In response to carefully worded questions from Stanley, Dr. Turner gave his professional opinion that Buck Hammond was criminally responsible at the time he shot Hector Monteros. The doctor testified that Buck was fully able to tell right from wrong, knew he was violating the law, and was capable of controlling his actions. Simply put, the doctor concluded, Buck chose to kill.

Harry cross-examined both men, which didn’t take long. No lawyer can do much with an adverse witness who’s a competent expert, but Harry did what he could. Both doctors acknowledged they were being paid by the Commonwealth for their testimony. Both admitted they had testified in dozens of cases for the prosecution. Dr. Post said he’s appeared only once on behalf of a criminal defendant; Dr. Turner not at all.

Most significantly, both experts conceded that Buck Hammond had suffered severe trauma just hours before the shooting. The ultimate human tragedy, they agreed.

Stanley declined redirect and thanked both physicians repeatedly for their testimony. Then, with his tiny eyes beaming and his stance triumphant, he rested his case. For a moment, I thought he might take a bow. It’s time-at last-for my deferred opening.

The podium is against the wall opposite the jury box. Harry offers to move it for me, but I shake my head. I’d rather be free to walk around while I open, move closer to the jurors than the podium would allow. Besides, I intend to be brief.

I leave my seat and walk toward the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen…”

Beatrice’s gavel pounds a half dozen times. It sounds like an angry woodpecker.

“Counsel,” she barks, “what are you doing?”

A moment passes before I realize she’s speaking to me. “Getting started,” I tell her.

“Getting what started?” Beatrice’s bird eyes are as wide as I’ve ever seen them.

“Our case. Our defense. The Commonwealth just rested.” Stanley’s wrap-up was pretty dramatic. I can’t imagine how the judge missed it.

“I’m well aware of that, Counsel. You’ll recall I was here when it happened.”

I turn to Harry. I’m at a loss. He’s not, though. His expression says he knows exactly what’s going on.

The judge leans back in her chair, arms folded across her robe, gavel still in hand. “Call your first witness, Ms. Nickerson.”

“But Your Honor, we haven’t opened.”

“You most certainly have.”

“No, we haven’t, Judge. We deferred.”

Beatrice holds up her copy of the trial transcript. “You did no such thing.”

“Your Honor, if you’ll give me a moment”-I move to the bench and reach up for the printout-“I’ll show you the spot. The defense opted to defer opening. Judge Long allowed it.”

Beatrice yanks the transcript backward with both hands, as if it’s her purse and I’m about to snatch it. “Judge Long is not presiding over this trial, Counsel.” She enunciates each word carefully, as if she’s speaking to a dull-witted child. “I am.”

I stare at her, silent, and I realize this isn’t about me. And it’s certainly not about Buck Hammond. It’s about Judge Beatrice Nolan. She holds the reins in this courtroom. She wants us to know that her power is absolute.

For the moment, at least, she’s correct.

“You addressed the jury, Counsel. If you didn’t say everything you should have said, that’s too bad. But it’s your problem, not mine. You don’t get a second shot.” She leans toward me and bangs her gavel, just once, for emphasis. “Not in my courtroom.”

Harry gets to his feet. He shakes his head at me, his eyes telling me to forget it. There’s no point in trying to reason with Beatrice. Let’s get on with the case.

It doesn’t feel right, though. I didn’t intend to be that brief.

Harry buttons his suit coat and straightens his tie-almost-as he leaves the table. “Your Honor, the defense calls Dr. Martin Simmons to the stand.”

The doctor rises in the gallery and heads for the witness box.

Harry moves toward the front of the room, his eyes still telling me to let it go. The judge stares down at me, almost smiling, victorious.

Harry stops on his way to the witness box and leans toward me. “I could be wrong,” he whispers, “but I don’t think she likes you.”

Dr. Martin Simmons is Chief of Psychiatry at Massachusetts General Hospital. He’s a handsome man in his mid-sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a friendly manner, and a build that suggests he takes good care of himself. More important, he’s an intelligent, compassionate person. His sympathy for Buck and Patty is genuine.

The doctor has spent a lot of time with Buck, more hours than necessary for trial purposes. Buck said he didn’t mind those hours; he sort of liked thinking about the doctor’s questions. He told me he felt a little better after each session with Dr. Simmons. Buck surprised himself, I think, when he said that.

Harry marched through the preliminaries-the doctor’s education and professional experience-quickly. He wants to get to the point before Stanley-and Beatrice-start interrupting.

Dr. Simmons just told the panel that Buck was in the midst of a psychotic episode when he shot Hector Monteros.

Harry pauses to let the jurors absorb the doctor’s testimony. A few jot quick notes.

“Tell us, Dr. Simmons, what is a psychotic episode?”

The doctor nods and turns toward the jury, his expression animated. He’s eager to share the specifics of his field with people who are interested. But I’m not sure these people are. The jurors are all listening, that much is clear. But most of their faces are blank. A few look downright skeptical.

“An individual suffering a psychotic episode experiences impaired contact with reality during a specific period of time. The duration of a psychotic episode varies from patient to patient, as does the degree of impairment. If impairment is limited, the individual loses contact with a fragment of reality but retains clarity with regard to other facets of life. In serious cases, impairment can be complete. The individual’s mind is severed from the real world.”

“Before we get into the specifics of Mr. Hammond’s diagnosis, Doctor, can you tell the jury what precipitated his psychotic episode?”

Stanley stands, clears his throat. “Your Honor, please, we’ve heard all this before.”

“Approach.” Judge Nolan sighs and shakes her head at Harry as he and Stanley near the bench. She leans toward them, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Her pinched expression says it all. She doesn’t know what Harry’s up to, but she’s sure it’s nothing good.

“Mr. Madigan, where are you going with this?”

I wonder why the judge bothered to call a sidebar. She hasn’t lowered her voice at all. If I can hear her, then the jurors can too. And the press, no doubt, isn’t missing a word. We’ll hear this exchange again-more than once-on the evening news.

“Where am I going?” Harry doesn’t lower his voice either. In fact, he’s louder. “My client has raised a temporary insanity defense, Your Honor. This is our expert psychiatrist. I’m going into the relevant facts.” Harry’s volume has amped up another notch. If old Beatrice plans to shut him down, everyone in the room is going to hear his protests.

Stanley clears his throat again; he wants a turn. “Your Honor, the Chief of Police testified at considerable length about the boy. We don’t need to hear it again.” Stanley shakes his head. “Besides, it’s inflammatory.”

“Inflammatory?” Harry’s shouting now, his hands in the air. “Of course it’s inflammatory.”

Harry wheels around and points at Buck, then looks straight at the jury. He’s not even pretending to address the judge. “This man’s son-an innocent seven-year-old child-was raped and murdered. You bet it’s inflammatory. Inflammatory enough to push a reasonable man over the edge, make him snap. That, Judge”-Harry turns and glares at Beatrice again-“is the point.”