“The defense calls Mr. William ‘Buck’ Hammond to the stand.”

No one moves, not even String Tie. I stand still in front of his machine and point my pen at him. “You were supposed to type that.”

He looks from me to the judge-uncertain-then drops his eyes again and starts tapping the keys. She may be the judge, but I’m close enough to hurt him.

“Ms. Nickerson, did you not hear my questions?”

My back is to Beatrice, but I’m certain she’s still on her feet, sprouting icicles. “I did, Judge. I heard your questions and I heard your threats.”

Beatrice takes an audible breath as I turn to face her. She sets her jaw, bracing to deal with the dull-witted child yet again. “There were no threats, Ms. Nickerson, but I’d like to hear answers to my questions, if that’s not too much trouble.”

I take my time walking back to the bench. “You just did.”

She drops into her chair and leans forward, poised to lecture. “Counsel…”

“The defense calls William ‘Buck’ Hammond to the stand.” I signal Buck to his feet and point toward the witness box before fixing my gaze on Beatrice. “That’s our answer, Judge. That’s our answer to all your questions.”

Buck is halfway across the courtroom before Beatrice bellows again. “Just a minute, Mr. Hammond.”

He pauses, looks at me; I tell him with my eyes to continue.

Beatrice bangs her gavel, her Rorschach blotches back in bloom, but Buck pays no attention. He finishes his trip and settles quietly in the box.

“Counsel, what are you doing?”

“I’m calling my client to the witness stand, Judge.”

She glares at me.

I move away and walk toward the jury. “You want to stop Mr. Hammond from taking the stand in his own defense, go ahead and do it.” I lean against the jury box, my back to the panel, and fold my arms. “But I won’t let you do it in a fictional sidebar.”

I pause to check on String Tie, who’s dutifully tapping away, then point at Buck in the witness box, my eyes still focused on Beatrice. “You want to shut this man down, Judge, you’re damn well going to do it on the record.”

Beatrice’s mouth opens, but no sound emerges. If I weren’t so mad I’d enjoy this. I move toward the bench and lower my voice again, still confident that the jurors-and String Tie-can hear. “And you’ll be reversed before you call your next case.”

Beatrice straightens in her chair and purses her lips. “It was never my intention to shut Mr. Hammond down, Counsel.”

This is news. I turn and raise my eyebrows at the jurors, but they don’t react. When I look back at the judge, she’s waiting for me. Her bird eyes fix on mine and her lips arc downward at the corners. They barely move when she speaks.

“The courtroom clerk will swear the witness.”

Beatrice’s eyes don’t move. They speak volumes. She’ll give me this battle, they say, but the war is a hell of a long way from over.

Chapter 41

Everything about Buck Hammond says he has nothing left to lose. He’s allowed to wear his own clothes during trial, but they don’t fit anymore. His gray suit jacket hangs loosely, its cuffs too wide for his wrists. His black pants are baggy, as if he borrowed them from a much heavier man. He’s not permitted a belt; no shoelaces or tie, either. He wears an old pair of scuffed loafers and a white, starched shirt, unbuttoned at the neck.

All male prisoners on trial are given the opportunity to shave each morning, but Buck hasn’t bothered for the last couple of days. A dark shadow of stubble covers his cheeks, chin, and neck. His black hair is neatly parted and combed, but it’s ragged at the edges, in need of a trim. His face is that of a man who has only a distant memory of a good night’s sleep. Dark circles underline his eyes.

Buck could be a physically imposing presence-he’s taller than Harry by a couple of inches and almost as broad-but his approach to other people is cautious, timid even. His shoulders, a match for any linebacker’s, sag as if taxed by a burden the rest of us can’t see. His light gray eyes, wide and moist, reveal little and ask less. It’s not that he has no questions. It’s that the questions-the few that still matter to Buck Hammond-have no answers.

He will ask to go home, though; of that I’m certain. Buck will ask these jurors, in his own muted way, to send him back to his South Chatham cottage, to spare him the void of a lifetime at Walpole. He’ll make that request for Patty’s sake, not his own, but he’ll make it just the same. And it’s my job to give him the opportunity.

The task is simple, really. We’ll start with questions that allow Buck to describe his life before June 19. The jurors will hear about a solid family man who went to work every day and ate dinner with his wife and son every night. They’ll hear about a man born and raised on Cape Cod who, until six months ago, never had a single encounter with the law. And then they’ll hear how all of that changed.

Stanley, of course, is a problem. His forehead vein has been throbbing all morning. He’s perched on the edge of his chair, prepared to pounce, and we’re just getting started. He might object, it seems, before I ask my first question.

Judge Beatrice Nolan, of course, will be all too eager to sustain Stanley’s objections. She’s another problem.

“Mr. Hammond, please state your full name for the record.”

“William Francis Hammond. People call me Buck.”

Stanley’s chair creaks and he clears his throat. When I turn to look at him, he mouths the word hearsay.

He can’t be serious.

Stanley flutters his fingers in the air and leans back in his chair, a small, tolerant smile spreading across his face as his gaze moves up to the judge, then over to the jurors. He’ll let it slide, he’s telling all of us. Just this once. He’s a reasonable guy.

This could take a while.

When I turn away from Stanley and face the witness box again, Buck looks up from his lap, his expression calm. He’s waiting patiently for my next question, oblivious to Stanley, unconcerned with his prosecutor’s posturing.

It hits me so hard-the obvious truth-that I have to lean on the witness box for a moment. Buck is right. Stanley is irrelevant. His tiresome objections don’t matter. His petty antics don’t matter. And my preliminary questions don’t matter either.

These jurors know who Buck Hammond is. They know where he lives; they’ve met his wife. They can pretty well guess his age and they don’t give a damn how he makes his living. They know what he did to Hector Monteros. The only thing that matters now is why.

I head back to our table and take two photographs from my briefcase. Eight-by-ten laminated glossies of Billy. One before. One after.

Buck hasn’t seen either one of these photos. He took the “before” shot, but was jailed before it was developed. He has no idea Patty gave it to me, no idea she kept it from him at my direction.

The “after” shot is one of a dozen taken during Billy Hammond’s autopsy. Standard procedure.

Ordinarily, it’s not a good idea to surprise your own witness on the stand. But this was no ordinary murder; it’s no ordinary trial. The rules-most of them, anyway-don’t apply here. We’re in uncharted waters.

Harry sets up an easel where both Buck and the jurors can see it. I tuck the autopsy shot under my arm, careful that only its white backing is visible against my jacket. I set the other photo on the easel and pause so they can take it in: Billy on the beach, beaming, a glorious sunset behind him, streaks of violet against a pale pink sky. He holds a surf-casting rod in one hand, a three-foot-long, shimmering fish in the other.

“Can you identify this photograph?”

Stanley leaves his chair and marches toward the jury box, ostensibly to see Billy Hammond’s picture, in reality to distract the panel. He’s seen all of the photos before. He has his own copies.