Temporary Sanity (26 page)

It’s a close-up of Billy, from the chest up, on the autopsy table. His arms are bent at the elbows, hands open, palms up, on either side of his head. His eyes are closed and his freckled face looks as if he might be sleeping. But on his wrists the ligature marks are plain.

Finally, Buck follows the jurors’ gazes and stares at the autopsy shot. “You see?” he asks them through clenched teeth. “I couldn’t stop him. I was too late.”

“Too late?” Stanley scrutinizes Buck Hammond as if he’s a still life about to be auctioned.

Buck’s expression is blank. Seated in the witness box, he’s the same height as Stanley on his feet.

“That was your testimony, was it not, sir? That you were too late?”

Buck leans forward in his chair and nods. “Yes.”

“You were too late long before you fired the shot that killed Hector Monteros, weren’t you, Mr. Hammond?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Buck shakes his head, but his expression doesn’t change.

“Your boy was already dead, was he not, sir, when you pulled the trigger?”

Buck nods, agreeing. “He was.”

“And you knew that to be the case, didn’t you?”

“I know it now.”

“And you knew it then!”

I’m tempted to get up, but I don’t. Stanley shouldn’t testify, shouldn’t act like a witness. But I shouldn’t act like Stanley, either. Besides, we’ve got a long way to go. Stanley’s just getting started.

He waits for a response, but he won’t get one. Buck and I went over this a thousand times in the past few weeks. If there’s no question pending, Buck’s not to say a word. And he’s good at not saying a word.

A moment of silence. And then Stanley gets it. “You knew your son was dead, didn’t you, Mr. Hammond, when you fired that fatal shot?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Not sure?”

Stanley moves the easel to the wall, tosses the photos of Billy on our table. He walks toward the jury, hands clasped behind his back, a slight smile on his lips. For a moment, his footsteps are the only sounds in the room. A well-planned dramatic pause.

“You were in the courtroom, were you not, sir, when Chief Thomas Fitzpatrick testified?”

“Yes.”

“And you
listened
to his testimony, I presume?”

“I did. Yes.”

“You heard him tell us, then, that you identified your son’s body at the morgue?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember doing that, sir?”

“Do I remember…?”

“Identifying the body.”

Buck looks as if he thinks Stanley might be temporarily insane.

“Of course I do.”

“No memory problems, then?”

Buck shakes his head. “No.”

“And you did that, Mr. Hammond-identified your son’s body-more than
two hours
before the chopper transporting Monteros reached Chatham. Isn’t that correct?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you hear Chief Fitzpatrick tell us exactly that?”

“I did.”

“Is it your testimony, then, that Chief Fitzpatrick was lying?”

The question is improper, but it’s not worth an objection. Cheap shots say more about the questioner than anyone else. And we anticipated a few from Stanley. Buck is as well prepared to deflect them as any witness can be.

“No,” Buck says evenly, “that’s not my testimony.”

“You agree, then, that you identified the body more than two hours before killing Monteros?”

Buck takes a deep breath and answers the panel. “The Chief said more than two hours, so it must have been.”

“But you don’t have personal knowledge of that fact, is that your testimony, Mr. Hammond?”

Buck faces Stanley again. “Yes.”

“You don’t remember?”

“That’s right.”

Stanley lets out a short, sarcastic hiccup, not quite a laugh. He strides to the side wall, flips off the overhead lights, then makes a beeline for his star witness.

He holds the videotape in front of Buck for a moment-yet another dramatic pause-before popping it into the VCR. “Let’s find out, Mr. Hammond, what you
do
remember.”

Harry and I exchange surprised glances. We were certain Stanley would save his second run of the video for closing, certain he’d want the bloody runway to be the final scene emblazoned on the jurors’ minds.

The glow from the TV screen illuminates Stanley’s silhouette and Buck’s profile. The rest of us sit in inky blackness. This is the advantage to a windowless courtroom: easy video viewing. It’s the only plus, as far as I can tell.

Stanley retrieves a long wooden stick from his table. It has a white rubber tip, like the ones pointed at blackboards by teachers in elementary school. He waits patiently while the military chopper comes into view on-screen. He watches silently as the chopper descends to the runway. Then he presses a controller, freezes the frame.

I leave my chair and walk quietly across the room to lean against the wall beside the jury box. I want to keep an eye on Stanley’s pointer.

“You’ve seen this helicopter before, have you not, Mr. Hammond?”

Buck nods. “Yes. I’ve seen this tape.”

“I’m not asking about the tape. I’m asking about the military helicopter, the real one. U.S. ARMY printed on its sides. You saw it on June twenty-first, did you not?”

There it is. A question I didn’t ask. It never fails. There’s always a question I didn’t ask. More than one, in most cases.

Buck tilts his head toward one shoulder, considering the prosecutor’s query. “I’m not sure.”

Stanley jumps back, as if surprised by the answer. He plasters an incredulous look on his dimly lit face, then turns it toward the jurors. “You’re not sure?”

“I know I must have,” Buck says. “But I don’t remember actually looking at it then.” He shrugs, shakes his head. “I don’t know if I saw the words. I don’t think I realized it was an army aircraft.”

Stanley shakes his head too, and presses the controller again. “You don’t remember,” he mutters.

On-screen, a uniformed marshal emerges from the chopper, his sidearm drawn. One step behind him is Monteros, handcuffed and shackled loosely, so he can negotiate the stairs. A second guard follows a few steps behind, his weapon pointed upward, as if he might fire into the air at any moment.

Stanley freezes the frame again. “Do you remember these men?” He moves his pointer from the first guard to the second, skipping over Monteros.

That’s question number two I didn’t ask.

“The guards?”

Stanley nods. “And I’m not asking you about the videotape. I’m asking about the morning of June twenty-first.”

Buck frowns, as if even he doesn’t like the answer he’s about to give. “No,” he says, “I don’t.”

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.