Geraldine slams the phone into its cradle. Simultaneously, it seems, screaming sirens fill the air. The fire station is adjacent to the Barnstable County Complex, just on the other side of the parking lot. Help should be here in minutes.
Harry and the Kydd stand side by side in the doorway to Judge Leon Long’s chambers, forming a human blockade against the press corps. Even so, bright lights from television cameras and erupting flashbulbs flood the room. Photographers strain against one another for a shot of Judge Long’s prostrate form, more than a few of them standing on chairs. From behind them, faceless reporters shout questions to Geraldine and me.
“Is the judge dead?”
He’s not, but we don’t say so. I am unable to speak. Geraldine, I think, simply chooses not to.
“Is he breathing?”
He is. I’m on my knees beside him, holding his hand in both of mine, forcing myself to find words, to urge him to hang on. His pulse is weak but detectable, even to an amateur like me. “You’re going to be okay,” I whisper. I don’t recognize my own voice. “Help is coming. You’re going to be fine.”
I hope I sound more certain than I am.
Court officers shout directions above the chaos in the courtroom, and Harry and the Kydd abandon their post. Seconds later, four emergency medical technicians appear, three men and a woman. They crowd into the small chambers, two of them steering a stainless steel gurney, the others carting sacks of equipment into the room, unpacking as they move.
Geraldine and I back up against the wall and inch along it toward the doorway, careful to avoid the working technicians and their gear. We emerge into the courtroom to find Harry, the Kydd, and Stanley lined up in front of the judge’s bench in stunned silence. Joey Kelsey is backed against the jury box, eyes glazed. All four of them look paralyzed.
A barrage of Barnstable police officers has already arrived and they’ve pushed the throng of noisy onlookers-press corps included-behind the bar and into the gallery. The crowd is worked up, almost panicked, and the photographers continue shooting, random pictures of utter chaos, it seems. The reporters are still pelting Geraldine and me with questions. We’re still mute.
Two court officers lead Buck Hammond toward the side door, his cuffs and shackles back in place. Buck’s expression tells me that someone, probably one of his escorts, has filled him in. His gaze meets mine as he approaches the doorway. His eyes ask his questions before the door closes behind him. Why Judge Long? And why now?
The police clear a path down the center aisle just in time. The EMTs hustle through, one at each end of the gurney, the others on either side of it, holding IV bags above their shoulders. One of the bag holders, the woman, relays information into a two-way radio as she runs down the center aisle beside Judge Long’s motionless body. They disappear into the hallway and the courtroom’s back doors slam shut behind them.
Abruptly, the room is silent, its occupants still.
Stanley is the first to emerge from paralysis. He walks slowly from the judge’s bench toward the gallery, stepping on the plush carpeting carefully, as if precariously balanced on a high wire. His lower jaw hangs slack and his breathing is quick, shallow. His mud brown eyes bulge from their tiny sockets. He raises one hand and points a stubby index finger at Nicky Patterson.
“You,” Stanley whispers.
Nicky is still in his original front-row seat. His eyes grow wide as Stanley approaches, and he clutches his envelope, as if he thinks Stanley might take it from him.
“It was you.” Stanley’s voice is louder now. He continues to point at Nicky, but his eyes dart around the room.
A Barnstable police officer materializes at Stanley’s side. Sergeant D. B. Briggs, his badge says. Geraldine joins the pair, her pale green eyes fixed first on Stanley, then on Nicky Patterson.
Nicky turns and looks at the faces in the second row, as if he’s certain Stanley is speaking to someone else.
“Officer,” Stanley calls out to the cops in general, “arrest this man.”
Nicky stands but he can’t go anywhere. A half dozen uniforms surround him, all looking at Sergeant Briggs for direction.
The Kydd snaps out of his trance next. He rushes toward the gallery, glaring at Stanley. “Arrest him? For what?”
“For murder.”
Stanley’s arm is still outstretched. And his index finger is closer to Nicky than it should be. If Nicky’s a murderer, that is. Stanley doesn’t seem to realize.
“For the murder of a Superior Court judge who was about to put him behind bars.”
“Judge Long isn’t dead,” I say, still frozen to my spot outside the chambers doorway. No one pays attention.
Men and women in the first few rows-newly informed of a murderer in their midst-scramble from the benches into the aisle and head for the back of the room. No one leaves, though. Instead, they huddle in small groups against the back wall to watch. They’re not sure what’s going to happen next, but they are sure they don’t want to miss it.
The Kydd grabs Stanley by one elbow and spins him around. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“He was the only one here.” Stanley’s answer isn’t directed toward the Kydd. He’s speaking to Geraldine and Sergeant Briggs, no one else.
The Kydd doesn’t take kindly to being ignored. He inserts himself in the center of the law enforcement trio. “What do you mean?” He gestures to the crowd. “There are a hundred people in this room.”
Stanley shakes his big head, his forehead vein working overtime again. “Early this morning,” he says, still addressing Geraldine and Sergeant Briggs, “I found him sitting on this bench in the darkness when I arrived. Alone. He was alone with the judge-the same judge who told him to bring his toothbrush, I might add-and now the judge has been murdered.”
I’m surprised to hear Stanley mention the toothbrush. He was paying more attention yesterday than I thought. “Judge Long isn’t dead,” I repeat. Still, no one seems to hear.
Stanley wheels back toward Nicky, pointing again. “You don’t have it, do you? You don’t have the twenty-two thousand dollars. Judge Long was going to put you away and you knew it.”
Nicky shakes his head and parts his lips, but no sound comes out.
The Kydd raises both hands to cut him off. “Shut up,” the Kydd orders. “Don’t say a word.”
Nicky’s face says there’s no danger of that.
The Kydd towers over Stanley. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, looking down at Stanley’s comb-over. “Even you can’t believe that.” The Kydd’s drawl is more pronounced than usual. “If he’d murdered the judge, he’d have gotten the hell out of here. He wouldn’t have sat on the front bench waiting for the rest of us to find the body.”
I consider announcing again that Judge Long isn’t dead, but it seems futile.
Stanley doesn’t look at the Kydd. He faces the uniforms surrounding Nicky, his eyes darting from one cop to the next. “What are you waiting for? Didn’t you hear me?”
Stanley points at Nicky yet again, as if he thinks the officers don’t know who he’s talking about. “I just told you people that this man attacked a Superior Court judge. Arrest him. Now.”
Nicky gapes at the cops. The cops stare at Sergeant Briggs. The sergeant turns a questioning eye toward Geraldine. No one’s taking orders from Stanley.
“You people,” Stanley says to no one in particular, folding his thick arms across his chest.
Geraldine remains silent for a moment, staring at Nicky. She presses two fingers against her lips, no doubt wishing there were a cigarette between them. Finally, she takes a deep breath and returns Sergeant Briggs’s stare. “Take him in,” she says.
“You can’t be serious.” The Kydd faces Geraldine, his eyes wide. This is his first battle with our former boss, but he and I have both seen Geraldine at war. It’d be easier to take on the armed forces of a medium-sized country.
Geraldine stares up at him and almost smiles before she narrows her green eyes. “Your client had motive, Mr. Kydd.”
The Kydd’s eyes open even wider. Geraldine never called him “mister” when he worked for her.
“He had opportunity. And his opportunity was exclusive.” Geraldine turns to Nicky, who’s now cuffed, then looks back at the Kydd. “I’m quite serious, Mr. Kydd. Quite.”