Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

Stanley smirks, presses his controller, and the action on-screen resumes. He stops it again as soon as Monteros’s feet reach the runway.

“And I don’t suppose you have any memory of this gentleman, either, Mr. Hammond.” Stanley’s pointer rests on Monteros. “Is that your testimony?”

This question I didn’t overlook. I shift my position against the wall, so I can watch the jury as well as Buck.

He sits perfectly still in the witness box, his eyes on the white tip of Stanley’s pointer. “No,” he says. “That’s not my testimony.”

Stanley turns from the TV screen to the jurors, mock surprise on his face. “Do tell us,” he says. “What do you remember about Mr. Monteros?”

Buck’s eyes leave the screen and he turns toward the jury. “I remember everything,” he says.

“Everything?” Stanley holds his stick in two hands at chest level, as if he might tap dance once the music begins. “Perhaps you could be more specific.”

“The tattoo on his arm, the scar on his chin, the sneer on his face. I remember everything.”

Stanley appears satisfied with this answer. He starts the tape again. “And tell us, Mr. Hammond…” Stanley presses his controller and points the tip of his stick at Buck on the screen, one step from the shadow of the hangar. “Who is this?”

“That’s me.”

“So it is.” This time Stanley presses twice. I know what he’s doing. Continuing the tape. And turning on the volume. It’s been muted until now.

The shot thunders through the courtroom. Most of the jurors jump in their seats; a few cover their mouths. Buck doesn’t move.

On-screen, Monteros collapses and police officers scatter. A pool of red seeps from Monteros’s head onto the runway.

Stanley freezes the frame and moves so close to the witness box that Buck leans backward in his chair. “You fired that shot, Mr. Hammond?”

“I did.”

“Whose rifle?”

“Mine.”

“You hunt?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“Deer.”

Stanley turns his face toward the jury, but his body stays pressed against the witness box.

“Deer season in June?”

“No.”

“Anytime in spring?”

“No.”

“When?”

“Fall. November into December.”

Finally, Stanley walks away from the witness box, and Buck exhales. Stanley’s pointer finds Monteros on-screen again, taps against him a few times. “You intended to kill this man, didn’t you, Mr. Hammond?”

“I did.”

“You sighted his temple and your shot was on target, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Pretty good aim.”

Buck says nothing.

“For a man who’s insane.”

Harry swivels his chair out from the table, meets my eyes, and shakes his head. He’s afraid I might make the objection. He shouldn’t be. I may be new to the defense bar, but I’ve tried a few cases in the past decade. Jurors don’t like sarcasm-from either side of the aisle. We’ll let Stanley’s caustic comment stand.

Still, Buck says nothing.

Silence appears to unnerve Stanley. He hurries back toward the witness box, his pointer directed at Buck, the rubber tip almost touching his white shirt. “Is it your testimony, Mr. Hammond, that on the morning of June twenty-first, you drove your truck to the Chatham Municipal Airport, loaded your hunting rifle, took aim, fired a single shot, hit your target, all the while insane?”

So much for passing on objections. I leave my post against the wall and move toward the bench. “Just a minute, Judge. This witness isn’t an expert.”

Beatrice doesn’t respond.

“Mr. Hammond offered no opinion on his own mental state during direct, Judge, and there’s a reason for that. He’s not qualified.

The prosecutor already cross-examined our psychiatrist. He doesn’t get to put the same questions to a lay witness.”

“I’ll allow it.”

“You’ll what?”

“You heard me, Counsel. I’ll allow it.”

“On what grounds?”

Beatrice bangs her gavel and leans forward on her bench. “I’ve ruled, Counsel. I don’t intend to give you a table of authorities.”

“But the Commonwealth called two experts on this topic, Judge. How can it ask now for a lay opinion?”

“I’ve ruled, Counsel.”

Harry’s right. She doesn’t like me.

Stanley inserts himself between me and the bench, flicking one hand in my direction, shooing me away. I stay put.

He moves past, sidles up to the witness box again, and leans over toward Buck. “So tell us, Mr. Hammond…” Stanley extends his pointer backward, toward the frozen scene on the television screen. “Your lawyers claim this was a moment of temporary insanity. Was it?”

Buck’s eyes stay fixed on Stanley a few moments. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move a muscle. Stanley doesn’t either.

Finally, Buck glances at me, takes a deep breath, then turns to the jurors. “I’m no expert,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve no business agreeing or disagreeing with the doctors who testified here.”

He shifts in the chair and looks at me again, apology plain in his eyes. He takes another deep breath, then faces the panel. “But I do know one thing.”

All fourteen jurors sit completely still, their eyes riveted to Buck. Those in the back row lean forward to listen.

For the first time today, Buck’s voice cracks. His eyes fill as he points toward the TV, his arm parallel with Stanley’s pointer. “If that man were alive today, I’d hunt him down and kill him.”

“Hunt him down and kill him,” of course, was not in the cross-examination script. We passed on redirect. That way Stanley had no opportunity to recross, no chance to get Buck to repeat those words. Stanley will undoubtedly quote them a time or two during his closing. No need for Buck to help the Commonwealth again.

Stanley finished with Buck at two o’clock, whereupon Beatrice called a one-hour lunch break. Closing arguments would begin promptly at three, she promised the jury. She cast a pointed glance across the room in my direction as she spoke, as if certain I might otherwise linger over a lavish meal. I glared back at her until she looked away.

Harry looked from me to Beatrice as she left the bench, then reiterated his belief that I’m destined for the cell block. He repositioned the rickety easel and the two photos of Billy Hammond as soon as Beatrice and the jurors were out of the room. We both donned jackets and boots, then, to brave the snowstorm. I went to see Sonia Baker, to reinforce her decision to try to cooperate with Prudence Nelson. Harry went in search of an open deli.

When I got back to the courthouse, Harry was waiting with two cardboard cups of lukewarm clam chowder and two turkey clubs. Each of us had a chowder. Harry ate the sandwiches. Now, as I stand to face the jurors, I wish he’d eaten both chowders as well.

The jurors look a little more relaxed after their lunch break. They’re settled comfortably into their chairs, a few with notebooks and pens on their laps. Their eyes, and their attention, are all mine. Still, though, their emotions are well hidden. I stand before them, silent, and wait until the gallery is quiet.

“There are two sides to our judicial system: the civil and the criminal. And there are important distinctions between the two. Most are differences of degree.

“The burden of proof, for example. In a civil matter, the complaining party must prove his case by a preponderance of the evidence. But in a criminal proceeding, the burden of proof is far more steep. The complaining party, the Commonwealth, must prove its case-every element of it-beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Widespread nods. They know this, of course. They read the paper; they watch TV.