Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

Charles smiles again. He approves.

Maggie’s face brightens and her eyebrows arch, an idea dawning. “And Luke and Danny Boy can visit.”

Danny Boy’s ears perk up and his tail thumps the floor again at the mention of his name. He doesn’t realize he’s a mere pawn in this plan.

“I was never allowed to have a pet before,” Maggie says. “Howard hates animals. But now”-she shrugs, reaching over to scratch Charles’s ears-“I can.”

Howard Davis for Charles. A good trade if ever there was one. I bite my tongue.

Maggie and Luke head back to their tree trimming, and Danny Boy follows, leaving Charles and me to get acquainted. I sink into the old rocker at my bedside and nestle Charles, still smiling, in my lap. In the space of three days, we’ve added a teenager and a dog to the household. Maybe it’s time to build an addition.

By the time Buck’s trial was a week away, I had almost convinced myself that my own misgivings about the temporary insanity plea were irrelevant. The only meaningful thoughts on the matter, I told myself, are those of the experts: members of the medical and psychiatric community. Surely, I thought, Mr. Justice Paxson would agree.

He didn’t.

Physicians, especially those having charge of the insane, generally, it would seem, have come to the conclusion that all wicked men are mad, and many of the judges have so far fallen into the same error as to render it possible for any man to escape the penalty which the law affixes to crime.

We do not intend to be understood as expressing the opinion that in some instances human beings are not afflicted with a homicidal mania, but we do intend to say that a defense consisting exclusively of this species of insanity has frequently been made the means by which a notorious offender has escaped punishment.

One thing seemed certain the night I read those words. Harry should handle the experts.

Thursday, December 23

The judge is missing. Buck Hammond is seated and the attorneys are ready. Today’s witnesses are present and the press is hyperactive. The jurors aren’t here yet, though. There’s no judge to call for them.

Joey Kelsey, the newly hired bailiff, is antsy. He was just getting comfortable with the morning routine; he doesn’t like this wrinkle. He’s consulted his cheat sheet more than once, rehearsing, I guess. But it’s almost nine-thirty, and the bench is empty.

Stanley is agitated. He must have arrived later than usual this morning; his hair is still wet from his morning shower. Even so, he beat Harry and me to the courtroom. And he checked his watch when we arrived.

The crowd in the gallery has grown impatient and noisy. Harry and I are seated at the defense table, leaning back in our chairs and laughing. Stanley fires an admonishing stare in our direction, mouthing “you people” before averting his eyes. It seems J. Stanley Edgarton the Third disapproves of our lack of decorum.

But Harry and I have good reason to laugh. We know where Judge Leon Long is. It’s Thursday morning before Christmas. He’s in traffic court, ripping up parking tickets, bestowing his annual gift upon the citizens of Barnstable County. And Geraldine, no doubt, is enduring the festivities. Too bad Stanley couldn’t join them.

Stanley did, though, receive a small surprise of his own this morning. When Harry and I set up at the defense table, Stanley was visibly flustered. He informed us that he had arrived early, though not as early as usual, and had found the courtroom dark, as it always is when he arrives. But when he flipped the switch that lights the old courtroom’s four ornate chandeliers, he found Nicky Patterson already seated on the front bench. He’d been waiting in the darkness.

Stanley apparently didn’t like the idea that someone beat him to the courtroom-even someone not involved in his case. “He made himself right at home,” Stanley complained. “You’d think he owned the place.”

I wondered who Stanley thinks does own the place.

“It’s okay,” Harry consoled him. “He doesn’t look like he’s having a good time.”

And he doesn’t. Nicky is still seated on the front bench, alternately biting his nails and pulling an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, checking its contents. The Kydd isn’t here yet, and it’s clear from the darting of Nicky’s eyes-from the clock to the back doors to the clock again-that he doesn’t want to face Judge Leon Long alone. Whatever he’s got in that envelope, it isn’t enough.

The Kydd rushes into the courtroom and almost runs down the center aisle. He’s a half hour late. He nods at Nicky and Nicky waves to him as if greeting the Messiah. The Kydd stares at the empty judge’s bench as he heads for our table. He loosens his tie, a man freeing himself from a noose.

“He’s not here?” The Kydd can hardly believe it.

“Not yet,” I tell him.

“Merry Christmas,” Harry adds.

“The electricity went out,” the Kydd says. “My alarm didn’t go off.”

This happened more than once last winter, during our joint tenure with the DA’s office. It was the Kydd’s first winter on the Cape, his first winter north of the Mason-Dixon line, for that matter. I explained to him several times that ocean winds wreak havoc with overhead wires. On Cape Cod, I told him, wintertime electricity is a gamble. A battery-operated alarm clock is a must. Obviously, he wasn’t listening.

I roll my eyes at him. “You’re not in Georgia anymore, Toto.”

He ignores me.

Harry tosses his head toward Nicky. “Does he have the twenty-two thousand?”

The Kydd closes his eyes and releases a long sigh, shaking his head. He pulls a chair up to our table and drops into it, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “Turns out child support isn’t the only unpaid bill. He owes more on the damned truck than it’s worth.”

Harry laughs. “That’s a shock,” he says. “So what’s he got?”

“Half. He borrowed it from his parents. That’s all they had.”

“His parents?” I steal another glance at Nicky. “He has parents? How old are they?”

The Kydd rests his chin on his hands. “Old.”

Harry lets out a soft whistle. “Stealing from the elderly to give to the children-all the while patronizing Zeke’s.” He leans forward on his elbows and shakes his head. “I don’t see a happy ending here, Kydd. Judge Leon Long isn’t going to like this version of Robin Hood.”

The Kydd waves him off with both hands, then points his pen at the empty bench. “Speaking of Judge Leon Long, where the hell is he?”

Harry grins. “Think, Kydd. And take a look at your calendar.”

The Kydd pulls a monthly planner from his briefcase, opens to December, then laughs out loud. “Damn,” he says, “I wanted to watch.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Geraldine will memorize the details, and she’ll share them-a hundred times-with anyone who will listen. It’ll be May before she stops raving about Judge Leon Long’s annual obstruction of justice, his blatant disregard for the county’s coffers.”

As if on cue, Geraldine blasts through the back doors and strides down the center aisle, sending men and women alike fleeing from her path. She opens the gate to the inner sanctum and slams it shut behind her. The room falls silent.

Stanley jumps to his feet, but Geraldine doesn’t acknowledge him. Instead, she stops at the defense table and points out the window, toward the District Courthouse. “I need a judge.”

Harry leans back in his chair, smiling at her. “Get in line.”

“I’m not kidding,” she says. “If he’s going to play this little game every year, he needs to show the hell up.”