Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

Tuesday, December 21

Maggie Baker is a freshman at Chatham High School. My son, Luke, is a senior and a starting member of the varsity basketball team. When Maggie and I got to the cottage it was close to eleven o’clock, and Luke apparently had abandoned all hope of his mother coming home to make dinner. He was outside paying the pizza delivery boy.

Maggie all but fainted. “That’s your son?” She looked stunned.

“That’s him.”

“Your son is Luke Ellis?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she snapped, fixing her hair in the rearview mirror. When she tore her eyes from the mirror, she fired an exasperated glance in my direction. She was genuinely annoyed. I tried not to laugh.

The next hour was comical. Luke was his usual affable self. He didn’t ask why Maggie was with us; he acted as if we’d been expecting her. He shared his pepperoni pizza as well as his senior-year wisdom. He filled Maggie in on precious details about the upperclassmen in general, the basketball players in particular. She hung on every word.

Heavy winds kept the cottage chilly in spite of a blazing fire in the woodstove. I gave Maggie a pair of baggy flannel pajamas and an old fisherman’s knit sweater. She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. I made a mental note to arrange to pick up her clothes from Bayview Road.

At midnight, Luke set up the sofa bed for Maggie and dug two heavy quilts out of our old cedar chest. I came out to the living room to say good night, then, and Luke headed upstairs with Danny Boy, our elderly Irish setter, on his heels. Maggie Baker had stars in her eyes.

I dropped them at the high school at seven-fifteen, both of them griping about these last two days of school-full days, no less-before the Christmas break. Three times during the five-minute ride, Maggie mentioned that she’ll turn fifteen in just a few weeks. Each time, Luke wished her a happy birthday. My son doesn’t get it.

The roads are plowed and sanded, but the radio weatherman says we’ll see another foot of snow by day’s end. Traffic is thin-it’s too early in the day for holiday shoppers-and I reach the County Complex in just half an hour. The parking lot is almost full, even though most county offices don’t open-and most courthouse proceedings don’t begin-until nine. The combination of Sonia Baker’s arraignment and Buck Hammond’s trial has drawn a crowd, winter storm warning or not.

The District Courtroom is packed. All of the dark brown benches are filled. Those members of the public who were too late to get seats lean against the walls. A dozen court officers stand guard in the back of the room, guns on their hips, prepared to eject any onlooker who might disrupt the proceedings. The building’s ancient steam radiators hiss persistently, and the air is heavy with the smell of damp winter clothes.

A half dozen benches in front are roped off and reserved for the press. It’s not nearly enough space to accommodate their numbers. Photographers and reporters roam the vast room, their bright lights and microphones in search of targets. Sonia Baker’s defense lawyer seems to be just what they had in mind; I’m blinded as I approach the bar.

My vision clears when I turn my back on the gallery and, for the first time in my career, take a seat at the defense table. Geraldine is oblivious to the occasion. She’s focused on paperwork on the opposite side of the room, the details of Howard Davis’s demise, no doubt. Once again, she’s covering for Stanley. He’s not a multitask employee, it seems.

Stanley, I’m certain, is already stationed in Superior Court, the first to arrive for Buck Hammond’s trial. Positioned, no doubt, to greet all witnesses. Prepared to assign seats, if possible.

I’m tired already.

Just before eight, Sonia Baker enters the courtroom through its side door, her ankles shackled, her good wrist cuffed to one of the two armed matrons escorting her. Her purple eye is still swollen shut. She keeps the other one focused on the floor, even as reporters hurl questions at her. They jockey for position and call her by name, but she doesn’t look at any of them, doesn’t let on that she hears.

The orange jumpsuit is far too big for her; I didn’t realize that last night when she was seated. The blouse billows around her thin frame. The tired elastic waistband hangs down on her narrow hips. The frayed hems of the pants drag on the old wooden floor.

A matron removes Sonia’s solitary cuff but leaves the shackles in place. Sonia drops into the seat next to mine. It’s obvious she hasn’t slept much, if at all. Her open eye is bloodshot. Except for the bruises, her face is a ghastly white. She doesn’t look at me.

The bailiff shouts “Court!” and we all rise. Judge Richard Gould emerges from chambers and strides to the bench, ignoring the bright lights and flashbulbs trained on him. When the judge sits, the rest of us do too, all but Dottie Bearse, District Court’s veteran clerk.

Dottie stays on her feet, holding a copy of the criminal complaint, and waits for quiet like a patient grandmother. Only when the room falls silent does she recite the docket number and announce: “The Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Sonia Louise Baker.” Geraldine is on.

“Your Honor, the defendant is charged with the first-degree murder of one Howard Andrew Davis.”

Geraldine hands me a thick document with multiple tabbed attachments-the medical examiner’s preliminary report, no doubt-before delivering the identical package to Judge Gould. She remains close to the bench, facing the judge.

“The deceased was found yesterday on his living-room couch, Your Honor…”

Geraldine pauses and turns a cold stare on Sonia.

“…in what can only be described as a bloodbath.”

I’m on my feet. This is arraignment, for God’s sake. Geraldine is acting as if we’re in trial. She’s performing for the press, of course. The next election is just four years away. Never too early to kick off the campaign.

Judge Gould is way ahead of me. He bangs his gavel just once, hard. “Attorney Schilling, please. No need for drama. Stick to the facts.”

I sink back to my chair.

Geraldine gives me the slightest of smiles before facing the judge again. “Of course, Your Honor. I’ll be happy to.”

The packed courtroom grows still and silent. The facts are what everyone came to hear, after all. The gory details of Howard Davis’s death are what drew this crowd to the courthouse. And I don’t need the medical examiner’s report to tell me they aren’t pretty.

“Howard Andrew Davis was stabbed eleven times.”

Sonia’s gasp is the only sound in the room. She raises her head for the first time today and gapes at Geraldine, horrified. The photographers are busy behind us; they can’t see her expression. But I can.

I don’t know much about criminal defense work. But I’ve met more than a few criminal defendants over the years. I’ve seen more than a few emotions-real and contrived-displayed on their faces. And I know one thing for sure at this moment. Sonia Baker didn’t kill Howard Davis.

“Five of the lacerations were to major organs, Your Honor,” Geraldine continues, “not to mention a fatal puncture wound that reached the aorta.”

She crosses the room to our table. “There’s no question there was a physical altercation between the deceased and the defendant, Your Honor.”

Geraldine gestures toward Sonia as if she’s Exhibit A. “Howard Davis lost the fight.”

Once again I get to my feet, but I hold my tongue. Judge Gould isn’t looking at Geraldine. He’s not looking at me, either. He’s reading the medical examiner’s report, his expression troubled.