Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

“Your concern is this moment.” Stanley extends his pointer toward the bloody scene on the TV.

“Frankly, I don’t care if you think Mr. Hammond was insane on every other day of his life, today included. It doesn’t matter.”

He moves closer to the TV, taps his pointer on the glass. “Because this fragment of time is the only one that matters. And in this moment, Mr. Hammond was in control. At this moment, he was methodical. At this moment, he was purposeful.”

Stanley bangs the tip of his pointer against the pool of Monteros’s blood.

“We all know, ladies and gentlemen, that at this moment, William Francis Hammond was sane. Maybe-just maybe-it was a moment of temporary sanity.”

Beatrice’s jury instructions were lengthy, but by the book. She glanced at Buck too many times when she defined malice aforethought and premeditation, but we couldn’t do anything to stop her. Ugly looks from the judge don’t normally form the basis of an appeal. In this case, though, we might give it a whirl.

Most members of the panel lost interest in the instructions, and their eyes glazed over about halfway through. I can’t blame them; mine did too. Listening to the Commonwealth’s Uniform Jury Instructions is like suffering through multiple bad sermons. Each one is more monotonous than the last, teeming with boilerplate directives and unqualified commands. The judge may as well read aloud from the phone book.

She’s wrapping it up now, not a moment too soon. It’s almost seven o’clock. Most of the jurors slouch in their seats, their eyes half closed. Not the retired schoolteacher, though; her posture is perfect, her eyes alert.

“And that, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, concludes my charge to you.” Beatrice sets her glasses on the bench, folds her hands beside them.

The jurors look exhausted, but they rally when the judge tells them she’s through. They shift in their seats, stretch their tight limbs. A few even rub their eyes, as if waking from a nap. Late as it is, they seem ready. Ready to get to work. Ready to take on Commonwealth versus Hammond. Ready to decide Buck’s fate.

“At this point in time, ladies and gentlemen”-Beatrice covers her mouth, stifles a yawn-“it’s my intention to dismiss you for the holiday.”

Harry shoots up as if fired from a cannon. “Dismiss them?”

“That’s right, Mr. Madigan. Dismiss them.”

I’m up too. “But they’re sequestered.”

“Not tonight, they’re not, Ms. Nickerson. It’s late. And it’s Christmas Eve.”

“Christmas Eve?” Harry’s at the bench in a flash. Stanley follows on Harry’s heels, as if he thinks Beatrice might need assistance.

Harry points backward to our table, to Buck, and almost smacks Stanley’s head in the process. “You think it’s Christmas Eve for Mr. Hammond, Judge? You want him to go back to his cell and decorate a tree? Let visions of sugarplums dance in his head? His life is on the line here.”

The judge doesn’t care to look at Buck now. She doesn’t acknowledge Harry’s pointing at him. Her eyes don’t move. She stares through Harry as if he’s not there. “Spare us your poetry, Mr. Madigan. And your melodrama as well. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts doesn’t impose the death penalty-not even in capital murder cases. No one’s life is on the line here.”

Beatrice shakes her head in the silence that follows her speech; she apparently finds it regrettable that death isn’t an option.

For a split second, it seems no one in the courtroom breathes. Even Harry is speechless. He turns to me and blinks, momentarily unable to grasp what he just heard.

Beatrice faces the jury again. She’s through with Harry. “We’ll reconvene on Monday morning, December twenty-seventh, at nine o’clock.”

“No. We won’t.” Harry’s voice is low, controlled. I know that tone. This is war.

“Pardon me, Mr. Madigan?” Beatrice glowers at Harry, her gavel in hand.

“You heard me, Judge. We’re not going to reconvene, because we’re not going to unconvene.”

“Unconvene?”

“You’re not sending them home, Judge. Not until we have a verdict.”

“Are you giving me an order, Mr. Madigan?”

“No. I’m not giving anybody an order.” Harry turns to the jury, his voice still steady, restrained. “Judge Long gave the order. These jurors are sequestered until they reach a verdict. Quarantined with the evidence presented in this courtroom. Sheltered from the media blitz. That’s been the standing order of this court since trial began.”

Harry faces Beatrice again. “You can’t change it now.”

“I can’t ?”

“No. You can’t.” Harry’s still addressing the panel, not Beatrice. “It’s one more order Mr. Hammond relied upon. It’s an order that guarantees him a trial by jury-this jury-not by the press. You can’t take that away from him now. We won’t let you.”

“We?” Beatrice glares at the back of Harry’s head.

The jurors look as if they might agree with Harry. One by one, they nod up at him, then check in with one another. More than a few look up at the judge, as if they’d like to be heard on the matter.

Beatrice doesn’t notice, though; she doesn’t even look at them. Her eyes bore holes through Harry’s back.

After a moment of paralysis, Beatrice straightens in her chair, still clutching her gavel. She sends a silent signal to one of her two court officers, a burly man with a red beard.

Big Red signals back-salutes, almost-then leaves his post beside the jury box and heads for the side door.

Harry and I both know where he’s going. He’s rounding up the troops, preparing for battle. Big Red has been involved in removing Harry from this courtroom before. It’s not an easy task. If he and his partner need to do it this evening, and it looks as if they might, they’ll need help.

Beatrice leans across her bench toward Harry and takes a deep breath. “I’ll instruct them to avoid the press, Counsel. They’re perfectly capable of doing so. No TV. No radio. No newspapers. And no discussion of the case with anyone. Not family members. Not even one another, until they begin formal deliberations. This won’t be the first jury to be so instructed. And it certainly won’t be the last.”

Harry turns to the packed gallery and lifts his arms toward the crowd as if he’ll belt out a chorus or two as soon as someone strikes up the band. Simultaneously, TV camera lights focus on him and flashbulbs explode. He’ll almost certainly be the top story on tonight’s late news, the front-page photo on tomorrow morning’s Cape Cod Times .

I can see the headline now: Defense Attorney Home for the Holidays-If Only in His Dreams.

“Avoid the press?” Harry laughs out loud. “How the hell are they supposed to do that? Spend the weekend in space, maybe?” His voice isn’t restrained anymore.

Beatrice leans back in her chair, lips clamped, decision written on her face. The offer to instruct the jury was her final attempt at reasoning with Harry Madigan. She’s had it. And everyone in the room, including Harry, knows that he’s had it too.

“Once again, Mr. Madigan, you are in contempt of this court.”

“You bet I am.” Harry hustles across the courtroom, staring up at her. “This court is contemptible.”

Beatrice pounds her gavel.

Harry keeps moving. When he reaches our table, he rests his hands on Buck’s shoulders and faces the jury again. He’s flushed, sweating. He’s running out of time and he knows it.

“This man deserves your verdict before you leave this building, before you’re bombarded with the opinions of those who think they know what happened here. No fair-minded person would say otherwise.”