But Woody’s not the only late-afternoon arrival. Three still photographers pace the length of the bar, their shutters clicking steadily. Judge Long is one of the only judges in the county who allows flash photographs in his courtroom. “It’s all part of the process,” he always says. “The citizens deserve accurate information from their courtrooms, and photographs provide part of it.” The press, of course, agrees.
The photographers’ partners—guys with notebooks open and pens poised—crowd into the front bench with Woody, prompting Woody to move back a few rows. Their press badges identify them as representatives from the Providence Journal, the New Bedford Telegraph, and The Boston Globe. Word is out, it seems. And it’s already over the bridge.
I’m taken aback by their appearance here so soon, but I realize, after a moment, that I shouldn’t be. Any woman charged with the murder of her husband ignites a media fire. She’s hot news. But adding wealth to the story is like pouring gasoline on the flames. If the accused is a socialite, she’s more than news. She’s a front-page photograph, a screaming, large-print headline.
Louisa appears oblivious to it all. She seems not to hear her name whispered repeatedly from the other side of the bar, not even to notice the flashbulbs that explode each time she turns her profile to the gallery. She’s leaning sideways, toward the Kydd, scanning the Commonwealth’s lengthy documents along with him, pointing to a particular entry now and then to ask him for an explanation. I’m glad she’s willing to participate; I want her to be proactive in her own defense. I just hope the Kydd remembers how to comprehend the written word while she’s breathing over his shoulder.
Judge Long repositions his half-glasses and signals for the rest of us to sit. With the solitary exception of Geraldine Schilling, we do. Few directives apply to our District Attorney. She wouldn’t take a seat at this stage of the proceedings unless a lit cigarette and a dry martini were waiting on the table in front of it.
“Attorney Nickerson,” the judge says, “I trust you and your client have had sufficient time to examine the Commonwealth’s evidence?”
“We have, Your Honor.” I stand and approach the bench. Geraldine follows, as if the judge and I need a chaperone, and I spin to fire a silent warning in her direction. I imagine Pedro Martinez might get a comparable feeling when he hurls an inside pitch and edges Derek Jeter away from the plate. She stops a few feet behind me and folds her arms, a reluctant concession to the fact that I’m up.
“At this time, Your Honor, we believe the Commonwealth’s exhibit is a plumbing fixture Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings purchased when they were renovating their home. It proved to be defective and the retailer replaced it. It was stored in the basement so eventually it could be shipped back to the vendor.”
Geraldine moves closer to the bench and turns to face me, her thin eyebrows arched. Her question couldn’t be any plainer if she flashed it on a neon billboard. So what? she telegraphs. Geraldine is a master of dramatic presentation; no attorney in the county spends more time painting each painful detail than she does. The rest of us, though, should just get on with it. Every word we utter is a waste of the court’s time.
“The point is, Your Honor, it’s no surprise that Mrs. Rawlings’s prints are on the fixture. Just as it would be no surprise to find my prints on the fixtures in my home, your prints on the fixtures in yours.”
“That’s not the point at all,” Geraldine interrupts. She moves past me, closer to the bench. “The point is that Mrs. Rawlings’s prints share space with skin fragments, hair, blood—all from her bludgeoned husband. Those aren’t things we’d expect to find on the fixtures in your home, Judge.” She turns and faces me again, her scowl saying she’s not about to comment on what she might find in mine.
“The exhibit proves the deceased was attacked with that fixture, Your Honor. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” Geraldine moves closer to me and her green eyes grow wide. “My Sister Counsel is mistaken,” she says to the judge. “The exhibit proves a good deal more than that.”
Geraldine “Sister Counsels” me every chance she gets. It’s one of those archaic traditions the Massachusetts Bar Association seems unable to part with—lawyers calling one another siblings. I find it utterly irritating. And Geraldine finds that irresistible.
She turns and points first at Louisa, then up at her captured swan on the bench. “The exhibit does prove the victim was attacked with it,” she says. “It also proves the defendant wielded the murder weapon. And it proves she’s the only person who did.”
“It proves no such thing,” I counter. “Anyone who watches Law & Order once in a while knows how to avoid leaving prints behind. The exhibit proves only that the murderer had access to the house, or at least to the fixture.”
Geraldine looks up at the ceiling and raises both hands, as if she just scored a touchdown. “Ah,” she says, her expression brightening, “my Sister Counsel brings us directly to my next point.”
Her Sister Counsel didn’t intend to do that, of course.
“Two people lived in that house,” she continues. “And now one of them is dead. The house has a security system, Judge.”
“But they didn’t use it, Your Honor.” I step closer to the bench. “It wasn’t activated.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Geraldine holds up one of the police reports. “There was no sign of forced entry.”
She’s right about that. The cops found no indication of surreptitious activity anywhere near the Easy Street estate. And Louisa noticed nothing out of the ordinary when she returned home from the club—and Lighthouse Beach—last Sunday.
“That’s true,” I tell the judge. “But like so many of us on the Cape, Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings weren’t big on locking their doors. And plenty of people had access, anyhow. Deliverymen, construction workers, landscapers…”
Geraldine lets out a small laugh and shakes her head. “We all know what happened here, Judge.” She stares up at the bench and points back at Louisa. “We may not know the details, but we’ve got the big picture. This woman knocked her husband out with a single blow. Maybe she was enraged, maybe not. Maybe she did it for the money, maybe not. Maybe she intended to render him unconscious, maybe not.”
Geraldine turns and locks eyes with Louisa. “But render him unconscious she did. And when she realized what she’d done, she decided to finish the job. She—”
“You have no business saying any of those things, Miss Geraldine.” Louisa’s voice isn’t trembling anymore; it’s steady and strong. She’s on her feet, leaning over our table, her dark eyes like lit coals. She’s mad. She stares up at the judge as everyone else’s eyes fix on her. “Surely this woman isn’t permitted to say such terrible things about me, Your Honor. There’s not a shred of truth in what she’s saying. I’m going to ask you to stop her.”
So much for my “let me do the talking” admonition.
Judge Long tucks his chin in and peers down over his half-glasses, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, but she is, Mrs. Rawlings. She is allowed to say such things about you. It’s part of her job. And frankly, it’d be easier to stop a freight train.”
“But the woman doesn’t even know me,” Louisa protests. “Her story is ridiculous.”
“Your Honor.” I glare at Louisa as I address the court, silently telling her to put a lid on it. “The bottom line is that the Commonwealth has nothing more than the accused’s fingerprints on an item where we’d expect to find them.” I pause and walk back toward our table, to stand beside Louisa. “Mrs. Rawlings is an attorney, Your Honor, a graduate of Yale Law School.”
Judge Long is obviously surprised by this revelation. He looks out at Louisa with heightened interest. Even Geraldine seems mildly intrigued. I pause a moment, to let them assess her demeanor, before I continue. “I guarantee you, Your Honor, if she’d used that fixture to attack her husband, her prints would not be on it.”