Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

The truth, though, is that most criminal defendants, even those not guilty of the crimes charged, have something to hide. The neighborhood gang member accused of knocking over the local liquor store didn’t necessarily do it. But if his alibi is that he was closing a crack deal at the time of the robbery, he probably shouldn’t take the stand to say so.

Even a defendant with no priors runs a risk when he testifies. The stakes are highest when the crime charged is a violent one. If the accused is angry-and almost all of them are-then the prosecutor need only get under his skin, provoke an outburst. One flicker of rage from the defendant during trial and the Commonwealth is one giant step closer to a conviction.

In Buck Hammond’s case, this is my greatest fear.

It’s not that Buck is an angry man. He’s not. His manner is calm, resigned. He rarely speaks unless asked a question. Even then, he pauses and thinks-often for an unnaturally long time-before he answers. When he does, his voice is always the same, low and steady.

I’ve spent dozens of difficult, tedious hours with Buck during the past six weeks. I’ve asked him questions he couldn’t answer, a few that made his eyes fill. But I’ve never seen a trace of anger in him. Not even when he talks about Billy. And that, more than anything, is what worries me.

I’m afraid Buck has buried his rage, pushed it so deep into himself that no one-not even he-can see it. I’m worried that the stress of testifying, speaking publicly about all that happened to Billy, will be more than Buck can bear. I’m afraid that his fury has been pent up too long, that once it’s tapped it will boil over into the courtroom.

I’m scared as hell that Buck Hammond will erupt in the witness box.

Harry’s not worried about buried rage, though. He’s worried about Stanley.

“You can’t let him get to you,” Harry says as I join them. He and Buck are seated at an old, stained card table in the middle of a small meeting room. They both look comfortable, relaxed.

“Who? The little guy?” Buck arches his eyebrows. He’s surprised to learn he should worry about the little guy.

Harry laughs. “Yeah. The little guy-the one with the big head and the mouth to match.”

Buck looks up to see if I share Harry’s concern. I nod silently as I hang my parka next to Harry’s on the coatrack.

“Okay.” Buck shrugs. “So I won’t let him get to me.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. Stanley gets to everybody. Even people who aren’t on the hot seat.” Now it’s Harry’s turn to look my way. He wants backup.

I cross the small space between us and nod again.

Four metal folding chairs surround their rickety table. I wipe a layer of dust from one of the remaining two, then settle on it. “Harry’s right, Buck. Stanley would like nothing better than for you to explode in front of the jury. He’ll do everything he can to make that happen.”

“Explode?” Buck’s expression suggests he can’t fathom such an event.

“Yes-explode.”

I lean back in my chair and stare at Buck. He needs to take this to heart. “If you get mad, even for an instant, then Stanley has everything he needs for closing argument. You killed Monteros, Stanley will tell the jury, because you’re out of control.”

Buck shakes his head, but I keep talking. “You could kill again, Stanley will argue. You could take the law into your own hands yet again. You could become a vigilante. The jurors will worry about that.”

Buck’s eyes move from me to Harry, then down at his hands on the table. He’s silent.

“Look,” Harry says, “the bottom line is this: Stick to the script.”

Buck looks up again. “The script?”

I’m glad he asked-so I don’t have to.

“That’s right, the cross-examination script.”

Buck turns to me and I turn to Harry. I didn’t know we had a cross-examination script. I wonder who wrote it.

Harry stays focused on Buck. “If Stanley’s question calls for a yes or no answer, give him one. And give it loud and clear. If we don’t like the way it sounds-the way Stanley phrased the particular question-we’ll clean it up on redirect.”

Harry points his pen at me when he says this, as if it’s certain that I’ll clean up whatever mess Stanley makes.

“But if Stanley gives you room to talk”-the pen moves from me to Buck-“you only know three topics.”

“Three?” Buck looks as if this news makes him smarter than he thought he was.

“That’s right,” Harry says. “You know all about Billy before June nineteenth: the funny kid he was; how he was growing like a weed; the names of his best friends; how he loved fishing and the Red Sox.”

Buck closes his eyes, sways from side to side on his folding chair.

“You know what happened to Billy on June nineteenth.”

Buck stops swaying, but his eyes stay closed.

“And you know you had to stop Monteros-for Billy.”

Buck opens his eyes and nods, but says nothing.

“If Stanley tries to get you to talk about anything else-I don’t care what the hell it is-you steer the discussion right back to the script. Three topics. That’s it. You know nothing about anything else.”

Buck nods again, but Harry isn’t satisfied. “In particular,” he says, “you know nothing-less than nothing-about the insanity defense.”

For a few moments all three of us are quiet. Finally, Buck breaks the silence. “I know it’s a crock.”

“Goddammit!” Harry slams both fists on the table and an overloaded ashtray jumps into the air, three butts slipping over its sides. Its dark green beveled glass is chipped in about a half dozen places. This table has been slammed before.

Harry leans close enough to Buck to whisper, but he’s almost shouting. “Do you think maybe that enlightened opinion of yours is something you shouldn’t mention in the courtroom?”

Buck rubs his eyes, then leans forward on his elbows toward both of us. “I’m sorry. Really. I know you’re trying to do your job. And I’m grateful. It’s just…”

He swallows hard, drops his head and stares at the table. “I won’t say that tomorrow. I swear.”

“If you do, you’ll regret it. Your wife needs you. Remember that.” Harry waits until Buck looks up at him, then leans forward and lowers his voice. “Maybe-just maybe-these jurors want to let you walk. And maybe they see the temporary insanity defense as the only way they can do that. Take it away from them, pal, and you might throw out your only shot.”

Unlike me, Harry has always thought the temporary insanity plea was Buck’s best bet. True jury nullification, he says, is rare. And he’s right. For our jurors to return an outright acquittal, they’ll have to be willing to say that the law in this particular case is just plain wrong.

Rare is the juror willing to adopt that notion. Rarer yet is the juror willing to say so. The odds of an entire panel taking that route are slim. Even I have to admit that.

If the jurors accept the temporary insanity plea, on the other hand, they can have it both ways. They can send Buck home, spare him an eternity at Walpole, even though they acknowledge he committed the crime. They know he’s not innocent, but they can find him not guilty-the law allows that.

There is an important distinction between the word innocent and the phrase not guilty. Innocent means they’ve got the wrong guy; the accused didn’t do it. Not guilty is broader than that. It may mean the accused did it but has a legally recognizable excuse. Despite the media’s insistence to the contrary, there is no such verdict as innocent by reason of insanity. Not guilty is as good as it gets.

“I understand,” Buck says, dropping his hands to his sides.