Harry seems unwilling to release Louisa’s hand. She has to forcibly extract it from his grasp so she can take her place at the table. She blushes in the process, something I suspect Louisa Rawlings doesn’t do often. Harry walks backward to a seat at the bar, his hazel eyes melded with Louisa. All of her.
None of it is lost on the Kydd. He watches their slow-motion separation, then focuses on Louisa’s pink cheeks as she takes her place between us. When she turns toward him, he hangs his head and stares down at the table.
It hits me so hard I can’t breathe for a moment. A truth so obvious it’s almost tangible. And it was here all along, right out in the open, begging to be recognized and called by its proper name. But I ignored it, pretended it didn’t exist, until now.
I steal a glance back at Harry, whose eyes haven’t wavered, and then look over at the Kydd. He’s studying the table as if he’s never seen one before. And then the truth gels, crystallizes. Technically, the Kydd is the only lawyer in the room who has run afoul of the Canons of Professional Conduct. But in point of fact, when it comes to Louisa Coleman Powers Rawlings, we all have a conflict. All three of us.
CHAPTER 24
Geraldine was positioned in front of the bench, chomping at the bit to begin, well before Judge Long took his seat and called the noisy courtroom to order. He didn’t acknowledge her at first, though, didn’t give her an opening. Instead, he donned his half-glasses and peered over them to the defense table, at me. He didn’t utter a word, didn’t need to. His question couldn’t have been clearer if he’d shouted through a bullhorn.
“Your Honor,” I said, getting to my feet but remaining at our table, “the defense is prepared to go forward.”
The shake of his head was barely perceptible. And it was not intended to be unkind. Leon Long is the last member of the judiciary who would question a citizen’s inalienable right to be judged by a panel of her peers. He deemed it foolhardy, though, for Louisa Rawlings to go forward under the circumstances. And I don’t disagree.
Geraldine is adding the final touches to her presentation now and I suspect she’ll be nominated for an Academy Award before the day is out. Under the guise of getting the substance of her case against Louisa Rawlings on the record—a legitimate end—she managed to spoon-feed every delicious morsel of this sordid saga to the salivating members of the media. More than a few reporters ran for the double doors to phone their press rooms after she showcased the brass swan. They stopped short, though, huddling in the back like an indoor football team, when she brought the bloodstained portion of the oak floorboards to center stage.
She’s just about finished, I think, talked out at last, and the press benches are empty. Only the photographers remain, roaming the aisles in search of one last opportunity to bag a front-page shot. And Woody Timmons is still here too, scribbling in his notepad. He’s off on his own again, this time seated on the end of the back bench.
“And so, Your Honor,” Geraldine concludes, “the Commonwealth respectfully prays that the defendant be held over without bail, as she poses a clear and immediate danger to the community.”
I’m on my feet. Geraldine is out of line, even by her own standards. Bail isn’t an issue here; murder is a nonbailable offense. Never mind the “clear and immediate danger to the community” nonsense.
Judge Long is way ahead of me. He bangs his gavel even before I voice my objection. “Attorney Schilling,” he says, “that’s enough.”
I sit again, certain the judge’s admonition will rein her in.
“She’s a cold, calculating murderer,” Geraldine adds, facing our table. As fate would have it, she’s facing the cameras, too.
So much for the judge’s admonition. “Your Honor!” I’m up again, but I doubt my words can even be heard over the explosion of commentary from the spectators.
Judge Long is on his feet now too, pounding his gavel with abandon. “Enough, Ms. Schilling,” he repeats.
Geraldine fires the slightest of smiles at our table.
“Murderess,” Louisa hisses.
Maybe I imagined it.
Geraldine’s green eyes smolder. “What did you say?”
Maybe I didn’t imagine it.
Louisa stands beside me and I grab her shoulder—hard—to tell her to shut up. She’s not taking my advice today, though. None of it.
“Murderess,” she repeats calmly.
“Pardon me?” Geraldine’s eyes ignite now. She seems to think Louisa is accusing her of murder. Even I know that’s not the case, though I understand precious little else about this scene.
“What did you say?” Geraldine demands again.
“If you’re going to accuse me of such dreadful acts,” Louisa says, her voice low and steady, “do it right. If I had done the things you say I’ve done—which, for your information, I most certainly did not—I would not be a murderer. I’d be a murderess.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Geraldine Schilling speechless before. And I’m fairly certain no one else in this courtroom has either.
“Now here’s a new wrinkle,” Harry mutters from his chair behind us. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”
Louisa wrests her shoulder from my grasp. “If you call me a murderer once more—” she says.
“Your Honor!” The Kydd shouts and jumps out of his chair. He grabs Louisa’s elbow so hard he jolts her into silence. “Mrs. Rawlings isn’t feeling well.” He’s still shouting, though there’s no need. The rest of us couldn’t be any quieter. “With the court’s permission, she’d like to leave the proceedings at this time.”
The Kydd moves Louisa away from our table and propels her toward the side door, motioning frantically for the startled matron to come take her off his hands. She does. And they exit before the equally surprised judge utters a word. “Permission granted,” he says as the door slams shut.
The Kydd returns to our table, winded and flushed, and I give him a grateful nod. That was quick thinking on his part and I’m fairly certain it averted disaster. Louisa’s defense is already on life-support. Threatening any prosecutor would be a mistake. Threatening Geraldine would be fatal.
“I’ve heard enough,” Judge Long says, taking his seat again. He looks out at Geraldine and shakes his head. “No, I misspoke,” he says. “Let me amend that. I’ve heard more than enough.”
Geraldine is still standing. She looks up at the bench and gives him her best angelic face, as if she has no idea what he’s talking about.
The judge turns to Old String Tie, who’s been dutifully tapping away for the past hour, to issue his ruling. “The defendant will be bound over,” he says. “Louisa Coleman Rawlings is hereby remanded to the custody of the Barnstable County House of Correction to await trial.” The judge bangs his gavel again, just once. “We’re adjourned.”
We stand as he leaves the bench. He reaches the door to his chambers and turns to face us again. “I want a scheduling conference in the morning,” he says, “so we can keep this thing moving. Be here at eight. And bring your three Cs.”
Geraldine looks at the judge and frowns before she returns to the prosecutors’ table. Judge Leon Long always tells attorneys to bring their three Cs to scheduling conferences. And Geraldine Schilling always frowns when he does.
All important dates for a case are pinned down during the scheduling conference. The discovery cutoff, the pretrial-motions deadline, and the start of trial itself are among them. Trials run more efficiently—and presumably more effectively—when both sides have enough time to do what needs doing. That’s why Judge Long asks each attorney to show up with three Cs: common sense, a calendar, and a conscience.