” Calabrese said. “I want my fucking money.”

“I’m trying, really. I just, I need some more time.” Tony could feel Baldie breathing into the hair on the back of his neck; the driver’s-side guy, shorter, with a stubby ponytail and a thin mustache, was half an arm’s length to his left, crowding his space. No place to run.

“Well, congratulations. You just made a down payment.” Calabrese poked his chin toward the Firebird. “We like your car.”

Tony took a puff on his cigarette and gave a hollow laugh. “Piece of crap’s not worth the loan I got on it.”

“We drive the car, pal. You pay the loan.”

Calabrese nodded to the guy behind Tony, and two iron-hard hands shoved up under his armpits and locked behind his neck, levering his face toward the ground. The cigarette dropped from his hand and bounced, scattering the orange ember. The man with the mustache hit Tony hard in the gut and followed with a jab that cracked Tony’s nose and sent salty blood flowing into his mouth. As Tony staggered sideways, he could see the guy was grinning.

“Goddamit,” Tony said. “Where the fuck are you guys?”

The arms jammed his head down more fiercely, and he felt as though his neck would break. The guy throwing the punches had to be at least semi-pro. He planted a foot and hit Tony fast, three times—
bam-bam-bam!
—in the ribs, and a jolt of pain shot up his left side.

“Hey!” Tony gasped. “Come on! For Christ’s sake.”

The bald muscleman swung Tony around and slammed him into the car. Tony felt another hard punch in the kidney, then another, and then, at last, all hell broke loose.

A black SUV tore into the parking lot and skidded up so close it tapped the nose of the Firebird and knocked Tony backward. The window was down and the driver was holding a gun that looked as big as a horse’s leg, pointing it at Calabrese.

“Up, up!” the driver shouted. “Up with the fucking hands!”

Several other cars roared in, and there was a sound of shouts and running feet.

The arms vanished, and Tony sat down on the pavement so hard his teeth snapped together. Bright searchlights on two marked cruisers abruptly lit the scene, giving Tony the pleasure of seeing his friend from the passenger seat getting tripped and kicked in the nuts as he tried to scramble away. The welterweight was already on the ground, and Calabrese, with a disgusted look on his face, had his arms pinned behind him. Tony heard the satisfying click of the cuffs.

The case agent, Simonelli, leaned over him.

“Great job! You okay?” He reached out a hand to help Tony up.

Tony ignored the hand and began pushing himself to his feet. “Does it look like I’m fucking okay? They broke my fucking nose.”

“Let me turn you off.” Simonelli reached inside Tony’s shirt and deactivated the recording device.

“Where the fuck were you guys? Fuck!”

“Oh, stop being such a whiner!” Another agent trotted up, smiling broadly. “We got the whole thing on video, clear as a bell. Damn! Just wish they’d popped you a couple more times.”

“Fuck!” Tony sputtered. “Fuck all of you! Give me a towel or something. Look at my fucking shirt!”

Simonelli put his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you use the distress signal? It took us a couple seconds to tell you were in trouble.”

“Distress signal?” Tony was patting blood off his face with someone’s handkerchief. His nose stung horribly. “What fucking signal?”

“ ‘Help’ was the signal, Tony. You were supposed to yell ‘Help’ the minute they touched you. We went over it three times.”

“ ‘Help’—that was it? Just ‘Help’?”

“Three times, Tony.”

“Huh,” Tony said. He dabbed his nose and winced. “Fuck a duck.”

59

E
ven with Michael O’Connor’s testimony, Judge Norcross might have squeezed in the arguments and charge that Friday, except that, of course, this being
Hudson
, something had to go haywire. After the boy left the witness stand and the defense rested—right as he was drawing breath to describe the next portion of the trial—Juror Six, a young woman with spiky blonde hair on the far end of the front row, stood up suddenly. To Norcross’s astonishment, she began floundering over the feet of the other jurors, muttering, “sorry” and “excuse me” like a movie patron clambering out for a pit stop.

Predictably, she didn’t make it. With one hand on the jury rail and one on her diaphragm, she retched volcanically into the lap of the foreperson, paused, shuddered, and then vomited again, off to the side, so a few stray chunks ran down the front of the jury box’s beech paneling.

What else could he expect? He’d had to put everything over to Monday. It was disappointing but, as Eva reminded him, picking up with the final arguments at the beginning of the week might work better anyway. They’d have the weekend to repolish the penalty phase instructions and air out the courtroom.

Claire returned very late that Friday after four days at a conference in Hawaii, and Saturday morning Norcross was hurrying into town to meet up with her. As he drove, he embroidered details of the vomit performance to improve the comedy, chuckling to himself at the points where he hoped his lady would laugh. They were meeting for breakfast at The Lord Jeffery Inn, an upscale establishment popular with visiting alumni on the edge of the Amherst Common.

As Norcross was easing into a parking place, he got an unwelcome surprise. Florence Abercrombie was emerging from Hastings News, a stationery store across the street. He ducked down over the passenger seat, pretending to fuss with something in the glove compartment, hoping she wouldn’t notice him.

No such luck. She bustled into the crosswalk, more stooped than he remembered, and began waving her arms. “Yoo-hoo! Over here!” she called, as though she were shipwrecked and he were a sail on the horizon. The old woman’s long white hair danced behind her in the breeze. By the time she drew up, Norcross was out of his car attending to the parking meter.

“They’re taking my house!” Mrs. Abercrombie said, with a lopsided grin and large, unnaturally bright eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Abercrombie.” The meter buzzed as it digested his quarter.

Her off-center smile did not change.

“You denied my motion.” A strand of hair flapped across her face. “Without a hearing.”

“I know. I’m very sorry.” She seemed to have gotten shorter, and Norcross had to put his hands on his thighs as he bent down to her. “Can I tell you something? I’m about to meet somebody—you remember Professor Lindemann?—and, to tell the truth, I’m pretty excited to see her. She’s waiting. So this is not a very …”

“I know, it’s not a good time.” Mrs. Abercrombie looked down at the pavement before squinting up at him. “It’s never a good time.” The wretchedness in her eyes made her unchanging smile seem daubed on.

“Sorry. It’s just … I’m just, kind of …”

“It’s all right, Your Honor.” Mrs. Abercrombie waved her hands, fanning the air. “But, don’t worry, you’ll be seeing me again. I’m not giving up, you know!” Her fingers tapped his chest as she stepped closer and dropped her voice. “A good time is just around the corner.”

“That’s the spirit,” Norcross said, stepping back. Then he added, wincing inwardly at his hypocrisy, “Always good to see you, Mrs. Abercrombie.”

Claire was waiting for him in the lobby when he arrived, wearing a dark green blouse, black slacks, a pair of earrings he’d given her, and perhaps a little more makeup than usual. She didn’t need it, but it was a pleasure to know she’d taken the trouble. They had just gotten to their table, and David had not even had time to start in about Juror Six, when Claire reached down and handed him a Lord & Taylor bag containing a package in lavender wrapping paper.

“Hey,” she said. “I brought you a present.”

“Oh no,” David said, smacking his hand over his eyes. He should have brought something, flowers at least. No, flowers would have been wrong, but he should have brought something.

“You didn’t get anything for me, right?” Claire asked. And when David nodded, she smiled and said, “Such an asshole! Come on, open it up.”

While the waiter poured their coffee, David slowly removed the paper, being careful not to tear it and thinking furiously. He could try getting her something on the way home, but what? A flowering plant?

The ceramic object inside the box seemed to be some sort of doll. Placed on the table, it revealed itself as the grinning bust of a round, pink-faced woman, eight inches high, who waggled back and forth and gaped at him.

Claire chuckled and poked his arm.

“Know what it is?”

“It’s some kind of …”

“It’s a Wife of Bath bobblehead!” Claire leaned back in her chair and clapped her hands with delight. David noticed her moist tongue on the tip of her teeth. “It’s one of only two Canterbury Tales bobbleheads in the entire universe, as far as I know. I ran into an old student of mine at the conference, an amateur sculptor who once had a crush on me, and he gave them to me.” Claire’s quick tap sent the doll’s head rocking. “Isn’t she wonderful?”

“Fabulous.” David peered closer. “She’s got a big space between her front teeth.”

“That’s how Chaucer describes her! Isn’t that a riot? In the Middle Ages, gap-toothed women were supposed to be extra lusty.” She nudged the doll again and quoted. “ ‘Boold was hir face, and fair, and red of hewe.’ ”

“He’s got that detail.” David paused. “In love with you, huh? Meeting you at conferences in steamy places and bringing you nifty gifts.”

“I said he had a crush on me, once.”

“Hmm. Who’s the other bobblehead?”

“The knight, of course.” Claire tapped out the pentameter on the tablecloth. “ ‘A knight there was, and that a worthy man.’ Him, I’m keeping.”

“Maybe he’ll miss her.” David nodded at the Wife of Bath. “All alone on his shelf.”

He watched the doll ogling him impertinently; her jiggle had a coquettish quality. “She makes me think of something, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Would you like me to?”

“To what?”

“Put my finger on it.” When David leaned back and raised his eyebrows, Claire threw him her goose face, then said, “Why don’t we go back to my place for breakfast? I have ripe mangos.”