The Hanging Judge (34 page)

As she worked through the preliminary portion of her direct examination, Gomez-Larsen noted, with relief, that the kid was doing much better than she had dreamed possible. He looked perfect, for one thing. The khaki Dockers, new white sneakers, and the dark-blue button-down shirt Pepe’s mom had picked out for him struck the perfect balance between casual and formal. He seemed a pleasant-looking, nervous kid, fresh from the barber—ironed, but not starched, just the way Gomez-Larsen wanted him.

As she went through her deliberately easy, initial questions detailing his age, schooling, command of English, and so forth, Pepe was even calling her ma’am occasionally, the classic boy-next-door.

The mistrial had saved Gomez-Larsen’s life. In their first prep sessions, Rivera had been sourly unimpressed by her reminders that the quality of his effort would likely determine how much time he spent in prison. Of course, Gomez-Larsen told Pepe that she expected him to tell the truth, and only the truth, but it was critical that he testify believably as well as honestly, and he seemed incapable of caring. Only a few weeks ago, if the little guttersnipe had sworn, using a chalkboard to demonstrate, that two times two was four, no juror would have believed him. He’d been worse than useless.

But following the dismissal of the first jury, Gomez-Larsen had had the inspiration to bring Maria Maldonado, Pepe’s mom, back in for one of their proffer sessions with her son. Afterward, she had spent nearly an hour alone with Maria, describing to her, gently but clearly, exactly what her son would be facing if he didn’t come through. The fact that she could do this in Spanish made a huge difference. Then, she made sure that Maria had plenty of time to talk to her son in private.

After that, the boy was more pliable. Once they’d gotten him loosened up, Captain Daley, who’d testified hundreds of times over his career, swallowed down his revulsion and took to spending his afternoons with the youngster, calling him Ernesto, rather than Pepe, and passing on courtroom war stories to help the witness understand what he would be facing from Redpath. Before long, the new Ernesto Rivera, who’d never known his father, was eating up Coach Daley’s praise and viewing the trial as the homecoming game he was determined to win.

Sitting in the box today, the witness’s transformation from Pepe the Snitch to Ernesto, the reformed young man who any father would be proud to have dating his daughter, seemed miraculous to Gomez-Larsen.

“Now, Mr. Rivera, do you know the defendant, Clarence Hudson?”

Rivera sat with a straight spine, leaning slightly forward, hands in his lap.

“I know
Moon
Hudson.”

“Would you point him out for the jurors please?”

Rivera nodded in the proper direction and pointed.

“The guy in the gray turtleneck and blue jacket.”

Gomez-Larsen looked up at Norcross.

“Your Honor, may the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant, Clarence, aka Moon, Hudson?”

“It may so reflect,” Norcross replied, not looking up from his notes.

Redpath sighed loudly through his nose and looked at the ceiling, conveying his boredom with the choreographed, totally meaningless identification.

“How do you know the defendant?”

“I’ve seen him, you know, in Holyoke. Springfield sometimes. With my uncle Carlos.”

“I’ll get back to that in a moment. First, let me ask you this. Are you familiar with a western Massachusetts street gang called La Bandera?”

“Yeah.” He looked to his left, to where Sean Daley and Ginger’s family were seated, and he corrected himself. “Yes, I am.”

“You were a member of that gang, weren’t you?”

“Objection!” Redpath rose to his feet. “Ms. Gomez-Larsen has several times during this direct examination led the witness, and I have not objected. I do object now. The testimony should come from the witness, not from the prosecutor.”

“Please, no speeches, Mr. Redpath,” Norcross said. “Just state your objection and indicate your ground.”

Norcross nodded to the jury. “Please note, I’m sustaining Attorney Redpath’s objection to that question. The jury will disregard it. Ms. Gomez-Larsen, please rephrase.”

“Mr. Rivera, would you kindly inform the jury,” she resumed with the barest trace of impatience, letting the jury know how completely their time was being wasted by these foolish technicalities. “Would you kindly inform all of us, whether you have ever been a member of the La Bandera street gang?”

“No, I’ve never been a member.”

“You haven’t?” Gomez-Larsen, despite all their preparation, was caught off-guard.

“Objection!” Redpath was on his feet again, speaking more emphatically, and with his own note of impatience.

But before Norcross could rule, Rivera broke in, “I was an initiate, not a member.”

“Objection!” Redpath repeated, even louder.

“Wait now,” Norcross said.

“Of course,” Gomez-Larsen said. “Well, let me …”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Norcross said. “We’re getting all tangled up here.”

He looked down at Rivera.

“Look, I know you’re new to this, Mr. Rivera.” Norcross smiled kindly. “And our procedures may seem strange to you, but keep in mind, when there is an objection, you must not answer the question until I have a chance to rule. Do you understand me? Wait. Okay?”

“Yes, your Honor. I’m sorry. I forgot.” The boy ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.

So perfect,
Gomez-Larsen thought.
God bless him.

Norcross nodded in satisfaction—“I’m sure you did”—and turned to counsel.

“That goes for you two, as well. Remember, Rule Number One in this courtroom: ‘Judge Norcross wears the robe, and when he talks, nobody else gets to talk.’ ”

Norcross cast a wry look at the jury box as he delivered this mild bit of jocularity, and some of its inhabitants smiled appreciatively.

“Now,” he continued, “the objection to the question—which I believe was ‘You haven’t?’—is sustained. It was leading. The jury will disregard that question and everything that was said by the witness or counsel following it. Ms. Gomez-Larsen, please put your next question.”

But Gomez-Larsen could see that Redpath was steaming. He was still on his feet from his last objection, his jaw muscles were working, and he was tapping on the table with his large hands. Something was clearly eating at him, and she had a pretty good idea what it was—just the kind of mistake a judge without many criminal trials might make. She watched out of the corner of her eye, giving defense counsel time to speak.

“Your Honor, may we approach sidebar?” Redpath asked.

“I don’t see the necessity for a sidebar at this time.”

“I would be happy, if Your Honor prefers, to state my reasons in front of the jury, but I think a conference at sidebar would be preferable.” Redpath’s tone was not rude, but something steely lay behind his words, and the hint of peril got the judge’s attention.

“Very well. You may approach.”

It was tight alongside the bench with the bearlike defense counsel, the AUSA, and the stenographer squeezed in with her steno-machine. Gomez-Larsen was not surprised when her adversary took off on what had just occurred.

“Your Honor, I move for a mistrial. This is outrageous!”

“What do you mean?” Norcross asked. “What’s outrageous?”

“In front of this jury, you just said that this witness—I think your words were that he was ‘new to this’ or something like that. He’s not new to this! He not new to this at all.”

“Please keep your voice down, Bill,” Gomez-Larsen interrupted.

Redpath continued in an intense whisper. “He’s got a lengthy juvenile record, he’s been arrested three other times that I know of, even though the cases were ultimately dismissed. He’s been in court numerous times as a juvenile offender, a witness, or a spectator. His uncle was a La Bandera warlord. None of what’s going on here is new to him at all.”

“Oh applesauce, I was only making a point about his manner of testifying.”

“This is the government’s key witness!”

“Bill …”

Redpath paused to control himself before continuing. “This is the government’s key witness. She wants to present him like some cherub. Judge, if the jury believes this kid, my client goes down. A key part of our defense is that Pepe Rivera is
not
some innocent child, and there are mounds of evidence to back that up. By commenting in front of the jury about how this key witness is ‘new to all this’—which is just plain false—you have bolstered the government’s case on a point that will be central to this trial. Your Honor, I don’t want to appear disrespectful—I’m sure you did not do this intentionally—but you have just vouched for this witness. This jury has heard Your Honor refer to this critical witness in a manner that makes him look pure as the driven snow. He isn’t. Under the circumstances, the only fair thing to do is dismiss this jury and select a new one.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Norcross began. “A comment like that …”

The three of them began speaking over one another.

“Wait a minute,” Gomez-Larsen interrupted. “Hold on a minute. I’d like to be heard.”

“There’s no other way!” Redpath said.

“Wait a minute! I’m entitled to an …”

“It couldn’t have the slightest …” Norcross leaned back and shook his head.

“One at a time, one at a time, please!” the stenographer broke in. The young woman’s fingers had been flying over her machine, trying to keep up with Redpath’s ferocity, but it was clear that she was at her limit.

“Okay, take it easy. That’s enough,” Norcross said, tapping on the bench with the butt of his pen. Clearly, Redpath’s diatribe had gotten His Honor’s attention. From Gomez-Larsen’s point of view something needed to be done, quick.

Norcross nodded to her. “I’ll hear you.”

Gomez-Larsen spoke in a deliberately measured way. It was crucial to slow things down.

“First, defense counsel is blowing this one remark, made in passing, way, way out of proportion. How am I doing?” She looked at the stenographer, who returned a grateful smile. “This situation does not come anywhere near justifying a mistrial. That’s flat-out ridiculous.”

“Your Honor,” Redpath began.

“You’re taking turns, okay?” Norcross said. “Right now, it’s the government’s turn.”

“Just ridiculous,” Gomez-Larsen continued. “The jury, if it gives any weight to the remark at all, will consider it in exactly the light Your Honor described—simply a clarification of a courtroom technicality, nothing more. The court’s comment certainly does not establish Mr. Rivera as ‘pure as the driven snow,’ as defense counsel suggests. As for this supposed mound of evidence, counsel will have a full opportunity to cross-examine.”

“Your Honor,” Redpath began again, “I can’t cross-examine on the kind of …”

“I’ll hear you in a moment,” Norcross said.

“I thought she was done.”

“No, I’m not done,” Gomez-Larsen said. She continued at her careful pace, as though her words were cards she was setting down one at a time.

“Second, if the court is really concerned about some possible mis-impression the jury might have somehow obtained—and that’s really stretching a point—then Your Honor can give a brief, corrective instruction. That’s the most that’s needed.”

Norcross nodded to Redpath. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Judge, you can’t un-ring this bell. No cautionary remarks by you can stuff the words back in your mouth, or yank them out of the jurors’ ears. And there’s simply no way to effectively cross-examine on something like this. Mr. Rivera, or Pepe, or Ernesto, or whatever he’s calling himself these days, is the heart and soul of the government’s case. If the jury likes him, my guy dies. There’s no alternative. I press my motion for a mistrial.”

Gomez-Larsen was pleased to notice that His Honor’s momentary look of distraction had disappeared.

“Well, here’s what I’m going to do,” Norcross said, jotting on his pad as he spoke. “First, for the record, the motion for a mistrial is denied.”

“Please note my very strenuous objection.”

Gomez-Larsen could practically hear Redpath’s teeth grinding. Terrific.

“Duly noted,” Norcross continued. “Second, we were coming up on our morning break anyway. We’ll take ten minutes now to let everyone stretch their legs. I’ll put together a few words to address your concern, Mr. Redpath, and we’ll keep things moving. Thank you. That’ll be all.”

47

N
orcross hurried into his chambers and threw his robe on the sofa. The highest priority during any recess, no matter how grave the crisis in the courtroom, was always to get to the bathroom. Everything else could wait.

But Frank, blast him, was standing at the far side of the room holding a sheaf of papers and looking fraught.

“Judge, can I grab you for a quick second?”

“No,” Norcross said, surprised at his own rudeness.

The phone buzzed, and he held up two fingers.

“I need two minutes of privacy,” he told Frank, softening his tone. “Then you can have me for at least thirty full seconds. I promise.” The phone buzzed again.

“For heaven’s sake,” Norcross said, “tell Lucille to take a message.” The bathroom door closed and he was alone, finally, with his thoughts.

Had he really managed to gum up the trial? Norcross respected Redpath, and the man’s huffing and puffing bothered him. Could his offhand boost to Rivera be as indelible as Redpath suggested? He had to admit the kid was coming across well.

He brushed the thought away, finished up, and began rinsing his hands. A fifteen-second comment in the middle of a six-week trial? Please.

As he stepped out of the bathroom, Norcross found Frank still standing doggedly next to his desk. He looked like Horatio-at-the-bridge, holding his wad of papers against his chest like a shield. Norcross knew that sometimes it was a clerk’s job to block a judge’s path until he looked at something. Still, the interruption was making him cross.

“Okay, what’s up? Let’s be quick.”

“It’s Mrs. Abercrombie,” Frank began. “It seems …”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Tell Mrs. Abercrombie to go jump in a lake.”