Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

Score. Most of the jurors look eagerly at me when I face them again. The wise judge says the defendant’s state of mind is paramount. They want to hear more about it.

Stanley remains on his feet, looking as if he has more to say, but I resume my opening statement anyway. I never uttered a word in response to his objection, never even looked in his direction. My ignoring him sent a message to the jurors, I hope. J. Stanley Edgarton III doesn’t matter, people. Listen to the wise judge. And then listen to me.

“There’s a reason Patty Hammond will never see her little boy again,” I tell them. “There’s a reason Billy Hammond will never go fishing again.”

I cross the room and position myself behind Buck’s chair, careful that the jurors can still see both him and Patty.

“There’s a reason Billy Hammond will never celebrate his eighth birthday.”

Patty lets out a single sob and Stanley jumps to his feet, looking personally wounded. Patty covers her mouth and raises one hand toward Judge Long, nodding her head and pumping the air as if calling a time-out. She’s okay, she’s signaling, and she’s sorry; she won’t make another sound.

“Sit down, Mr. Ed-gar-ton the Third,” the judge says.

Stanley does so with a thud, shaking his oversized head at the jurors, and their eyes move from Patty to him. I had wanted to let their gazes linger on Patty a little longer, but Stanley’s theatrics are effective; he’s in the spotlight again.

I walk toward them slowly and wait until their attention shifts to me. “Hector Monteros is that reason.”

Stanley jumps up again. “Your Honor, once more I apologize for interrupting. But my Sister Counsel is assuming facts that won’t ever be in evidence.”

“Not so, Judge,” I tell him. “Not so.”

Harry knew the day it happened that Buck Hammond’s defense would necessitate a postmortem attack on Hector Monteros. He ordered complete DNA testing on both Monteros and the boy before either one was interred. Stanley knows that. So does the judge. Buck Hammond won’t necessarily walk if we prove Monteros’s guilt, but he doesn’t stand a chance if we don’t.

Judge Long raises his hands to silence Stanley and me, then turns to the jurors. Instantly, he has their undivided attention. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “it seems I should explain to you what an opening statement is. But first”-he flashes his smile at them-“I’m going to tell you what it isn’t.”

I slip into my seat beside Buck and pour a glass of water. When Judge Leon Long has the stage, there are no costars. Stanley, though, seems to expect a supporting role. He remains on his feet.

“Opening statement is not an argument,” the judge says, glancing first at Stanley, then at me. “Though you wouldn’t know that from what you’ve heard so far.”

The jurors laugh and Judge Long leans back in his leather chair, relaxed and smiling. “Opening statement isn’t evidence, either. It’s nothing more than each lawyer’s opportunity to talk to you.” The judge leans toward them in a conspiratorial pose and lowers his voice, as if he doesn’t want Stanley and me to hear. “And we all know how lawyers love to talk.”

The panel laughs again, a good-natured chuckle, and so does the judge. Stanley, though, shifts on his feet and runs a nervous hand across his sizable scalp. A long wisp of lifeless hair from his comb-over separates and falls to the right side of his head, forming a single pageboy loop. The end of it just touches the collar of his starched white shirt.

I’m pretty sure it’s not the lawyer joke that bothers Stanley; it’s the laughter. This is a murder trial. There shouldn’t be any laughter.

“Opening statement is not the same as closing argument,” Judge Long continues. “Closing argument is a fight.” He glances over his shoulder at me, then at Stanley, before turning back to the jurors. “And believe me, in this case it’s going to be a real one.”

The jurors chuckle again. They look from me to Stanley and back to the judge. He continues his monologue.

Harry leans forward on the defense table, in front of Buck, to whisper. “Defer.”

“Defer?” I stare at him.

His return gaze is steady. He’s serious.

No defendant-civil or criminal-has to give his opening statement at the beginning of the trial. He can defer until the close of the plaintiff’s-or prosecutor’s-case. In criminal cases especially, there are distinct advantages to waiting. It leaves the prosecutor in the dark, unsure of the defense strategy until after the Commonwealth rests its case. More important, it allows the defendant to hammer twice on the weaknesses in the evidence against him-after the prosecutor rests and again at the end, in closing argument.

But rarely does a criminal defendant opt to defer. The stakes are too high. If he waits that long to give the jurors a glimpse of his side of the story, it may be too late. The prosecutor may have been too persuasive. Too many jurors may have already made up their minds. Harry knows that at least as well as I do.

“Why defer?”

“You can’t do any more.”

Harry leans closer and Buck lowers his head between us to listen.

“You told them enough about Monteros to whet their appetites. The judge told them that Buck’s mental state is the key issue in this trial. What else can you accomplish at this point?”

The answer, of course, is nothing. Harry’s right.

“But we can’t defer now, even if we want to. We’ve already started. It’s too late.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Stanley hasn’t let you finish a thought without objecting. Tell the judge you’ve been interrupted enough for one day. Tell him at this point, you’d just as soon defer.”

Buck shrugs when I look at him for an opinion.

Judge Long isn’t talking to the jurors anymore. He’s facing our table, waiting semipatiently for our whispering session to end. “Attorney Nickerson,” he says when I look up, “we’re ready when you are.”

I steal a final glance at Harry. “It’s worth a shot,” he says.

Stanley drops into his seat as I get out of mine. I pause to set my glasses on the defense table. “With all due respect to the Court, Your Honor, the defense opts to defer its opening statement.”

The judge wasn’t expecting this. He drops his chin to his chest and stares at me over the flat rims of his half glasses.

Stanley jumps up so fast his chair topples backward. “Defer? She can’t defer. She’s already started her opening statement.”

The judge’s eyes move to Stanley, then back to me, his brows arched high.

“Barely,” I tell him. “I tried twice, and twice I was silenced.” I gesture toward Buck to suggest that this is his idea. “We’re not up for strike three. We’ll defer.”

I turn toward Stanley but my attention is on the jury box behind him. They’re listening intently to this exchange, some eyes on the judge, others on me. Their expressions are impossible to read.

I face the judge’s bench again. “Maybe Mr. Edgarton will calm down a bit-and allow me to open properly-after he rests his case.”

“Don’t believe her,” Stanley sputters. “Don’t believe her for a minute.” He points his pen at me, then at the judge, and finally at the jurors. His forehead vein turns blue. “I didn’t silence her. The National Guard couldn’t silence her.”

I’m flattered.

Judge Long continues to peer at me over his glasses. “Attorney Nickerson,” he says, “this is unusual.”

“It is, Judge. I can’t remember another case when I was shut down twice without getting a single fact in front of the jury.”

That wasn’t what he meant, of course. But he folds his arms on the bench and nods, conceding the point.