Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

Nicky wears the smile of a man who can’t quite believe his good fortune.

“Here’s the plan.”

Nicky leans forward, eager to please.

“You’re going to be back here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, Mr. Patterson, with a bank check for twenty-two thousand dollars.”

Nicky swallows his smile. “I ain’t got it, Judge. I ain’t got that kind of money. Honest.”

“Then get it, Mr. Patterson. After you deliver the bank check, I’ll enter an order that allows you to pay off the interest over time.” The judge takes his glasses off again and points them at Nicky. “Provided, of course, that you make your future payments on schedule.”

The Kydd is on his feet, trying to bring an end to this session. They’ve got twenty-four hours. They may as well take it. But Nicky won’t budge. He’s shaking his head at Judge Long. “Get it where?”

“You drive, Mr. Patterson?”

“Yeah, I drive. Course I drive.”

“What do you drive?”

“Chevy pickup. Two-fifty diesel.”

“Old?”

Nicky hesitates. “Not really. A year.”

“Sell it.”

The Kydd elbows Nicky Patterson out from behind the table and shepherds him toward the center aisle.

“Nine o’clock sharp,” the judge says to Nicky’s back. “Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Patterson.”

The Kydd and Nicky are almost at the back doors, but they turn and face Judge Long.

“You show up without that check,” the judge says, “you’d better bring your toothbrush.”

Sequestered jurors seem to meld. Fourteen strangers, with nothing in common but the case before them, somehow take on a single personality as soon as they are quarantined. It happens almost every time. Some panels are reserved and distant. Some are angry. Others are warm, sympathetic.

Ours is worried. Worried about convicting a man who has already suffered so much. Equally worried about not convicting a man who shot another in cold blood. It’s all written on their faces.

They file through the side door, wrapping up whispered conversations, their expressions tense, sober. Judge Long greets each of them, his radiant smile back where it belongs. He invites them to take their seats, and the crowd in the gallery sits as well. Every bench in the courtroom is full. Even the aisles are jammed.

Chief Tommy Fitzpatrick reclaims the witness box, hat in his lap. The judge reminds him that he is still under oath and the Chief nods his understanding. He’s been in the witness box a few times before. He knows the rules.

The jurors have had all night to reflect on the damning testimony Stanley elicited yesterday. No doubt Buck’s words- I wish he’d get up, so I could kill him again -echoed in their minds throughout the night. Now it’s my job to make the jurors understand those words. It’s my job to make them feel what Buck felt that morning. None of us can, of course. Not completely. But we’re sure as hell going to give it a shot. And the Chief of Police is going to help.

“Chief Fitzpatrick, tell us about Billy Hammond. What happened to him?”

I just broke the cardinal rule of cross-examination. Questions posed during cross should never be open-ended, should always call for yes or no answers. But that rule doesn’t apply here. Not in this case. Adverse witness or not, Chief Tommy Fitzpatrick can talk all day as far as I’m concerned. As long as he’s talking about Billy Hammond.

Stanley clears his throat and stands, then heads for the bench. “Your Honor, this isn’t about the Hammond boy.”

“It most certainly is.” I respond to the jurors, not to Stanley. A few of them look startled. It’s the first time they’ve heard me raise my voice.

I turn to the judge. “It is about the Hammond boy, Your Honor. That’s all it’s about.”

Judge Long puts his hands in the air to silence both of us. “I’ll allow the testimony,” he says, “but I’m going to give them a limiting instruction.”

I return to my seat. A limiting instruction is fine with me as long as the facts come in. By the time the Chief of Police tells the story of Billy Hammond’s death, the limiting instruction should be a distant memory. And the jurors, I hope, will use the evidence the way it should be used: to conclude that justice, albeit a rough justice, has already been served.

Stanley pauses at our table on the way back to his seat. “This judge,” he whispers, glaring at me as if I had personally appointed Judge Long to the bench, “is despicable.”

I wonder what Stanley whispers about me.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the judge says, “the defendant has raised a temporary insanity defense. The testimony you are about to hear is relevant to the defendant’s state of mind and should be considered by you when you evaluate that defense. It should not be considered for any other purpose.”

Buck lowers his head to his arms on the table and Harry rests a hand on his shoulder. I’d all but lost sight of the fact that Buck and Patty will have to listen to this testimony too. The Chief’s words-essential for Buck’s defense-will bring him and Patty to their knees. Again.

I turn to check on Patty in the first row. She’s already weeping.

The judge concludes his instruction and the jurors nod their acquiescence at him. Their intentions are good; they plan to comply with the judge’s admonition, to limit their use of this evidence. They’ll compartmentalize the information they are about to hear, use it only for its proper purpose.

I sure as hell hope not.

“Let’s begin on June nineteenth, Chief. What happened to Billy Hammond?”

Stanley clears his throat again. “Your Honor, I’m sorry, but I have to object once more. This witness isn’t competent to testify about what happened to another person-especially a dead person.”

Judge Long leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. He taps his fingertips on the bench and shakes his head, peering over the rims of his half glasses at Stanley. He’s annoyed by the repeated interruptions. But I’m not.

This is the kind of objection I hoped Stanley would raise. I’ll have to rephrase my question, and the Chief’s cross-examination will take longer than it should, but eventually the jury will hear the facts. They’ll hear them from the Commonwealth’s witness, not ours. And my gut tells me these jurors won’t appreciate Stanley’s attempts to muzzle his own witness.

Judge Long removes his half glasses and shifts his gaze to me, rubbing the bridge of his nose. I look back at him and raise both hands toward the bench. No need for a ruling. I know what to do.

“Chief Fitzpatrick, you led the investigation into the disappearance of Billy Hammond, did you not?”

Stanley drops into his chair before the Chief answers.

“I did.”

“Tell us, sir, what prompted that investigation.”

Stanley shifts in his seat but doesn’t get up. Judge Long sighs and shakes his head.

“The 911 dispatcher got a call from a woman at about eleven o’clock that morning. It was a Saturday-June nineteenth. The caller could barely speak; she was hysterical. Turned out to be a summer neighbor of the Hammonds. She’d been weeding her garden, she said, and had spoken with Billy as he passed her house on his way to the beach.”

Stanley stands and clears his throat again, apparently anticipating my next question. “Your Honor, we’re headed for unadulterated hearsay.”

There are twenty-three exceptions to the hearsay rule, and this testimony arguably falls within three of them. One, though, is a perfect fit.

“Excited utterance, Your Honor. The statement is admissible if it relates to a startling event made while the speaker was still under the stress of the moment. If that exception doesn’t apply here”-I turn to face the judge-“then it doesn’t apply anywhere.”