Текст книги "Maximum Security"

Автор книги: Rose Connors

Соавторы: Rose Connors
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

CHAPTER 24

Geraldine was positioned in front of the bench, chomping at the bit to begin, well before Judge Long took his seat and called the noisy courtroom to order. He didn’t acknowledge her at first, though, didn’t give her an opening. Instead, he donned his half-glasses and peered over them to the defense table, at me. He didn’t utter a word, didn’t need to. His question couldn’t have been clearer if he’d shouted through a bullhorn.

“Your Honor,” I said, getting to my feet but remaining at our table, “the defense is prepared to go forward.”

The shake of his head was barely perceptible. And it was not intended to be unkind. Leon Long is the last member of the judiciary who would question a citizen’s inalienable right to be judged by a panel of her peers. He deemed it foolhardy, though, for Louisa Rawlings to go forward under the circumstances. And I don’t disagree.

Geraldine is adding the final touches to her presentation now and I suspect she’ll be nominated for an Academy Award before the day is out. Under the guise of getting the substance of her case against Louisa Rawlings on the record—a legitimate end—she managed to spoon-feed every delicious morsel of this sordid saga to the salivating members of the media. More than a few reporters ran for the double doors to phone their press rooms after she showcased the brass swan. They stopped short, though, huddling in the back like an indoor football team, when she brought the bloodstained portion of the oak floorboards to center stage.

She’s just about finished, I think, talked out at last, and the press benches are empty. Only the photographers remain, roaming the aisles in search of one last opportunity to bag a front-page shot. And Woody Timmons is still here too, scribbling in his notepad. He’s off on his own again, this time seated on the end of the back bench.

“And so, Your Honor,” Geraldine concludes, “the Commonwealth respectfully prays that the defendant be held over without bail, as she poses a clear and immediate danger to the community.”

I’m on my feet. Geraldine is out of line, even by her own standards. Bail isn’t an issue here; murder is a nonbailable offense. Never mind the “clear and immediate danger to the community” nonsense.

Judge Long is way ahead of me. He bangs his gavel even before I voice my objection. “Attorney Schilling,” he says, “that’s enough.”

I sit again, certain the judge’s admonition will rein her in.

“She’s a cold, calculating murderer,” Geraldine adds, facing our table. As fate would have it, she’s facing the cameras, too.

So much for the judge’s admonition. “Your Honor!” I’m up again, but I doubt my words can even be heard over the explosion of commentary from the spectators.

Judge Long is on his feet now too, pounding his gavel with abandon. “Enough, Ms. Schilling,” he repeats.

Geraldine fires the slightest of smiles at our table.

“Murderess,” Louisa hisses.

Maybe I imagined it.

Geraldine’s green eyes smolder. “What did you say?”

Maybe I didn’t imagine it.

Louisa stands beside me and I grab her shoulder—hard—to tell her to shut up. She’s not taking my advice today, though. None of it.

“Murderess,” she repeats calmly.

“Pardon me?” Geraldine’s eyes ignite now. She seems to think Louisa is accusing her of murder. Even I know that’s not the case, though I understand precious little else about this scene.

“What did you say?” Geraldine demands again.

“If you’re going to accuse me of such dreadful acts,” Louisa says, her voice low and steady, “do it right. If I had done the things you say I’ve done—which, for your information, I most certainly did not—I would not be a murderer. I’d be a murderess.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Geraldine Schilling speechless before. And I’m fairly certain no one else in this courtroom has either.

“Now here’s a new wrinkle,” Harry mutters from his chair behind us. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”

Louisa wrests her shoulder from my grasp. “If you call me a murderer once more—” she says.

“Your Honor!” The Kydd shouts and jumps out of his chair. He grabs Louisa’s elbow so hard he jolts her into silence. “Mrs. Rawlings isn’t feeling well.” He’s still shouting, though there’s no need. The rest of us couldn’t be any quieter. “With the court’s permission, she’d like to leave the proceedings at this time.”

The Kydd moves Louisa away from our table and propels her toward the side door, motioning frantically for the startled matron to come take her off his hands. She does. And they exit before the equally surprised judge utters a word. “Permission granted,” he says as the door slams shut.

The Kydd returns to our table, winded and flushed, and I give him a grateful nod. That was quick thinking on his part and I’m fairly certain it averted disaster. Louisa’s defense is already on life-support. Threatening any prosecutor would be a mistake. Threatening Geraldine would be fatal.

“I’ve heard enough,” Judge Long says, taking his seat again. He looks out at Geraldine and shakes his head. “No, I misspoke,” he says. “Let me amend that. I’ve heard more than enough.”

Geraldine is still standing. She looks up at the bench and gives him her best angelic face, as if she has no idea what he’s talking about.

The judge turns to Old String Tie, who’s been dutifully tapping away for the past hour, to issue his ruling. “The defendant will be bound over,” he says. “Louisa Coleman Rawlings is hereby remanded to the custody of the Barnstable County House of Correction to await trial.” The judge bangs his gavel again, just once. “We’re adjourned.”

We stand as he leaves the bench. He reaches the door to his chambers and turns to face us again. “I want a scheduling conference in the morning,” he says, “so we can keep this thing moving. Be here at eight. And bring your three Cs.”

Geraldine looks at the judge and frowns before she returns to the prosecutors’ table. Judge Leon Long always tells attorneys to bring their three Cs to scheduling conferences. And Geraldine Schilling always frowns when he does.

All important dates for a case are pinned down during the scheduling conference. The discovery cutoff, the pretrial-motions deadline, and the start of trial itself are among them. Trials run more efficiently—and presumably more effectively—when both sides have enough time to do what needs doing. That’s why Judge Long asks each attorney to show up with three Cs: common sense, a calendar, and a conscience.

CHAPTER 25

Wednesday, October 18

Harry slaps this morning’s Boston Herald on our table. Even before I look down at it, I know the news isn’t good. There it is. Lou McCabe’s front-page headline. Over the top, even for Lou.

Goody Hallett Dances Again!

A low moan seeps into the room. I pause, thinking it sounds familiar, and then realize it’s coming from my throat. I feel a sudden need to go home to pull the blankets over my head, but the pendulum clock behind the jury box says it’s just five minutes before eight—A.M. I plant my elbows on the table and bury my face in my hands.

The Kydd wheels his chair closer to mine and leans on my armrest so he can read Lou McCabe’s venomous version of journalism. “Who the hell is Goody Hallett?” he asks.

I sit up straight again and face him. “She’s the little old woman of Nauset Sea.”

“A witch,” Harry adds.

“A what?” The Kydd starts to laugh, certain we’re joking, and then stops. We’re not.

“Goody Hallett is a local legend,” Harry tells him. “Cape Codders believe she lived here during the eighteenth century—all hundred years of it. She made her home along the shoals, dancing all night—every night—across the beaches and over the sand dunes.”

“In scarlet shoes,” I pitch in.

“Scarlet shoes?” The Kydd still looks like he’s sure this is a joke.

“That part doesn’t really matter,” Harry says.

“Yes, it does,” I correct him.

“Well, okay, it matters to Marty. She’s something of a clotheshorse. Anyhow, legend has it that old Goody had a penchant for conjuring up nor’easters. And an appetite for the souls of doomed sailors.”

“The souls of doomed sailors,” the Kydd repeats. He looks like he’s starting to worry about us.

“Right,” Harry answers. “Goody would whip up the weather whenever she got the whim and the ships near Cape Cod’s shoals would find themselves in serious trouble.”

The Kydd knits his brow, apparently having a little trouble of his own. Harry doesn’t notice. “And then old Goody would hang a lantern from a whale’s tail,” he continues.

“A whale’s tail.” The Kydd checks in with me to see if he heard correctly. I nod. He did.

“That’s right,” Harry says. “And to the men on the vessels struggling at sea, it looked like a lighthouse. Goody lured them to certain destruction and then gambled with the Devil for their souls.”

“The Devil.” The Kydd checks in again, and I take over.

“Word is that Goody outgambled the Devil and, eventually, he got sick of losing. He strangled Goody and, the following year, a pair of scarlet shoes turned up in a dead whale’s belly.”

“The Devil,” the Kydd repeats.

“That’s why the shoes are important,” I tell Harry.

He nods, giving up the point, and then turns back to the Kydd. “Old-timers take Goody out and dust her off any time they sit around a campfire with their grandchildren,” he says.

“To ensure the folklore lives on,” I explain.

“But mostly to terrify the little tykes,” Harry adds.

“The Devil,” the Kydd says yet again. He takes a deep breath, folds the newspaper in half, and hands it back to Harry. “Get it out of here,” the Kydd says. “Louisa is low enough. She doesn’t need witch talk.”

He’s right, of course. She doesn’t. And in spite of the inappropriateness of it all, I’m touched by his genuine concern for her. He’s a good sort, the Kydd. His heart’s in the right place, even if his pants sometimes aren’t.

Harry tucks the folded paper under his arm and moves to a chair at the bar, behind our table. As soon as he leaves, Judge Long and Louisa enter the courtroom simultaneously, the judge from chambers, Louisa from lockup. A flustered matron rushes to deliver Louisa to us and an equally ruffled Joey Kelsey tells us to rise after everyone in the room is on their feet. I’m not the only one who’s a beat behind this morning.

Louisa looks somewhat refreshed, markedly better than she did yesterday. She smiles at the Kydd and me as she joins us and I realize her eyes aren’t bloodshot anymore. I’m reminded of the Rule of Alternates, a principle Harry shared with me years ago. People newly imprisoned—most notably first-timers—tend to sleep on alternate nights. It’s impossible to fall asleep the first night in the joint; impossible not to the second. For some, the pattern persists throughout their entire stay in county facilities.

Judge Long tells us to sit and everyone except Wanda Morgan does. She stays on her feet instead and walks to the bench with a file that apparently needs the judge’s attention. I lean closer to Louisa so I can whisper and the Kydd leans toward her too, so he can listen. “About the trial date,” I ask her, “what’s your preference, sooner or later?”

Left to its own devices, the machinery of the Commonwealth will deliver a case like this one to trial in about a year. But if there aren’t an excessive number of discovery disputes or pretrial motions, that time can be shortened, sometimes by as much as a few months. For defendants who have a decent shot at acquittal, it’s a no-brainer. They want to get to trial as fast as possible. This particular defendant, though, isn’t one of them.

“That depends,” Louisa answers, looking at the Kydd and then back at me, “on how long the two of you need—”

I shake my head. “That’s not an issue.”

She shakes her head too. “—to find the murderer.”

Now that’s an issue. “What?”

“My head is clear this morning,” she says, “for the first time since this nightmare began. And now it’s obvious.”

“What’s obvious?” The Kydd’s starting to squirm.

“I didn’t kill Herb,” she says. “And I didn’t attack him. But the only way I’m going to convince these people of that”—she nods toward Geraldine and Clarence—“is to prove who did.”

The Kydd stares at me and loosens his tie a little.

“I’ll work every minute of every hour,” Louisa continues. “I’ll make notes. I’ll give you every detail that might be remotely connected to Herb’s death. I’ll do everything I can to figure out who killed him.”

She pauses and looks at both of us again. “But I’m stuck in this dreadful place,” she says, “so you two will have to go get him.” She faces front and folds her hands on the table, as if it’s all settled now.

The judge and Wanda are still poring over their file and after a moment, Louisa twists around in her chair. “Good morning, Harold,” she says.

Harold leans forward and squeezes her shoulder.

She points to the newspaper in his lap. “Is that the Herald?”

He nods.

Her eyes move from Harry to the Kydd and then to me. “Have you read it?” she asks us.

We all nod. The look on Louisa’s face tells us she’s read it too.

“It’s preposterous,” she says, facing front again and folding her arms.

She’s right, of course. Preposterous is Lou McCabe’s middle name.

Louisa turns away from the Kydd and leans over the arm of my chair, as if what she has to say next is just between us girls. “Honestly,” she whispers, “what in the world was that man thinking?”

I shrug. Louis P. McCabe doesn’t think, as far as I can tell.

“A woman with my coloring,” she continues, leaning into me and pursing her perfect lips, “wouldn’t be caught dead in scarlet shoes.”

CHAPTER 26

Geraldine leaves her table and strolls back to the bar—and Harry—as soon as Judge Long goes into his chambers. The Kydd and I are busy packing up. Clarence is too. And all of our yellow legal pads are peppered with multiple dates, the most important one either circled or underlined a few times. Louisa Rawlings’s murder trial is scheduled to begin on September 18, eleven months from today.

“Splendid,” Geraldine says to Harry, her face deadpan, her voice flat. “You’re here.”

Harry jumps to his feet and his chest puffs up a little. That might be the nicest thing our District Attorney has ever said to him. “I didn’t know you felt that way,” he says. He leans into her, as if he doesn’t want the rest of us to hear, and uses his best bedroom voice. “One of us is going to have to break it to Marty.” He shakes his head sadly. “I guess we all should have seen this coming.”

“Puh-leeze.” Geraldine closes her eyes and tosses a few printed pages at him. “Spare me.”

Harry groans. He knows an arrest report when he sees one. “Who?” he asks.

Geraldine laughs and taps her temple, as if trying to recall. “Rhymes with stinky,” she sings.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Harry falls back into his chair, checking the report to see if Geraldine is serious. His frown answers the question. She is.

He reads silently for a moment and then runs both hands through his thick hair before looking up at her again. “So when do we tango?” he asks. He sighs and slouches in his seat, stretching his legs out toward our table, not looking like much of a dancer at the moment.

She laughs again. “This afternoon,” she tells him. “You’re on my dance card.” She checks her list and glances over at the pendulum clock. It’s ten forty-five.

“The Rawlings matter is scheduled for one,” she continues. “If you’re back here by twelve-thirty, the judge might squeeze you in first. Otherwise,” she shrugs and starts walking back to her table, “we’ll see you and the King of the Road at open session.”

I laugh and snap my briefcase shut. “You’re slipping in your middle age, Geraldine. We just finished the Rawlings matter.”

She frowns across the room at me, the “Get a brain, Martha” look she perfected when we worked together. “Not that Rawlings matter,” she says. “The other one.”

The other one? I stand and step over Harry’s feet so I can walk toward her. “What other one?”

“The daughter filed a petition,” she says, turning her back to me. “It doesn’t concern you.”

My client is charged with capital murder. Everything concerns me. “A petition for what?”

She takes a short stack of documents from Clarence, perches on the edge of her table, and begins reading. She waves me off without looking up.

“Geraldine, if anyone even remotely connected to Louisa Rawlings is going to be in a courtroom with the judge and the prosecutor on her case, I want to know about it.”

She looks up at me, annoyed as usual, and then lowers her reading material to her lap and sighs. I can almost see her brain decide that answering my question is probably the quickest way to get rid of me. “The daughter,” she says, “Anna-something.”

“Anastasia,” I tell her.

“That’s it. She wants us to release the body.”

I nod. It’s not an unusual request.

“And the house,” Geraldine adds.

“The house? What house?”

“Her father’s. She’s having some sort of service for him tomorrow morning. Wants to invite the mourners back to the house for a mercy meal.”

Anastasia was true to her word. She made arrangements. And she wasted no time.

“She also wants to stay there while she’s on the Cape,” Geraldine continues. “She can’t do either of those things as long as the house is a designated crime scene, so she filed a motion asking the court to release it.”

“Are you opposing the motion?” The thought of Geraldine and Anastasia in combat is frightening.

She shakes her head. “No. There’s no need. The post is done. And she’s entitled to her father’s remains, for Christ’s sake.”

“What about the house?”

Geraldine hugs the stack of documents to her chest and smiles the way she always does when she knows she’s holding the reins. “Anna-whoever-the-hell-she-is can have the damned house,” she says. “After all, we’re done with it. We have everything we need.”

CHAPTER 27

In the Barnstable County House of Correction, no reasonable request goes unrefused. The powers that be rejected ours on the spot. The Kydd and I were on our best behavior when we met with Louisa Rawlings in the jail’s smallest conference room. We were patient, uncomplaining, as we waited in the hallway for more than half an hour to see the matron in charge of Louisa’s ward. We were as polite as Eagle Scouts when we explained the situation and asked that Louisa be brought back to the main courtroom at one o’clock. The answer was no.

“It’s not on the schedule,” the gum-chewing matron told us. She closed her ledger then. And she closed our discussion with it.

“We know it’s not on the schedule,” I reminded her. “That’s why we’re here.”

As far as she was concerned, though, our meeting had already ended. She took off her thick glasses and used them to direct us to the door.

The schedule is of paramount importance in our county facilities, particularly on the female violent offenders’ ward. This has always struck me as somewhat peculiar. Like every other woman who resides there at the moment, Louisa Rawlings has precisely nothing to do. Yet her schedule is not to be disrupted. She might miss a call from the Pentagon, it seems. Or the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

It took a written order from Judge Leon Long to override the mulish matron. And by the time that was accomplished, it was almost twelve-thirty. The Kydd ran out to grab a quick bite at the Piccadilly Deli, but I came back to the courthouse instead. I don’t have much of an appetite today.

Anastasia Rawlings is here early for the one o’clock hearing on her petition. She’s already in the hallway, outside the main courtroom, her ensemble either the same one she’s been wearing all week or a reasonable facsimile. She’s engrossed in what appears to be a heated discussion with Steven Collier and he’s not getting to say much. Lance Phillips is seated on a nearby bench. Apparently he’s not interested in their tiff; he’s staring into his lap, not even looking at them. Maybe he’s plotting his next murder mystery best seller.

Collier spots me first and he alerts Anastasia to my arrival with a silent dip of his jet-black head. She wheels around, dropping whatever her beef is with him, and storms down the long hallway in my direction, her hair trailing behind like the train of an evening gown gone wrong. “You,” she bellows, her deep voice echoing in the almost empty corridor. “How do you sleep at night?”

I’ve been asked this question a number of times since I joined the defense bar a year ago. Never by anyone concerned about my well-being. “You’ll get used to it,” Harry promised after the first time a pompous reporter shouted it at me on the courthouse steps. I haven’t.

“I want an answer,” Anastasia barks, blocking my path with her substantial black-clad form, her hair shroud settling around it.

“Then ask a question that deserves one.” I stand still, toe to toe with her clodhopper boots, and meet her ridiculously outlined eyes.

“Anastasia!” Steven Collier hustles down the hallway as if he’s been appointed the courthouse bouncer. “Stop it. The woman is only doing her job.”

This is a comment I’ve heard before too. I don’t like it any better than the sleep inquiry. “Not so,” I tell him. “I’m doing more than that. Much more.”

He looks down at me and knits his inky eyebrows, apparently unable to fathom what I might mean. I walk around both of them and pass Lance Phillips, who’s still examining his lap. I glance back at Anastasia and Collier again—they’re planted where I left them—and then enter the courtroom through its rear double doors.

Harry is the only person in here. He’s seated at the defense table looking a little bit like the Maytag repairman. His chair is pushed back, away from the table, his legs stretched out in front of him. He swivels the chair around when the heavy doors slam shut behind me and he laughs. As is often the case with Harry, I can’t imagine what he finds amusing. “Marty,” he says. “Here we are. Alone at last.”

As if she heard him, Wanda Morgan opens the side door and pokes her head into the courtroom. “You ready, Mr. Madigan?”

“You betcha,” he says, thrusting a fist in the air. “Ready, set, Rinky.”

Wanda shakes her head at him and then looks at me and laughs. I take a seat at the bar as she steps inside the courtroom, allowing Rinky and a couple of guards to enter after her. Rinky must be rambunctious today; it took two uniforms to get him in here. One removes his cuffs and the other delivers him to the defense table.

“There you are,” Rinky says to Harry as he approaches. “I’ve been looking for you.”

The side door opens and Geraldine rushes in, Clarence on her heels carrying two briefcases. Rinky’s shoulders droop when he looks over at the prosecutors and he drops his head sadly. “Oh, man,” he says. “Her again.”

Harry laughs out loud and slaps him on the back, sending skinny Rinky stumbling forward a few steps. Joey Kelsey tells us to stand.

Judge Long emerges from chambers, takes the file from Wanda as he passes her, and slaps it down on the bench. He sits, signals with both hands for the rest of us to do likewise, and retrieves his half-glasses from the pocket of his robe. “Mr. Snow,” he says, donning his spectacles and then peering over them, “you’re back.”

Rinky gives the judge a little wave. “Here I am again,” he says.

Judge Long sighs and skims the police report, then looks back up, his eyes wide under raised eyebrows. “Another tourist?” he asks Geraldine.

“Indeed,” she says, “I told you so” written plainly on her face. “Another one. A Mr. Palmer. A businessman from Pittsburgh.”

“Mr. Snow,” the judge says, “the members of our Chamber of Commerce work extremely hard to attract visitors to this peninsula during the shoulder seasons. You are single-handedly thwarting their efforts.”

Rinky hangs his head and assumes an “aw, shucks” look, as if he’s a little embarrassed by the judge’s flattery.

A firm grip on my shoulder makes me look up. It’s Steven Collier. “I need to see Louisa,” he says in an authoritative tone.

“Then make an appointment,” I tell him, maneuvering my shoulder out of his grasp. I toss my head in the general direction of the jail. “The women’s ward has set visiting hours. Call and get your name on the list.”

He frowns and bends down, bringing his face too close to mine. “Today,” he says. “I need to speak with her while she’s here in the courtroom.”

“Can’t happen,” I tell him. “Louisa isn’t allowed to have contact with anyone in this room except her lawyers. If you want to communicate with her today, you’ll have to do it through one of us.”

He stares at the floor and shakes his head emphatically. It seems my response is unsatisfactory. Again. He walks away and takes a seat on the front bench next to Anastasia and Lance. He fires an icy stare my way and then fixes his gaze on the judge. He’s through with me.

Harry has joined Geraldine in front of the bench. “The guy came at him from behind,” he says.

“Nobody came at him,” Geraldine replies. “Mr. Palmer tapped him on the shoulder to ask for directions.”

Rinky Snow would fare much better, it seems, if people would just stop asking him for directions. “No knives,” he calls out from his chair. The judge looks up and Rinky wags a finger at him. “No knives,” he repeats, as if he’s been having a hell of a time keeping this judge in line.

“Rinky didn’t know that,” Harry says. “All he knew was that Palmer came at him from behind.”

Judge Long’s eyes move from Rinky to Harry, his expression unchanged. “So he belted the guy,” the judge says.

“One punch,” Harry answers, shrugging, as if we’re all entitled to dole out that much in the course of a day. “In self-defense.”

“No knives,” Rinky announces again, his finger still wagging.

“Oh, please.” Geraldine looks at Harry as if he’s loonier than his client. “It was not self-defense.”

“Knocked him out cold,” Judge Long notes, reading from the report again.

“For a minute or two.” Harry waves one hand in the air to emphasize the insignificance of it all. “The guy was awake and oriented by the time the rescue squad got there.”

Judge Long looks like he isn’t buying Harry’s argument this time. He leans on his elbows, folds his hands together, and rests his chin on top of them. “Mr. Madigan,” he says after taking a deep breath, “I’m sorry. I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. And I realize there are extenuating circumstances. But I think we need to spell the people of Chatham, take Mr. Snow off their hands for a little while.” He looks down at the police report again and sighs. “Particularly the tourists,” he adds, “if any are still standing.”

“But, Judge,” Harry tries again, “it was nothing more than an honest mistake. You or I might have made the same mistake if someone came at one of us from behind.”

The judge removes his glasses and closes his eyes. He almost smiles when he opens them again and looks at Harry. “I don’t think so, Mr. Madigan.”

Harry doesn’t think so either, of course. Too often in this business we have to swallow our pride and advocate the absurd.

“Mr. Snow,” the judge says, turning his attention back to Rinky.

“No knives,” Rinky, standing up, warns the judge yet again with a wagging finger.

“I can’t let you go with a slap on the wrist this time, sir. No knives is right. But no fists either. You’re going to spend a little time up on the hill”—Judge Long nods in the direction of the House of Correction—“so you can think about it.” He faces Geraldine and Harry again and sighs. “Come back tomorrow,” he says, looking at each of them in turn, “and tell me you’ve worked this out.”

Geraldine exhales loudly, her expression suggesting she’d rather work out a business plan with the mob. Harry smiles and winks at her, as if he’s reveling in their earlier intimacy.

“We have the necessary paperwork, Your Honor.” Clarence Wexler pops up from his table and scurries to the bench, delivering photocopies to Harry, the originals to the judge.

“Hey, who’s the whippersnapper?” Rinky puts his question to the room at large. “Where’d that little fella come from?” It seems Rinky hadn’t noticed Clarence until now.

Judge Long all but swallows his lips in his attempt to avoid laughing, but his eyes give him away. He reads through Clarence’s documents, fills in a few blanks, and signs off. He’s still struggling for composure when he looks back up at Harry. “If it makes you feel any better,” the judge says, “the forecast calls for a cold snap.”

The matron delivers Louisa to the defense table and I join her, though technically we don’t belong here. We’re not parties to this particular proceeding. Geraldine was right: the issues raised in the petition are between Anastasia Rawlings and the Commonwealth. We have no standing to address them. But we do want to be heard on a related matter.

The gallery is noisy again, the benches full. Anyone who checked the schedule probably assumed that the Rawlings case docketed for one o’clock is Louisa’s. And apparently the press thinks so too. They’re back in force, hurling scores of questions at Louisa in anything-but-subdued voices. She doesn’t answer, but she does smile and flashbulbs bombard her.

Harry and Geraldine are at one side of the bench, finishing up Rinky Snow’s paperwork. Rinky’s prison escorts lean against the wall by the side door, their charge centered between them. The Kydd is in a seat at the bar, so there’s a chair available at the table for Anastasia Rawlings if she wants it. She doesn’t.

She marches past, shielding her profile with a stiff, flattened hand, a dramatic blinder against the sight of her father’s widow. Steven Collier follows and pauses to give Louisa a solemn nod before he passes. Anastasia steps to the side when they reach the bench and Collier plants himself squarely in front of the judge. He intends to do the talking, it seems. I might enjoy this.

Judge Long checks in with Harry and Geraldine and then nods at the uniforms, telling them it’s time to escort Rinky to his all-too-familiar digs. Rinky’s not quite ready to leave the courtroom, though. He does a double-take in Anastasia’s direction and then elbows the guard nearest the door. “Would ya lookit that?” Rinky says. “Ever seen anything like that before?”

Anastasia tosses her hair over her shoulder and snarls at him. The guards look somewhat alarmed by her performance, but Rinky doesn’t. He seems delighted. He encircles his eyes with his hands as if he’s holding binoculars, then bounces up and down and starts to walk toward her, as if he’s spotted a rare bird and wants a better view.