Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

The judge’s tone is harsh; she’s misread Patty’s expression. Beatrice thinks it’s her words that aren’t getting through.

Patty shakes her head, still staring up at the judge. “I guess not,” she says.

Judge Beatrice Nolan doesn’t like that answer. She clamps her lips together and leans toward the witness box, eyes protruding, nostrils flaring.

Patty actually recoils.

Beatrice opens her mouth to speak-or perhaps to breathe fire-but Stanley intervenes. “Your Honor,” he says, “I have no further questions for this witness.”

I’m sure he doesn’t. Badgering Patty Hammond in front of the panel would be a big mistake. Stanley doesn’t want it happening on his watch, even if it’s the judge doing the badgering.

Beatrice straightens in her chair and looks at me, her eyebrows knitted into one.

I return her stare. “No further questions from us, Judge. Patty Hammond said it all.”

Beatrice fires a threatening look in my direction before announcing yet another morning recess. I’ll pay for that editorial comment, it says. I wonder if Beatrice is having stomach problems. She never calls breaks so close together. She’s off the bench even before the bailiff tells us to rise.

Harry’s on the move as soon as Beatrice leaves the room. He saunters the length of our table, tapping his pen against his temple, as if coaxing a thought from his brain. He stops when he reaches my chair and points his pen at the bench.

I roll my eyes at him. I have a pretty good idea what’s coming.

“I could be wrong again,” he says, shaking his head, “but I think you’re headed for the cell block.”

It doesn’t appear that the back-to-back breaks did anything good for Beatrice Nolan’s disposition. She ascends to the bench wearing a sour expression, eyes narrowed, lips in a thin straight line. She swivels her chair toward the empty jury box and studies the wall behind it as the jurors file in and take their seats. Old Beatrice should have dropped a lump or two of sugar in her midmorning coffee.

At least she’s not staring at us. Buck is sitting up straight, composed, hands folded and steady on the defense table. He’s ready to testify. He doesn’t need any last-minute eye contact with our ill-tempered judge.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…” Beatrice leans back in her chair, one hand on an armrest, the other fingering her gavel, just in case. “It’s now time for the attorneys to deliver their closing arguments.”

Harry and I jump up as if choreographed. For a split second we’re both speechless.

Harry recovers first. “Whoa,” he says.

It’s not much of a recovery. Whoa isn’t a word normally bandied about in the courtroom.

Beatrice bolts forward, her eyes no longer narrowed. “Whoa?” She lifts her gavel from the bench and holds it midair, like a tomahawk she might hurl at any moment. “Did you say whoa, Mr. Madigan?”

Harry winces. “I’m afraid I did, Judge. But that’s not what I meant.”

Beatrice lowers the gavel slightly, cupping its head in her hand. “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Madigan.” She stares down at the small hammer, examining its veneer, then glares up at Harry. “Enlighten us, Counsel. What did you mean?”

“What I meant to say was: Excuse me, Your Honor, but the defense didn’t rest.”

“Didn’t rest?”

“We’re not finished.”

“Not finished?” Beatrice looks at me as if I’m Harry’s mother and I ought to control him better.

Harry takes a step toward the bench. “We have one more witness, Judge. Mr. Hammond. He’s our last witness.”

“Mr. Hammond?” Beatrice looks like she’s just been told a potted plant will testify.

“The defendant.” Harry points at Buck and Buck raises his hand, as if the judge might not know who he is.

Beatrice grimaces. “Counsel, approach.”

Stanley and Harry get to the bench before I do, but Judge Nolan doesn’t feel compelled to wait. It doesn’t matter. She’s loud enough to be heard in the far corners of the small courtroom. It’s becoming pretty clear that Beatrice calls these sidebars to keep her comments off the record, not to conduct any sort of private discussion.

“What’s going on here, Counsel?”

The question, of course, is directed at Harry.

“What’s going on here?” Harry leans one hand on the bench, runs the other through his thick, tangled hair. He looks mystified.

“The defendant is ready to take the stand. That’s what’s going on here.”

Beatrice’s nostrils flare again. “What does he plan to say?” She’s bellowing now, not even pretending this is a real sidebar.

“You can’t ask me that.” Harry’s steaming.

“I most certainly can. I’m the judge.”

“I don’t give a damn who you are.”

Uh-oh.

“I’m the defense lawyer.” Harry is booming now. He points a thumb over his shoulder at Buck. “And he’s the defendant. That means he has a right to testify on his own behalf without giving a sneak preview to the prosecutor.”

Harry’s thumb moves from Buck to Stanley and Stanley backs away, as if he thinks it might be loaded.

Beatrice leans forward, suggesting she plans to whisper, but she doesn’t. She’s as loud as ever. “He has no right to commit perjury.”

“Perjury?” The word escapes Harry and me simultaneously.

“And you people have no right to suborn it.”

“You people?” Again, we’re in unison.

“Did you explain the penalties for perjury to your client, Counsel?” Beatrice’s eyes shift from Harry to me. She wants to be sure I realize I’m included in her accusation.

Harry’s about to explode, his ruddy complexion as dark red as it gets. I put my hand up to stop him, then turn to face the judge. I wait until her eyes lock with mine.

“Why would we do that, Judge?” I keep my voice markedly lower than hers and Harry’s, barely loud enough for the jurors to hear.

Beatrice stands, leans completely over her bench, and pats the top of Stanley’s television set. She holds my stare, her eyes fierce. “I’ve seen this videotape, Counsel. Pictures don’t lie. If your client plans to contradict the content of this film on the witness stand”-she points to the chair as if I’m unfamiliar with the layout of the courtroom-“then he plans to commit perjury. And I won’t allow it.”

She folds her arms, but doesn’t wait for a response.

“And if he doesn’t plan to contradict the content of the videotape, then his taking the witness stand is foolhardy. Have you so advised him?”

One might expect a pause here. But no.

“If you haven’t advised against his taking the stand, you’re incompetent. I’ll remove you from this case.”

“Remove…?”

“If you have, and he’s not listening, you’re ineffective. I’ll remove you from this case.”

Beatrice has thought this through.

A hundred people are crammed into this room and not one of them moves. The only sound to be heard is Beatrice’s labored breathing. She’s still standing, her torso concave, folded arms pressed against her chest as if she’s cold. Her eyes invite me-dare me-to fight.

On an ordinary day, Beatrice Nolan could outbitch me with little effort. But not today. Beatrice doesn’t realize she’s taken on a woman who got almost no sleep last night. Today I’m every inch the bitch that she is.

I turn away from her and walk toward old String Tie. His eyes meet mine for just a second-leave me out of this, they say-before he stares down at his machine.

“The defense calls Mr. William ‘Buck’ Hammond to the stand.”

No one moves, not even String Tie. I stand still in front of his machine and point my pen at him. “You were supposed to type that.”