Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

Their eyes follow my index finger to Judge Long. He’s silent, but his eyes aren’t. He shakes his head at Geraldine, mouths “No.”

“Never argue with opposing counsel,” I tell Harry, “if the judge will do it for you.”

Late as it is when I get back to the cottage, I am unable to resist the allure of Mr. Justice Paxson. Once more, I center his words under my desk lamp, the only light on in the house. I flip ahead in the opinion, past the remaining evaluation of expert witnesses, and turn to his discussion of the defendant.

Orfila has said that the mind is always greatly troubled when it is agitated by anger,…overcome by despair, haunted by terror, or corrupted by an unconquerable desire for vengeance.

Then, as is commonly said, a man is no longer master of himself; his reason is affected, his ideas are in disorder, he is like a madman.

But in all these cases a man does not lose his knowledge of the real relations of things;…his misfortune is real, and if it carry him to commit a criminal act, this act is perfectly well motivated.

And in the near-darkness of my bedroom, I realize that this is precisely my concern. One truth about Buck Hammond is beyond debate. His misfortune is real, and if it carry him to commit a criminal act, this act is perfectly well motivated.

Friday, December 24

It’s not a dream, not a nightmare. I bolt upright, my heart racing. My adrenaline pump switches on, an instant cold sweat seeping from every pore in my body. I will my breath silent, my eyes open.

The darkness is complete but for the glowing red numbers of the alarm clock. It’s two A.M. And the noise-the one I thought I imagined in my sleep-it’s real.

Scratching. Something-or someone-is scratching, digging maybe. But not outside; it’s not a fox or a coyote. The sound is here. In this room.

I decide against the light, swing my legs out of bed, and grab the telephone from the nightstand. The scratching stops, though, abruptly, and I freeze. A split second later, something lands on my feet and I jump up. My heartbeat halts. The phone falls to the floor.

My attacker whimpers. It’s Charles. I forgot about him. He lifts a pudgy front paw and runs it down the shins of my red flannel pajamas until I pick him up. He licks my chin as I flip on the lamp. Dog breath.

It was after midnight by the time I got home. Luke had left the outside floodlight on for me, illuminating the back stairs and deck. And the aroma in the driveway told me the woodstove was still burning. Otherwise, though, the cottage was dark. Luke and Maggie were asleep. Half an hour later, I was too. Charles never crossed my mind.

I put the phone back in its spot on the nightstand and examine the leg of my headboard. Sure enough, little dog scratches at the base.

Charles’s tail wags against the inside of my arm when I scoop him up. He looks up at me hopefully, mouth open, long tongue hanging over one side again. He really does have dog breath. And he’s hungry.

Danny Boy snores in his bed, oblivious to his adopted son’s needs. Every mother hen deserves a helper, I believe, so Charles and I head for the kitchen. It’s been a long time since I’ve done a two A.M. feeding, but I remember the drill. Feed him till you’re wide awake, then he’ll fall sound asleep.

One heaping bowl of puppy chow later, Charles is tucked back in with Danny Boy and the cottage is quiet. I’m not, though. I’m on edge.

I stoke up the woodstove, then head upstairs to check on Luke. This is not something I normally do in the middle of the night. But tonight doesn’t feel normal. I crack open Luke’s bedroom door without making a sound and listen. He’s deep in the abyss of teenage slumber.

I head back down to the first floor, where Maggie’s steady breathing from the sofa bed tells me she’s out cold. I wish I were too. But I’m on edge, and the knot in my stomach is growing. It’s not every day that one happens upon a judge in his own chambers with a knife in his back. It’s the memory of finding Judge Leon Long that has me rattled, I tell myself as I climb back into bed. After all, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.

But that’s not it. I’m up again in an instant, circling my bedroom on cold feet. We’re missing something-all of us. That suspicion grows steadily into a near-certainty as I pace. It nags at me as I force myself to sit, to use my brain instead of my stomach. My brain is cluttered, though. Minutes pass while I struggle to sort out my thoughts. If I’m right-if we are missing something-I can’t name it.

And then I can.

My cold sweat begins again as I reach for the phone. Geraldine’s number is unlisted, but I’ve called her a thousand times in the past decade; I know it by heart. I punch it in and listen to the rings. She’ll be furious with me for waking her-and I’ll never hear the end of it-if she’s all right.

But I’m afraid she might not be.

The surgeon told Geraldine that Judge Long’s attacker was interrupted, prevented from finishing the job. If he’s right, then the assailant would have stabbed the judge again if he could have. Maybe again after that. Maybe eleven agains.

A parole officer and a judge in the same week. Both on their jobs about two decades. Coincidence perhaps. But if not, then revenge is at work here. And the prosecutor is almost certainly on the short list.

There’s only one living person who’s prosecuted more cases in Barnstable County than I have. And she’s been on the job just shy of two decades.

I hold the receiver away from my ear as a loud screech follows the fourth ring and a recorded message kicks in: “The number you have dialed”-an automaton takes an excruciatingly long time to recite each digit-“is temporarily out of service.”

I grab my parka and a pair of boots. Together they hide all but the knees of my red flannel pajamas. I pull on an old ski cap, tuck my hair inside, and avoid looking at the mirror. I’m out the kitchen door, careful to lock it behind me. I don’t normally lock the cottage doors, but I don’t often go for a spin at two-thirty in the morning either.

The roads are slick but empty, and within minutes I’m doing eighty along Route 28, a two-lane road that snakes around the dark shoreline of Pleasant Bay. There is no moon tonight and snow falls steadily as I cross the Chatham line into East Harwich and speed toward Orleans, Geraldine’s hometown.

In no time, I approach the ENTERING ORLEANS sign, a plain square placard I’ve probably passed thousands of times in my life. INCORPORATED 1797, it says. Funny the things you notice doing eighty in the middle of the night.

The flashing blue lights are just about in my backseat before I notice them, though. Damn. At this particular moment, there is probably one police officer on all of Cape Cod who’s not in an all-night doughnut shop. And here he is.

The cop takes forever to leave his car so I jump out of mine. He’s surprised to find me standing in the road-in the falling snow-when he opens the cruiser door. His eyes come to a grinding halt at my knees as he emerges. I wish I’d changed.

The cop shakes his head, then straightens up and faces me, pretending he’s seen nothing out of the ordinary. He looks like a tall version of Opie from Mayberry R.F.D. And he doesn’t look much older than Luke.

“Ma’am,” he says, polite as a Boy Scout, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait in your car…”

“Officer, listen, I’m an attorney. A former ADA.”

He shakes his head and raises gloved hands to shut me up. “We don’t make the deals, ma’am. The lawyers do that.”

I have an overwhelming urge to smack Opie into silence.