The front of Luke’s gray sweatshirt is peppered with small red dots. So are Maggie’s sleeves. Actually, they’re my sleeves. She’s wearing my knit fisherman’s sweater.
“Marty, you’re just in time,” she shouts, then bends in two, shrieking, and points her wooden spoon at a red circle newly arrived on Luke’s cheek.
“Ow, that’s hot. It’s not funny.” Luke launches into a laughing fit of his own, though, holding his arms in front of his face as if shielding himself from enemy gunfire.
Just in time or not, I decide to get out of my suit before going anywhere near either one of them. Maggie and Luke continue shouting in the kitchen, each of them giving the other instructions on what to do next, while I change into old jeans and a warm sweater. The clanging of pots is followed by a sound that might be Niagara Falls. I hope some of it went into the sink.
By the time I get back to the kitchen, things have calmed down and the food is actually on the table. The kerosene lamp is lit and two Christmas candles left over from last year are glowing amid the bowls. Maggie is already seated, beaming at her handiwork. Luke holds a chair for me, kitchen towel draped over his arm, as if he’s the maître d’. Never mind the red polka dots.
It’s quite a spread. A steaming bowl of linguine, a fresh garden salad, even garlic bread. I realize I must be ravenous. The Ragú smells divine.
The self-appointed maître d’ pours a glass of Chianti for me, then awaits my approval, as if I might send it back for another vintage. “Sit,” I tell him.
“I’d have made meatballs,” Maggie says, “but there wasn’t any meat.”
A good mother would have meat in the house.
“And I’d have made cookies,” she adds, “but there weren’t any eggs.”
Even a mediocre mother would have eggs on hand.
“This is wonderful,” I tell her. “We don’t need another thing.”
Luke clears his throat and arches his eyebrows at me. Meatballs and cookies sound good to him. I pass him the pasta.
“Maggie, you’re quite a cook. How did you learn?”
She shrugs, a pleased smile on her face. “I cook on Sundays,” she says. “Howard always eats with his poker buddies on Sundays, so it’s just Mom and me home for dinner. Mom says I shouldn’t cook when Howard’s home. He gets mad if anything goes wrong.”
Howard Davis was quite an addition to that household.
Luke reaches for the bread basket, shaking his head. His expression tells me he knows all about Howard Davis. He and Maggie have been talking. Good. Maggie’s going to need a friend in the months ahead. And when it comes to being a friend, Luke is the best.
We eat as if it’s Thanksgiving in Italy, then move into the living room, closer to the woodstove. No need to fuss with the dishes, we all agree. They’ll still be here tomorrow. I realize my claim even to mediocrity is slipping.
By eleven, Luke and I are all but asleep in our overstuffed chairs, and Danny Boy is snoring by the woodstove. Maggie is wide awake, though. She has the sofa bed all set up, and she’s propped on two pillows, reading a
Glamour
magazine and painting her fingernails.
Luke rallies enough to bid us good night and head for the stairs. Danny Boy stretches and yawns, then follows him. I steer toward my own room, relishing the thought of my old, heavy quilt.
“Don’t read too much longer,” I tell Maggie. “There’s school tomorrow.”
“I’m not going to school tomorrow,” she says.
Luke stands still on the staircase. Danny Boy does too. He looks down at me, then stares up at Luke, as if one of us should give him an explanation.
I lean against my doorway. “You’re not?”
“No.”
This doesn’t sound negotiable. I move back into the living room. “Maggie, it’s the last day before the break. It would be crazy to skip.”
“I want to go see my mom.”
Of course she does.
“I called there today,” she says. “They’ll let me see her at one o’clock tomorrow. For half an hour.”
She’s a self-sufficient little thing.
“I was hoping I could ride over there with you-when you go to work. I don’t mind waiting around. I’ll watch your trial.” She finishes a fingernail and smiles up at me. “It’ll be educational.”
I sit back down in the overstuffed chair. “Maggie, I know you want to see your mom. And she wants to see you. But tomorrow’s the last day of school before Christmas. Don’t miss it. You can go with me on Thursday. Thursday and Friday, if you want.”
Luke steps back into the room. “I have to go in tomorrow,” he says to Maggie. “I have practice.”
He has to go in tomorrow for more reasons than that. Classes, for instance. I bite my tongue.
“But if you wait until Thursday, I’ll go with you,” he says. “If Mom will lend us the car, we can go to the mall while she’s working. I still have Christmas shopping to do.”
Yikes. Christmas shopping. All hopes of maternal mediocrity are dashed.
Maggie caps the nail polish, considering. The educational opportunities afforded by watching my trial apparently pale compared to Luke’s idea. “Will you?” she asks me.
“Will I what?”
“Lend us the car.”
I can’t help but remember my first meeting with Maggie, the newly initiated driver. Hard to believe it was yesterday. “Yes,” I tell her. “But Luke does the driving. All of it.”
She laughs and turns out the lamp. “Okay, okay. I’ll go to school tomorrow. And I’ll go see Mom on Thursday. Thursday and Friday, just like you said.”
Luke heads upstairs again, but I catch his eye before he disappears onto the second floor. I give him a thumbs-up, and he smiles. He really is the best.
During the weeks leading up to Buck Hammond’s trial, I worried that I’d be unable to sell the temporary insanity defense to our jury. I worried that my unspoken doubts about the validity of that defense would render my words in support of it hollow, unconvincing. And so I returned, night after night, to the words of Mr. Justice Paxson, hoping his words would help me choose mine. Not all of them did.
Chief Justice Lewis has said that moral insanity bears a striking resemblance to vice, and further, it ought never to be admitted as a defence, until it is shown that these propensities exist in such violence as to subjugate the intellect, control the will, and render it impossible for the party to do otherwise than yield.
And again, this state of mind is not to be presumed without evidence, nor does it usually occur without some premonitory symptoms indicating its approach.
A striking resemblance to vice. Sounds like something Stanley would say.
Chapter 20
Wednesday, December 22
The front-page headline of this morning’s
Cape Cod Times
proclaimed: “Defense Attorney Puts On Magic Show.” The article accused me of trying to pull an acquittal from thin air. Seeing myself identified in print as a defense attorney caused a momentary jolt. For the past six weeks I’ve thought of myself as Buck Hammond’s lawyer, but never as a garden-variety defense attorney. I’d better get used to it, I guess.
The
Boston Herald
wasn’t so jocular. “Justice Undermined” screamed its page-one banner. The article that followed condemned my “thinly veiled” call for jury nullification and criticized any juror who might “buy into” it. The reporter lambasted Judge Leon Long for his tolerance of my “subversive tactics.” Generous quotes from District Attorney-Elect Geraldine Schilling, along with a few sarcastic remarks from Stanley, were sprinkled throughout.
It occurred to me as I finished the piece that I must be a defense attorney after all. No one called me for a comment.
The good news is that the news doesn’t matter. Thanks to the street smarts of Judge Leon Long, our jury is sequestered for both the trial and the deliberations. From now until the verdict is returned, the members of the panel will hear none of the media hype. The press will try its case in the court of public opinion for the foreseeable future, of course. And, to some extent, the prosecution will too. But I will try mine only in this courtroom, before the men and women who will decide Buck’s fate.
We’re delayed this morning. Yarmouth police officers picked up Dominic “Nicky” Patterson late last night, and he’s scheduled to face the music here before our trial resumes. Nicky is one of the Cape’s better-known deadbeat dads. He gets hauled in every year or two, signs off on a payment schedule, makes a few installments, then disappears again. This time the Kydd has been appointed to defend him.
According to the courtroom clerk, Wanda Morgan, it was close to midnight when the Kydd got the assignment. He was still in the office when the night clerk called, intending to leave a message on the answering machine. Wanda shakes her head sympathetically when she delivers this news. She’s at least as old as I am, but I think she’s taken a shine to our young associate. I wonder how the Kydd feels about forty-something women.
The Kydd hustles into the courtroom and hurries down its crowded center aisle, scanning the front of the room for his new client. He doesn’t seem to notice Wanda, though she clearly notices him. His eyes find only Harry and me. His grin is halfhearted.
“Where’s dear old dad?” he asks, joining us at the counsel table. His eyes are bloodshot.
“Not here yet,” I tell him.
“You’re going down, Kydd,” Harry threatens, leaning toward him and laughing.
The Kydd frowns at him. “Why the hell are we here?”
It’s a valid question, but we all know the answer. Deadbeat dads are usually handled across the parking lot, in Family Court. There’s only one way this particular deadbeat ended up in Superior Court. Judge Leon Long requested him.
“You’re going down, Kydd,” Harry says again, laughing harder.
“Stop it,” I tell him, fighting back my own laughter. The Kydd’s been dealt a lousy hand. And he hasn’t been practicing law long enough yet to separate himself from it. There’s nothing he can do. One of the county’s chronic deadbeat dads is about to face a judge who views supporting one’s children not only as a legal obligation but as a sacred moral mandate as well.
The errant father comes through the side door, cuffed, shackled, and flanked by armed guards. His clothes are disheveled and his hair sticks up at odd angles. He looks like he had a rough night. He doesn’t know it yet, but his morning will be worse.
The reporters ask questions of anyone who’ll give them the time of day, and the TV cameras are rolling. This won’t be tonight’s top story-Buck has that slot sewn up for the week-but it’s a strong candidate for second place. With Judge Leon Long presiding, even a routine child support hearing is newsworthy.
Harry and I move back to the row of seats at the bar. The guards deposit Nicky at the defense table and the Kydd starts talking to him at once. Nicky isn’t listening. He’ll regret that in a few minutes.
“Oyez, Oyez,” the bailiff intones. Joey Kelsey is new at his job and he reads his morning litany from a cheat sheet cupped in the palm of his hand. “The Superior Court for Barnstable County in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts is now in session. All citizens having business before this honorable court should now draw near. May God save the Commonwealth and this great nation.”
This announcement always makes me wonder who wrote the rules. Across the parking lot, in District Court, the bailiff just shouts “Court!” It’s as if someone decided that the type of offenses heard in each courtroom should determine the length of its morning announcement. Commit a minor crime and you get one word. Do it up big and we’ll write you a patriotic essay.
Judge Long strides to the bench, his radiant smile noticeably absent. His expression is stern and he bangs his gavel three times, each thud louder than the last. The room falls instantly silent. The judge glares at Nicky Patterson over the tops of his half glasses. Without a word, he turns toward the prosecutors’ table.
Geraldine and Stanley are both here. Stanley is leafing through his notes, preparing for today’s trial witnesses, paying no attention at all to the deadbeat dad. If Geraldine doesn’t replace the Kydd soon, she may never get out of the courtroom. This morning, though, she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s on her feet, smiling at Judge Long. This is one case she’s happy to have before him.
“Mr. Dominic Patterson.” Geraldine holds both hands out toward the defendant, as if she’s a game show hostess and he is the grand prize. “Need I say more?”
The Kydd gets to his feet. “Your Honor…”
Judge Long silences him with one hand, his eyes once again boring into Nicky. “The charges, Attorney Schilling. Read the charges.”
She does. Nicky has two daughters, now ten and eight. He’s been estranged from his wife and the girls for five years. He met his support obligations during the first two, but his contributions since then have been spotty, at best. His last partial payment was made more than eight months ago. All totaled, he’s in arrears more than twenty-two thousand dollars, exclusive of interest.
The Kydd does what he can. There are only so many responses one can make to this sort of charge. Out of work…hard times…looking for a job…The Kydd asks the judge to approve a new payment plan, and he has one prepared. No wonder his eyes are bloodshot.
The Kydd hands his proposal to Wanda. Her eyes linger on him for an extra beat before she passes the paperwork up to the judge. I can’t be sure, but I think the Kydd notices. The tips of his ears turn pink.
Judge Long doesn’t respond to the Kydd’s request, doesn’t even look at his proposed plan. “Thank you, Mr. Kydd,” he says softly, his eyes still focused on Nicky. “You may be seated now.”
The Kydd crosses the room, drops into his chair, and rests his head in his hands. He knows this isn’t good.
“Stand up, Mr. Patterson.” The judge’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet.
Nicky gets to his feet, looking like he’s about to make excuses. That would be a mistake. Lucky for him the judge speaks first. It’s almost a whisper. “What did you have for dinner last night, Mr. Patterson?”