Maximum Security (16 page)

Geraldine leaves her table and strolls back to the bar—and Harry—as soon as Judge Long goes into his chambers. The Kydd and I are busy packing up. Clarence is too. And all of our yellow legal pads are peppered with multiple dates, the most important one either circled or underlined a few times. Louisa Rawlings’s murder trial is scheduled to begin on September 18, eleven months from today.

“Splendid,” Geraldine says to Harry, her face deadpan, her voice flat. “You’re here.”

Harry jumps to his feet and his chest puffs up a little. That might be the nicest thing our District Attorney has ever said to him. “I didn’t know you felt that way,” he says. He leans into her, as if he doesn’t want the rest of us to hear, and uses his best bedroom voice. “One of us is going to have to break it to Marty.” He shakes his head sadly. “I guess we all should have seen this coming.”

“Puh-leeze.” Geraldine closes her eyes and tosses a few printed pages at him. “Spare me.”

Harry groans. He knows an arrest report when he sees one. “Who?” he asks.

Geraldine laughs and taps her temple, as if trying to recall. “Rhymes with
stinky
,” she sings.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Harry falls back into his chair, checking the report to see if Geraldine is serious. His frown answers the question. She is.

He reads silently for a moment and then runs both hands through his thick hair before looking up at her again. “So when do we tango?” he asks. He sighs and slouches in his seat, stretching his legs out toward our table, not looking like much of a dancer at the moment.

She laughs again. “This afternoon,” she tells him. “You’re on my dance card.” She checks her list and glances over at the pendulum clock. It’s ten forty-five.

“The Rawlings matter is scheduled for one,” she continues. “If you’re back here by twelve-thirty, the judge might squeeze you in first. Otherwise,” she shrugs and starts walking back to her table, “we’ll see you and the King of the Road at open session.”

I laugh and snap my briefcase shut. “You’re slipping in your middle age, Geraldine. We just finished the Rawlings matter.”

She frowns across the room at me, the “Get a brain, Martha” look she perfected when we worked together. “Not
that
Rawlings matter,” she says. “The other one.”

The
other
one? I stand and step over Harry’s feet so I can walk toward her. “What other one?”

“The daughter filed a petition,” she says, turning her back to me. “It doesn’t concern you.”

My client is charged with capital murder. Everything concerns me. “A petition for what?”

She takes a short stack of documents from Clarence, perches on the edge of her table, and begins reading. She waves me off without looking up.

“Geraldine, if anyone even remotely connected to Louisa Rawlings is going to be in a courtroom with the judge and the prosecutor on her case, I want to know about it.”

She looks up at me, annoyed as usual, and then lowers her reading material to her lap and sighs. I can almost see her brain decide that answering my question is probably the quickest way to get rid of me. “The daughter,” she says, “Anna-something.”

“Anastasia,” I tell her.

“That’s it. She wants us to release the body.”

I nod. It’s not an unusual request.

“And the house,” Geraldine adds.

“The house? What house?”

“Her father’s. She’s having some sort of service for him tomorrow morning. Wants to invite the mourners back to the house for a mercy meal.”

Anastasia was true to her word. She made arrangements. And she wasted no time.

“She also wants to stay there while she’s on the Cape,” Geraldine continues. “She can’t do either of those things as long as the house is a designated crime scene, so she filed a motion asking the court to release it.”

“Are you opposing the motion?” The thought of Geraldine and Anastasia in combat is frightening.

She shakes her head. “No. There’s no need. The post is done. And she’s entitled to her father’s remains, for Christ’s sake.”

“What about the house?”

Geraldine hugs the stack of documents to her chest and smiles the way she always does when she knows she’s holding the reins. “Anna-whoever-the-hell-she-is can have the damned house,” she says. “After all, we’re done with it. We have everything we need.”

In the Barnstable County House of Correction, no reasonable request goes unrefused. The powers that be rejected ours on the spot. The Kydd and I were on our best behavior when we met with Louisa Rawlings in the jail’s smallest conference room. We were patient, uncomplaining, as we waited in the hallway for more than half an hour to see the matron in charge of Louisa’s ward. We were as polite as Eagle Scouts when we explained the situation and asked that Louisa be brought back to the main courtroom at one o’clock. The answer was no.

“It’s not on the schedule,” the gum-chewing matron told us. She closed her ledger then. And she closed our discussion with it.

“We know it’s not on the schedule,” I reminded her. “That’s why we’re here.”

As far as she was concerned, though, our meeting had already ended. She took off her thick glasses and used them to direct us to the door.

The schedule is of paramount importance in our county facilities, particularly on the female violent offenders’ ward. This has always struck me as somewhat peculiar. Like every other woman who resides there at the moment, Louisa Rawlings has precisely nothing to do. Yet her
schedule
is not to be disrupted. She might miss a call from the Pentagon, it seems. Or the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

It took a written order from Judge Leon Long to override the mulish matron. And by the time that was accomplished, it was almost twelve-thirty. The Kydd ran out to grab a quick bite at the Piccadilly Deli, but I came back to the courthouse instead. I don’t have much of an appetite today.

Anastasia Rawlings is here early for the one o’clock hearing on her petition. She’s already in the hallway, outside the main courtroom, her ensemble either the same one she’s been wearing all week or a reasonable facsimile. She’s engrossed in what appears to be a heated discussion with Steven Collier and he’s not getting to say much. Lance Phillips is seated on a nearby bench. Apparently he’s not interested in their tiff; he’s staring into his lap, not even looking at them. Maybe he’s plotting his next murder mystery best seller.

Collier spots me first and he alerts Anastasia to my arrival with a silent dip of his jet-black head. She wheels around, dropping whatever her beef is with him, and storms down the long hallway in my direction, her hair trailing behind like the train of an evening gown gone wrong. “You,” she bellows, her deep voice echoing in the almost empty corridor. “How do you sleep at night?”

I’ve been asked this question a number of times since I joined the defense bar a year ago. Never by anyone concerned about my well-being. “You’ll get used to it,” Harry promised after the first time a pompous reporter shouted it at me on the courthouse steps. I haven’t.

“I want an answer,” Anastasia barks, blocking my path with her substantial black-clad form, her hair shroud settling around it.

“Then ask a question that deserves one.” I stand still, toe to toe with her clodhopper boots, and meet her ridiculously outlined eyes.

“Anastasia!” Steven Collier hustles down the hallway as if he’s been appointed the courthouse bouncer. “Stop it. The woman is only doing her job.”

This is a comment I’ve heard before too. I don’t like it any better than the sleep inquiry. “Not so,” I tell him. “I’m doing more than that. Much more.”

He looks down at me and knits his inky eyebrows, apparently unable to fathom what I might mean. I walk around both of them and pass Lance Phillips, who’s still examining his lap. I glance back at Anastasia and Collier again—they’re planted where I left them—and then enter the courtroom through its rear double doors.

Harry is the only person in here. He’s seated at the defense table looking a little bit like the Maytag repairman. His chair is pushed back, away from the table, his legs stretched out in front of him. He swivels the chair around when the heavy doors slam shut behind me and he laughs. As is often the case with Harry, I can’t imagine what he finds amusing. “Marty,” he says. “Here we are. Alone at last.”

As if she heard him, Wanda Morgan opens the side door and pokes her head into the courtroom. “You ready, Mr. Madigan?”

“You betcha,” he says, thrusting a fist in the air. “Ready, set, Rinky.”

Wanda shakes her head at him and then looks at me and laughs. I take a seat at the bar as she steps inside the courtroom, allowing Rinky and a couple of guards to enter after her. Rinky must be rambunctious today; it took two uniforms to get him in here. One removes his cuffs and the other delivers him to the defense table.

“
There
you are,” Rinky says to Harry as he approaches. “I’ve been looking for you.”

The side door opens and Geraldine rushes in, Clarence on her heels carrying two briefcases. Rinky’s shoulders droop when he looks over at the prosecutors and he drops his head sadly. “Oh,
man
,” he says. “
Her
again.”

Harry laughs out loud and slaps him on the back, sending skinny Rinky stumbling forward a few steps. Joey Kelsey tells us to stand.

Judge Long emerges from chambers, takes the file from Wanda as he passes her, and slaps it down on the bench. He sits, signals with both hands for the rest of us to do likewise, and retrieves his half-glasses from the pocket of his robe. “Mr. Snow,” he says, donning his spectacles and then peering over them, “you’re back.”

Rinky gives the judge a little wave. “Here I am again,” he says.

Judge Long sighs and skims the police report, then looks back up, his eyes wide under raised eyebrows. “
Another
tourist?” he asks Geraldine.

“Indeed,” she says, “I told you so” written plainly on her face. “Another one. A Mr. Palmer. A businessman from Pittsburgh.”

“Mr. Snow,” the judge says, “the members of our Chamber of Commerce work extremely hard to attract visitors to this peninsula during the shoulder seasons. You are single-handedly thwarting their efforts.”

Rinky hangs his head and assumes an “aw, shucks” look, as if he’s a little embarrassed by the judge’s flattery.

A firm grip on my shoulder makes me look up. It’s Steven Collier. “I need to see Louisa,” he says in an authoritative tone.

“Then make an appointment,” I tell him, maneuvering my shoulder out of his grasp. I toss my head in the general direction of the jail. “The women’s ward has set visiting hours. Call and get your name on the list.”

He frowns and bends down, bringing his face too close to mine. “Today,” he says. “I need to speak with her while she’s here in the courtroom.”

“Can’t happen,” I tell him. “Louisa isn’t allowed to have contact with anyone in this room except her lawyers. If you want to communicate with her today, you’ll have to do it through one of us.”

He stares at the floor and shakes his head emphatically. It seems my response is unsatisfactory. Again. He walks away and takes a seat on the front bench next to Anastasia and Lance. He fires an icy stare my way and then fixes his gaze on the judge. He’s through with me.

Harry has joined Geraldine in front of the bench. “The guy came at him from behind,” he says.

“Nobody
came at
him,” Geraldine replies. “Mr. Palmer
tapped
him on the shoulder to ask for directions.”

Rinky Snow would fare much better, it seems, if people would just stop asking him for directions. “No knives,” he calls out from his chair. The judge looks up and Rinky wags a finger at him. “No knives,” he repeats, as if he’s been having a hell of a time keeping this judge in line.

“Rinky didn’t know that,” Harry says. “All he knew was that Palmer came at him from behind.”

Judge Long’s eyes move from Rinky to Harry, his expression unchanged. “So he belted the guy,” the judge says.

“One punch,” Harry answers, shrugging, as if we’re all entitled to dole out that much in the course of a day. “In self-defense.”

“No knives,” Rinky announces again, his finger still wagging.

“Oh, please.” Geraldine looks at Harry as if he’s loonier than his client. “It was
not
self-defense.”

“Knocked him out cold,” Judge Long notes, reading from the report again.

“For a minute or two.” Harry waves one hand in the air to emphasize the insignificance of it all. “The guy was awake and oriented by the time the rescue squad got there.”

Judge Long looks like he isn’t buying Harry’s argument this time. He leans on his elbows, folds his hands together, and rests his chin on top of them. “Mr. Madigan,” he says after taking a deep breath, “I’m sorry. I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. And I realize there are extenuating circumstances. But I think we need to spell the people of Chatham, take Mr. Snow off their hands for a little while.” He looks down at the police report again and sighs. “Particularly the tourists,” he adds, “if any are still standing.”

“But, Judge,” Harry tries again, “it was nothing more than an honest mistake. You or I might have made the same mistake if someone came at one of us from behind.”

The judge removes his glasses and closes his eyes. He almost smiles when he opens them again and looks at Harry. “I don’t think so, Mr. Madigan.”

Harry doesn’t think so either, of course. Too often in this business we have to swallow our pride and advocate the absurd.

“Mr. Snow,” the judge says, turning his attention back to Rinky.

“No knives,” Rinky, standing up, warns the judge yet again with a wagging finger.

“I can’t let you go with a slap on the wrist this time, sir. No knives is right. But no fists either. You’re going to spend a little time up on the hill”—Judge Long nods in the direction of the House of Correction—“so you can think about it.” He faces Geraldine and Harry again and sighs. “Come back tomorrow,” he says, looking at each of them in turn, “and tell me you’ve worked this out.”

Geraldine exhales loudly, her expression suggesting she’d rather work out a business plan with the mob. Harry smiles and winks at her, as if he’s reveling in their earlier intimacy.

“We have the necessary paperwork, Your Honor.” Clarence Wexler pops up from his table and scurries to the bench, delivering photocopies to Harry, the originals to the judge.

“Hey, who’s the whippersnapper?” Rinky puts his question to the room at large. “Where’d that little fella come from?” It seems Rinky hadn’t noticed Clarence until now.

Judge Long all but swallows his lips in his attempt to avoid laughing, but his eyes give him away. He reads through Clarence’s documents, fills in a few blanks, and signs off. He’s still struggling for composure when he looks back up at Harry. “If it makes you feel any better,” the judge says, “the forecast calls for a cold snap.”

 

The matron delivers Louisa to the defense table and I join her, though technically we don’t belong here. We’re not parties to this particular proceeding. Geraldine was right: the issues raised in the petition are between Anastasia Rawlings and the Commonwealth. We have no standing to address them. But we do want to be heard on a related matter.

The gallery is noisy again, the benches full. Anyone who checked the schedule probably assumed that the Rawlings case docketed for one o’clock is Louisa’s. And apparently the press thinks so too. They’re back in force, hurling scores of questions at Louisa in anything-but-subdued voices. She doesn’t answer, but she does smile and flashbulbs bombard her.

Harry and Geraldine are at one side of the bench, finishing up Rinky Snow’s paperwork. Rinky’s prison escorts lean against the wall by the side door, their charge centered between them. The Kydd is in a seat at the bar, so there’s a chair available at the table for Anastasia Rawlings if she wants it. She doesn’t.

She marches past, shielding her profile with a stiff, flattened hand, a dramatic blinder against the sight of her father’s widow. Steven Collier follows and pauses to give Louisa a solemn nod before he passes. Anastasia steps to the side when they reach the bench and Collier plants himself squarely in front of the judge. He intends to do the talking, it seems. I might enjoy this.

Judge Long checks in with Harry and Geraldine and then nods at the uniforms, telling them it’s time to escort Rinky to his all-too-familiar digs. Rinky’s not quite ready to leave the courtroom, though. He does a double-take in Anastasia’s direction and then elbows the guard nearest the door. “Would ya lookit that?” Rinky says. “Ever seen anything like that before?”

Anastasia tosses her hair over her shoulder and snarls at him. The guards look somewhat alarmed by her performance, but Rinky doesn’t. He seems delighted. He encircles his eyes with his hands as if he’s holding binoculars, then bounces up and down and starts to walk toward her, as if he’s spotted a rare bird and wants a better view.

The uniforms have a different plan in mind, of course. Each of them takes one of Rinky’s elbows and they move him toward the side door. Both guards stare at the floor—eyes averted from Anastasia—as they move out of the courtroom. Rinky doesn’t. He walks backward, smiling and still bouncing a little. And he gives Anastasia raccoon eyes until the heavy door slams shut between them.

Judge Long massages his temples as he watches them leave, then sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he seems a bit startled to find Steven Collier smack-dab in front of him. “I’m sorry,” the judge says, looking down at the mountain of paperwork on the bench, “but I’m afraid I don’t know who you are, sir.”

“I’m Steven Collier.” He gives the judge a slight bow and an indulgent smile, as if that says it all.

Judge Long looks confused, rifling through his papers now. “Are you an attorney?”

Collier’s laugh is inordinately hearty. He slaps his thigh and shakes his head; that Judge Long is a real kidder. “Oh no, Your Honor. Me? No, I’m not an attorney.”

The judge checks the paperwork again. “You’re not a party to this proceeding, are you?”