Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

I stare at her, silent, and I realize this isn’t about me. And it’s certainly not about Buck Hammond. It’s about Judge Beatrice Nolan. She holds the reins in this courtroom. She wants us to know that her power is absolute.

For the moment, at least, she’s correct.

“You addressed the jury, Counsel. If you didn’t say everything you should have said, that’s too bad. But it’s your problem, not mine. You don’t get a second shot.” She leans toward me and bangs her gavel, just once, for emphasis. “Not in my courtroom.”

Harry gets to his feet. He shakes his head at me, his eyes telling me to forget it. There’s no point in trying to reason with Beatrice. Let’s get on with the case.

It doesn’t feel right, though. I didn’t intend to be that brief.

Harry buttons his suit coat and straightens his tie-almost-as he leaves the table. “Your Honor, the defense calls Dr. Martin Simmons to the stand.”

The doctor rises in the gallery and heads for the witness box.

Harry moves toward the front of the room, his eyes still telling me to let it go. The judge stares down at me, almost smiling, victorious.

Harry stops on his way to the witness box and leans toward me. “I could be wrong,” he whispers, “but I don’t think she likes you.”

Dr. Martin Simmons is Chief of Psychiatry at Massachusetts General Hospital. He’s a handsome man in his mid-sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a friendly manner, and a build that suggests he takes good care of himself. More important, he’s an intelligent, compassionate person. His sympathy for Buck and Patty is genuine.

The doctor has spent a lot of time with Buck, more hours than necessary for trial purposes. Buck said he didn’t mind those hours; he sort of liked thinking about the doctor’s questions. He told me he felt a little better after each session with Dr. Simmons. Buck surprised himself, I think, when he said that.

Harry marched through the preliminaries-the doctor’s education and professional experience-quickly. He wants to get to the point before Stanley-and Beatrice-start interrupting.

Dr. Simmons just told the panel that Buck was in the midst of a psychotic episode when he shot Hector Monteros.

Harry pauses to let the jurors absorb the doctor’s testimony. A few jot quick notes.

“Tell us, Dr. Simmons, what is a psychotic episode?”

The doctor nods and turns toward the jury, his expression animated. He’s eager to share the specifics of his field with people who are interested. But I’m not sure these people are. The jurors are all listening, that much is clear. But most of their faces are blank. A few look downright skeptical.

“An individual suffering a psychotic episode experiences impaired contact with reality during a specific period of time. The duration of a psychotic episode varies from patient to patient, as does the degree of impairment. If impairment is limited, the individual loses contact with a fragment of reality but retains clarity with regard to other facets of life. In serious cases, impairment can be complete. The individual’s mind is severed from the real world.”

“Before we get into the specifics of Mr. Hammond’s diagnosis, Doctor, can you tell the jury what precipitated his psychotic episode?”

Stanley stands, clears his throat. “Your Honor, please, we’ve heard all this before.”

“Approach.” Judge Nolan sighs and shakes her head at Harry as he and Stanley near the bench. She leans toward them, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Her pinched expression says it all. She doesn’t know what Harry’s up to, but she’s sure it’s nothing good.

“Mr. Madigan, where are you going with this?”

I wonder why the judge bothered to call a sidebar. She hasn’t lowered her voice at all. If I can hear her, then the jurors can too. And the press, no doubt, isn’t missing a word. We’ll hear this exchange again-more than once-on the evening news.

“Where am I going?” Harry doesn’t lower his voice either. In fact, he’s louder. “My client has raised a temporary insanity defense, Your Honor. This is our expert psychiatrist. I’m going into the relevant facts.” Harry’s volume has amped up another notch. If old Beatrice plans to shut him down, everyone in the room is going to hear his protests.

Stanley clears his throat again; he wants a turn. “Your Honor, the Chief of Police testified at considerable length about the boy. We don’t need to hear it again.” Stanley shakes his head. “Besides, it’s inflammatory.”

“Inflammatory?” Harry’s shouting now, his hands in the air. “Of course it’s inflammatory.”

Harry wheels around and points at Buck, then looks straight at the jury. He’s not even pretending to address the judge. “This man’s son-an innocent seven-year-old child-was raped and murdered. You bet it’s inflammatory. Inflammatory enough to push a reasonable man over the edge, make him snap. That, Judge”-Harry turns and glares at Beatrice again-“is the point.”

Judge Nolan sits up straight, her nostrils flaring. She’s not happy about Harry’s speech. And she agrees with Stanley. She’d agree with Satan if he were arguing with Harry.

“You will lower your voice, Counsel.” Judge Nolan actually puckers her lips when she says this, but it’s pretty clear she doesn’t plan to kiss anyone.

“I’ll do no such thing, Judge.” Harry turns and points at Buck again. “You have no right to shut down this man’s defense.”

Now he’s done it.

The judge holds up both hands, palms out, to call for silence. She removes her bifocals and sets them carefully on the bench. She leans on her elbows, eyes closed, and massages first the bridge of her nose, then her right temple. Her message wouldn’t be any clearer if it were flashing in neon: Harry Madigan, not ten minutes into his direct, has given her a migraine.

Finally the judge opens her eyes. She takes a deep breath, folds her thin arms across her black robe, and tucks her hands inside its wide sleeves. “Mr. Madigan,” she says, her voice lower but still perfectly audible, “no one is shutting down this man’s defense. But I will shut you down, sir, if you get on your soapbox again.”

She keeps her eyes on Harry and points at Dr. Simmons. “If your witness has a medical opinion, Mr. Madigan, you’d better get to it. This case is about the shooting death of Hector Monteros. We’re not here to belabor the details of an unrelated murder.”

“Belabor the details? Unrelated murder?” Harry’s bellowing now, again directing his words to the panel, not Beatrice.

The jurors’ gazes move between Harry and the judge, question marks on their faces. They seem unsure what to make of this shouting match. The elderly schoolteacher watches Beatrice carefully. I’m worried about her.

Harry turns to look at me and it’s my turn to give him a sign-an index finger pressed vertically against my lips. It means shut up and go where she’s pushing you; we need the medical opinion. Continue this argument later.

Telling Harry to let go of a fight with Beatrice is like asking a hungry dog to abandon a ham bone. He frowns at my signal and clenches his teeth. After a moment, though, he nods and sighs. We do need the medical opinion. He may as well get it into evidence. He could land in a jail cell anytime now.

Harry turns his back on Beatrice and Stanley, dismissing them both, and walks toward the witness box. Stanley stands alone by the bench, looking stranded for a moment, before returning to his seat. Beatrice, of course, looks perturbed.

“Dr. Simmons, did you examine Mr. Hammond at my request?” Harry’s voice is almost normal now; he’s working at it. His fists are clenched but he’s trying hard to appear relaxed, as if the verbal sparring of the past few minutes never happened, as if his prior question isn’t begging for an answer.