Текст книги "Maximum Security"

Автор книги: Rose Connors

Соавторы: Rose Connors
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CHAPTER 17

Leon Long has been a Barnstable County Superior Court judge for two decades. Other judges of that tenure might claim to have seen it all. Not Leon. He’s fond of telling anyone who’ll listen that he hasn’t seen anything yet, that he’s just getting started. He says each day on the bench delivers spanking-new issues to tackle—both legal and moral.

And tackle them he does. A criminal defendant in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts couldn’t handpick a better judge than Leon Long. In his courtroom, the Commonwealth’s burden of proof is onerous, the presumption of innocence sacrosanct. He is one of a dwindling number of jurists who still believe the Bill of Rights exists for good reason. He has a myriad of fans in the county, many of them courthouse workers and members of the criminal defense bar. Harry and I are among them.

Geraldine Schilling isn’t. It’s not that Geraldine doesn’t like Judge Long. Deep down, she does. But she’d like him a hell of a lot better if he’d get out of her way, if he were as jaded—as uninterested—as most other judges. She’d like him even more if he’d retire.

She doesn’t seem to mind being in his courtroom today, though. She’s here with her newest sidekick, Clarence Wexler, a nervous young fellow who’s been out of law school all of five months. Clarence is busy sorting out documents, arranging them in neat piles on the table for Geraldine’s convenience. She ignores him, her nose buried in a police report.

The Kydd and I both used to work for Geraldine. We were ADAs back when she was the First Assistant. I prosecuted cases for more than a decade, until I resigned a little over a year ago. The Kydd worked for her for about eighteen months, until Harry and I stole him last December. Geraldine is still furious with both of us about that. Then again, Geraldine is usually annoyed with me over one thing or another. And she’s eternally mad at Harry.

When it comes to the Kydd, though, I can’t really blame her. Even now, when he’s on my to-strangle list, I have to admit he’s a hot commodity. He’s a quick study, a competent litigator, and a damned hard worker. Geraldine hasn’t had much luck with ADAs since we snagged him. I don’t see a boatload of promise in Clarence Wexler either.

Harry bursts through the double doors just as the bailiff tells us to rise. He hurries down the center aisle and drops his battered schoolbag on the last seat against the bar, two down from me, on the other side of the Kydd. He leans forward and winks, buttoning his suit jacket. “Showtime,” he stage-whispers.

Judge Long takes the bench and tells us to sit. There are only about a dozen people scattered around the room: the two prosecutors at their table, a half dozen defense lawyers in the chairs at the bar, a few curiosity seekers in the gallery, and Steven Collier, the money guy, in the front row. Louisa would have been allowed a single phone call when she got to lockup. Apparently she called her financial advisor. It occurs to me that the Kydd might not be the only sailor in this port.

Judge Long turns his radiant smile on each of us in turn, white teeth in dazzling contrast with his ebony skin. He reserves his final beam for Geraldine. She frowns at him.

Wanda Morgan is the courtroom clerk. She recites a docket number and then calls out Commonwealth versus DeMateo. One of the lawyers seated near us moves to the defense table and sets his briefcase on it. He’s Bert Saunders, an overweight, perpetually tired-looking man who’s been around the courthouse for as long as I can remember. “Saunders for the defense,” he announces as he takes his place in front of the bench. “Your Honor, we have a problem with this one.”

Judge Long chuckles and scans the paperwork the clerk has handed him. “I’m sure we do, Mr. Saunders. We have a problem with most of them, don’t we?”

Harry leans forward and whispers to the Kydd and me, “What are you two doing here?”

He hasn’t heard.

The Kydd looks at me and shakes his head. He’s not willing to be the messenger on this one.

I return Harry’s stare but say nothing. That’s all it takes.

“Uh-oh,” he says. He looks down at his shoes, then back up at me. “Uh-oh,” he repeats.

Sometimes Harry is downright eloquent. He stares at me for a moment and then raises one eyebrow. I know what he’s asking.

“First degree,” I whisper.

He winces.

Geraldine and Bert Saunders are arguing about marital privilege when the side door opens and two shackled arrestees—a man and a woman—shuffle into the courtroom. The DeMateos, I presume. They’re wearing street clothes, so they must have been picked up today. And they seem quite upset about it. They’re shouting at each other, apparently unaware that there’s a case in progress. Their case.

“I told you to shuddup,” the man yells over his shoulder at the woman.

“So what else is new?” she fires back. The missus seems to be missing a couple of teeth. Her esses aren’t quite right.

One of the court officers—visibly struggling to swallow his laughter—hurries to silence his charges. The DeMateos look surprised when he points to Judge Long. Their baffled expressions ask who the hell invited him to this meeting.

“See what I mean?” Bert Saunders says to the judge. “It can’t be done.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geraldine responds.

Geraldine doesn’t think much of Bert Saunders and she makes no effort to hide it. She turns away from him and speaks to the judge as if Bert isn’t in the room. “It’s a rolling domestic,” she says. “Nothing more complicated than that.”

A rolling domestic is a marital battle that happens to take place in a car—while it’s moving.

“Attorney Schilling,” Judge Long says, “it is more complicated than that. Far more complicated.”

Bert Saunders nods up at the judge, vindicated.

“An unlicensed handgun, six thousand dollars in cash, and two kilos of cocaine,” the judge continues. “I’d say this one is a little dicier than your average rolling domestic, Attorney Schilling.”

Sounds like the DeMateos operate a little mom-and-pop shop.

“I’m going to allow the motion to appoint separate counsel for the codefendant.”

Geraldine shakes her head at the judge, feigning resignation. Her argument was a loser from the beginning and she knows it. Defendants in joint possession of contraband—whether they’re married or not—are always entitled to separate counsel. Add the sticky wicket of marital privilege to the mix, and it’s a no-brainer. But Geraldine would argue against the existence of gravity if Bert Saunders were its proponent.

“Now let me see,” Judge Long says, looking over the flat rims of his half-glasses at the handful of us seated at the bar. His eyes settle on Harry, then move back to the paperwork on the bench. Harry doesn’t notice, though; he’s reading Rinky’s thick, tattered file. The Kydd elbows him.

It takes a second for Harry to digest what’s happening. “Oh no, Your Honor. Please. Don’t appoint me.”

Judge Long finishes writing, signs off with a flourish, and smiles at Harry. “I just did,” he says.

Harry’s on his feet. “But, Judge, I’m up to my eyeballs. I’m flat out.”

“That’s good,” Judge Long replies. “You know what they say about idle hands.”

Harry looks confused—as if maybe he doesn’t know what they say about idle hands—and Judge Long takes advantage of the momentary silence. “Mrs. DeMateo,” he says, “this is Mr. Madigan. He’s your new attorney.”

Mrs. DeMateo is wearing a crushed-velvet baby blue pantsuit with matching eye shadow. She takes a moment to look Harry up and down, then turns to the judge, shaking her head. “He ain’t too happy about it,” she complains.

The judge hands the file back to Wanda Morgan. “Not to worry,” he says. “Mr. Madigan will take good care of you.”

Mrs. DeMateo smacks her lips and stares up at Judge Long. She doesn’t buy it.

“Mr. Madigan,” the judge continues, checking his list, “you’re here on…”

“Snow,” Harry answers, looking like he can’t quite believe what just happened. “I’m here for Rinky.”

The judge smiles at the mention of Rinky’s name. “Call the Snow matter next,” he tells Wanda. She leaves her desk and consults with one of the court officers. He hurries through the side door, presumably to retrieve Rinky from the ranks of those waiting to face the music.

The guards herd the not-so-happy couple toward the side door. “Mrs. DeMateo,” Judge Long says as she passes, “Mr. Madigan has other business to attend to right now. He’ll come see you when he’s through, so the two of you can get acquainted.”

She pauses in the doorway, looks Harry up and down again, and then smirks at him. Her expression says she ain’t too happy about him either.

Rinky Snow stumbles into the courtroom as Mrs. DeMateo exits, the two of them eyeing each other warily. Rinky’s been here since Saturday night, so he’s wearing the standard prison-issue orange jumpsuit. He walks freely, no shackles on his ankles, but his wrists are cuffed behind his back. The guards know Rinky well. He wouldn’t run, but he’d haul off and deck one of them in a heartbeat.

They deliver Rinky to the defense table, where Harry is waiting. When Rinky sits, Harry rests a hand on his shoulder and whispers in his ear, both gestures no other mortal would get away with.

Geraldine jumps up like she’s been waiting all day for this one. And she has. At least since she and Harry had their little phone spat this morning.

“Your Honor,” she says, approaching the bench, “Mr. Snow is charged with assault with a dangerous weapon, to wit, a knife, to wit…”

Geraldine stands still and glares over her shoulder at Rinky, a practiced dramatic pause.

“…this knife.” She passes an evidence bag up to Judge Long.

Rinky is on his feet before Harry can stop him. “Hey,” Rinky shouts at the judge, “that’s mine.”

Everyone freezes. It’s unlikely that Harry was planning a mistaken identity defense, but if he was, he isn’t anymore.

“That’s mine,” Rinky shouts again, in case we didn’t hear him the first time.

Judge Long sets both the evidence bag and his glasses on the bench. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and massages the bridge of his nose. I know Judge Long; he’s battling an urge to laugh out loud. And he’s giving Harry a chance to tell his client to shut the hell up.

Rinky isn’t taking Harry’s advice at the moment, though. “Where’d you get that?” he demands of Geraldine.

She ignores him. “The defendant assaulted two women with that knife in Chatham on Saturday evening.”

Now Harry’s on his feet. “He didn’t assault anybody.”

Rinky’s still standing. “Where’d you get that?” he insists again. “I been looking for that!”

Geraldine continues as if Harry and Rinky don’t exist. “The women were on Main Street,” she says, “at about six-thirty. They’d just attended a wedding at St. Christopher’s Chapel. We have a dozen witnesses—other wedding guests—in addition to the two victims.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Harry says, “there weren’t any victims.”

“Where the hell did you get that?” Rinky’s shouting louder now and growing more agitated, banging his cuffed wrists together and rattling the chain between them.

Judge Long opens his eyes and pounds his gavel, just once. “I want quiet,” he whispers.

He gets it. Everyone in the room shuts up, even Rinky. His cuffs settle down too.

The judge spends a minute reading the police report, then he looks up at Rinky and points at Geraldine. “Mr. Snow,” he says, “do you know who this is?”

Rinky has faced Geraldine in this courtroom a hundred times before, but he gapes at her now without a flicker of recognition.

“This is Attorney Schilling,” Judge Long says. “Her first name is Geraldine. But do you know what we call her?”

Rinky’s eyes are glued to Geraldine. He shakes his head.

“We call her Geraldine the Guillotine.”

Geraldine groans. The Kydd stifles a guffaw. Harry doesn’t bother; he laughs out loud.

Rinky stares at Geraldine the Guillotine a moment longer, then looks back up at the judge and swallows.

“So I suggest, Mr. Snow, that you sit down now and remain quiet. Mr. Madigan is here to speak for you.”

Rinky checks in with Harry. Harry nods. Rinky sits.

“Now,” Judge Long says, looking first at Geraldine, then at Harry, “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do here.”

Harry leaves the defense table, walks up to the bench, and stands beside Geraldine. She steps away as if she’s certain he has leprosy.

“We’re going to continue this matter without a finding,” the judge says, “for six months.”

Harry nods in agreement.

Geraldine shakes her blond head, annoyed. “Did you look at that knife, Judge?”

“I most certainly did, Ms. Schilling. I also looked at the police report. There’s no suggestion here that Mr. Snow intended to harm anyone with that knife.”

She throws her hands in the air, the way a frustrated parent might when dealing with an impossible teenager.

“Mr. Snow,” the judge says.

Rinky stands again. “Do I get my knife back now?”

The Kydd tries to stifle another bout of laughter, but he’s only partially successful this time.

“No, you don’t, sir.” Judge Long leans forward on the bench, rests on his forearms. “You don’t get your knife back now and you don’t get your knife back later.”

Rinky looks perplexed.

“No knives, Mr. Snow. Mr. Madigan will explain what we’ve done here. But the bottom line is: no knives.”

What they’ve done here is humane. Rinky won’t do time on this charge—other than the two nights he’s already served—unless he gets in trouble again. And he will. When he does, he’ll be sentenced on whatever the new offense is as well as this one. But by then, just maybe, it will be winter. And though the Barnstable County House of Correction offers little in the way of creature comforts, it does have heat.

Of course, Rinky could just as easily land back here tonight.

Harry returns to the defense table and chats with Rinky in low tones while Judge Long finishes the paperwork and Geraldine collects her next stack of documents from Clarence Wexler. Rinky nods at Harry, asks loudly if he can go now, and then feigns attention again as Harry keeps talking. Rinky understands that Judge Long just let him off the proverbial hook. As for the rest of it—the continuance without a finding, the likelihood of doing real time in the future—he doesn’t give a damn.

A prison guard shows up at the table and Rinky shoos him away with both hands. The guard looks at Harry and chuckles. Harry tells Rinky he has to return to lockup. He has to change clothes, retrieve noncontraband possessions, and sign off on release forms. Harry points to the guard and tells Rinky to go with him.

Rinky complies, but he’s not happy about it. He glares over his shoulder at all of us as he leaves the courtroom. This is a trick, his eyes say, and he knows every last one of us is in on it.

Harry packs up his old schoolbag, then sends a mock salute in Geraldine’s direction. “Ms. Guillotine,” he says.

She scowls at him. Clarence does too.

Harry laughs and turns to leave. “Wish me luck,” he says, pausing beside the Kydd and me.

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Wish you luck? We’re the ones staring a first-degree murder charge in the face.”

“I know that,” he says as he heads for the center aisle. “But I have a date with Mrs. DeMateo.”

The Kydd laughs, but I don’t. I turn in my chair to watch Harry’s departure. He looks over his shoulder at me and his worried hazel eyes say it all. He can joke all he wants about Mrs. DeMateo but it’s not her case he’s preoccupied with at the moment. The case he’s concerned about is mine. And he’s not just concerned. He’s worried sick.

CHAPTER 18

The grieving widow is turned out in yellow. She’s shed her hat and trench coat, revealing a long-sleeved, knee-length coat dress, butter yellow with slightly deeper-hued trim. I’m not certain, but I think yellow is one of those colors we’re not supposed to wear after Labor Day. Life’s rules don’t seem to apply to Louisa Rawlings, though. None of them.

A stern-looking matron relieves Louisa of her handcuffs and then delivers her to us. The Kydd stands and pulls the middle chair out from our table as they approach.

“Thank you, Kevin,” Louisa says as she sits between us. He nods at her and turns pink, but says nothing.

“How are you doing?” I ask her. She seems calm, composed, as if she consciously collected herself during her hours in lockup.

“I’m ready to go home,” she says, rubbing her wrists together. “This place is dreadful.”

She’s right, of course. Lockup is no picnic. But compared with the female violent offenders’ ward of the Barnstable County House of Correction—where Louisa will await trial if this case is bound over—it’s a veritable cocktail party. That’s a reality I won’t mention, at least not at the moment. Louisa will hear a lifetime’s worth of awful realities during the next fifteen minutes. No need to start early.

Geraldine leaves her table and saunters toward ours, her three-inch heels sounding like a metronome as they strike evenly against the wooden floor. Without looking at me—her eyes are focused on Louisa—she hands me a stack of documents. She stands still in front of our table, idly fingering a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of her camel-hair suit coat. She plans to stay awhile, it seems.

On top of the stack is a legal memorandum, a thick one, no doubt researched and authored by Clarence. Beneath it are a few preliminary analyses from the state crime lab as well as the Medical Examiner’s report, hot off the presses. I wonder if his signature is dry yet. I pass the stack to the Kydd and he digs in at once.

Geraldine is still planted in front of our table, blond head tilted to one side, thin arms now folded against her chest, green eyes boring into Louisa. She’s preparing for battle, antagonizing the enemy. Geraldine does this to murder defendants. All of them.

Louisa stares back at her, undaunted. I’m impressed. Murder defendants don’t do that to Geraldine. None of them.

Without a word, Geraldine pivots and strides back to her table. She retrieves another package, a duplicate of the one she gave me, no doubt. She walks to the bench and hands it up to Judge Long. He thanks her and dons his half-glasses.

“Who is that woman?” Louisa asks.

“She’s the District Attorney,” I tell her. “Geraldine Schilling.”

“Is she competent?”

I almost laugh out loud. Louisa may as well have asked if Barbra Streisand can carry a tune. “Yes,” I answer. “She’s quite effective.”

“Too bad she couldn’t find day care for her little boy.” Louisa nods toward the prosecutors’ table and I almost laugh out loud again. Our new Assistant DA looks like he just stepped out of an early episode of The Brady Bunch.

“Be careful,” I tell Louisa. “That’s Clarence Wexler. He’s older than he looks.”

“Perky little thing, isn’t he?”

I’d never thought of Clarence as perky before, but I suppose he is. “He’s Geraldine’s latest protégé,” I tell her.

“He’s an attorney?”

I nod.

“He’s licensed?”

“As of last month he is. Fresh out of law school. Just passed the bar.”

Louisa doesn’t seem troubled by the fact that her day-care candidate is just a few years younger than her most recent paramour. She shakes her head as if she knows for sure now that the entire profession has gone to the dogs.

Wanda Morgan reads out a lengthy docket number and then announces The Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Louisa Coleman Rawlings. Louisa jumps a little beside me. She looks somewhat surprised, hurt even, as if it were terribly impertinent of Wanda to mention Louisa’s name in open court.

Geraldine is still on her feet, facing the judge. “Your Honor, Mrs. Rawlings stands charged with first-degree murder, based on extreme atrocity or cruelty, in the bludgeoning death of her husband, Herbert Andrew Rawlings.”

For a moment the room falls quiet, the only sound a sharp intake of breath from the chair next to mine.

“As you can see from Dr. Ramsey’s report, the cause of death is drowning, secondary to head trauma.”

Dr. Ramsey took over as Barnstable County’s Medical Examiner little more than a year ago. He’s already proved, more than once, that he’s damned good at his new job. Geraldine isn’t taking any chances with the Rawlings case. She went straight to the top gun.

“The victim’s injuries are consistent with a single blow from behind with a blunt object,” she continues. “Dr. Ramsey concludes that the blow rendered Mr. Rawlings unconscious, after which he was bound with rope at the wrists and ankles, and then dumped into the ocean, still breathing.”

Geraldine pauses and turns to fire a theatrical glare at Louisa, but the attempt at drama is wasted. Louisa doesn’t notice. She’s rigid in her chair, her eyes closed, her left fist pressed against her mouth. Two tears seep out from beneath her long lashes and meander down her right cheek.

“When the Chatham police questioned the defendant as to her whereabouts when her husband disappeared…”

Geraldine pauses again and stares at our table until Louisa opens her eyes.

“…she lied.”

Louisa turns to me and shakes her head, but her eyes are worried.

“The defendant stands to inherit a substantial estate as a result of her husband’s death,” Geraldine continues. “Two million in life insurance proceeds if we’d all been duped into thinking his death was an accident, but that’s just the beginning. Mr. Rawlings’s net worth exceeded six million exclusive of insurance. And his will names the defendant as the sole beneficiary.”

Judge Long takes a minute to scan Geraldine’s paperwork and Louisa leans toward me during the lull. “That’s wrong,” she whispers, shaking her head. “I didn’t lie to anybody. And the life insurance part is wrong too. There’s only a million.”

“Okay,” I tell her.

So Louisa Rawlings is unaware of the double indemnity clause. My gut tells me to leave her in the dark on that issue—at least for a while.

“Ms. Nickerson,” the judge says without looking up from his papers, “how does your client plead?”

I stand to address the court but another voice fills the room first. “Not at all guilty, Your Honor,” Louisa says from her chair.

“Not at all,” she repeats when I look down. For a moment, she seems to think I’m the one she needs to convince.

Judge Long stares at her.

Geraldine does too.

“Not the least little bit,” Louisa adds. She’s wiped her tears away, but her cheeks are still wet and her mascara is smudged.

I lean over to silence her, but think better of it when I take in the judge’s expression. He’s not reading anymore. He’s looking at Louisa, his eyes wide, his smile quite different from the one he earlier bestowed upon the rest of us. If he were a white man, his cheeks would probably be red right now. I wonder if there’s a male on the planet who’s immune to Louisa Rawlings’s charms.

I clear my throat and Judge Long seems to snap out of his reverie. He smiles at me, still looking a bit bemused. “Should I take that as a garden-variety not-guilty plea, Attorney Nickerson?”

“Yes, Your Honor, you should.”

The judge turns his attention back to Geraldine. “Attorney Schilling,” he says, taking his half-glasses off and tapping the documents with them, “I’m sure it’s all in here, but enlighten me, please. You’ve mentioned a possible motive—and you seem to have reason to believe this defendant was less than forthcoming with the Chatham police officers. But what have you got in the way of physical evidence that ties this woman to the crime?”

Now we’re getting somewhere. Judge Long won’t hold any criminal defendant on the basis of motive alone, even a plausible motive. If Louisa Rawlings is telling the truth—and my gut says she is now, even if she didn’t come clean with the cops—then the Commonwealth won’t have any physical evidence implicating her. That won’t get us out of the woods permanently, of course; Geraldine’s just begun to sink her teeth into this one. But it will buy us some time.

Geraldine turns away from the bench and sends an index-finger signal to Clarence Wexler. My stomach somersaults. I know that look on her face. She’s got something. Or at least she thinks she does.

Clarence jumps to his feet and rushes forward as if summoned by God Himself. He’s holding an evidence bag, a large one. From here, I can’t make out what’s in it.

I start toward the bench so I can see, but I stop when the Kydd slides two sheets of paper across the table to me. One is a report from the crime lab. The other is Clarence’s summary of the lab report’s contents. I lean over to read and my eyes absorb the words as Geraldine speaks.

“What we’ve got,” she says, “is this. On it are skin fragments from the victim’s skull. And two of his hairs. And traces of his blood.”

Geraldine pauses for a moment and I look up. “Also on it,” she says, “are Louisa Coleman Rawlings’s fingerprints. No one else’s.”

Judge Long takes the evidence bag and holds it up to the light. “But what is it?” he asks.

“It’s a decorative plumbing fixture,” Geraldine replies. “A brass swan.”