“Mr. Madigan, your examination of this witness is over. One more word and I’ll hold you in contempt. You can spend Christmas behind bars as far as I’m concerned. And if I were you, sir, I wouldn’t make plans for New Year’s Eve.”

The judge turns her icy stare-and her gavel-on Dr. Simmons. “The county can provide accommodations for you as well, Doctor, if need be.”

The doctor’s eyes grow wide. He’s speechless for a moment, then recovers. “Me? What did I do?”

This is a first. Beatrice sends Harry to the pokey with a great deal of ease, but as far as I know she’s never threatened to throw his witness in with him. I’m surprised she’d allow him the company.

The jurors still haven’t moved, but their eyes have. A few stare at Judge Nolan. Most focus on Buck. He’s motionless.

Harry finally looks at me-that look that always takes my breath away-as he takes his seat. He’s satisfied, happy even. He’ll gladly serve whatever time Beatrice metes out, holidays or not. I can take it from here.

If it’s true that cats have nine lives, they’ve got nothing on Harry Madigan.

Beatrice Nolan excused the jury for a twenty-minute recess. She summoned additional court officers to her crowded courtroom, bringing the total to four. She told the court reporter we were to stay on the record. In short, she set the stage for her well-rehearsed one-woman show. She was about to throw Harry in jail. Again.

Harry had a different idea.

He told old Beatrice we’d take an interlocutory appeal. Kevin Kydd would be in front of the appellate panel within the hour, he said. Harry conceded that the Court of Appeals doesn’t often allow interlocutory challenges-issues appealed in the midst of trial, before the final verdict is in. But it might just be interested in this one.

Harry stood in front of the bench and held up both hands to count out the number of times Beatrice has locked him up. He ran out of fingers. Without a trace of unpleasantness in his voice, Harry told Beatrice that the appellate court might wonder why a member of the bar-a member in good standing, no less-has been jailed so many times by the same judge. We’d like to be heard on that issue, he said.

Harry actually smiled at her then. Beatrice didn’t smile back.

And it’s not just the repeated lockups we’d ask the higher court to consider, Harry told her. We’d seek a review of the ruling on its merits. This was the defense psychiatrist, after all. It was his job to determine what facts Buck knew-and what facts he didn’t know-when he pulled the trigger. The doctor would have been guilty of malpractice had he not factored in Buck’s knowledge of Monteros’s history.

Harry’s not very veiled threats gave Beatrice Nolan pause. If there’s one thing that matters to Beatrice, it’s her standing with the courts of appeal-her reversal rate. She may have ice water in her veins, but it seems to keep her brain fueled. She is careful with her evidentiary rulings, meticulous in her written opinions. Technically, at least, she’s usually correct.

There’s also the Jailhouse incident, of course. Probably best, from Beatrice’s perspective, not to memorialize it in a published appellate opinion.

In the end, Beatrice dismissed the extra court officers and settled for giving Harry a lecture. This was his final warning, she said. He was skating on mighty thin ice. Harry did his best to feign concern. When Beatrice is on the bench, Harry is lucky to have any ice at all.

Stanley’s cross-examination of Dr. Simmons was by the book. Stanley scored a few points, but he lost a few too. This doctor has been cross-examined before. He’s pretty good at it.

Harry’s redirect was brief. He just wrapped it up, a few minutes past four.

Judge Nolan excuses Dr. Simmons and he heads for the side door, keeping his eyes at all times on the judge. Good instincts.

All in all, it was a decent day for the defense. The expert witnesses basically canceled each other out. One side’s experts said Buck knew what he was doing; the other side’s said he didn’t. This is usually the way it plays out in insanity cases. The jurors will probably disregard all of the psychiatric testimony. They will decide Buck’s fate based on other factors, and hang their hats on the insanity plea only if necessary.

Harry is packing up his day’s trial notes. He uses an old school bag to cart his files back and forth to the courthouse and he has it open on our table, filling it with folders and notebooks. I give him an elbow. When he looks up at me, I move my eyes to the judge. She’s glaring at him.

Harry looks at Beatrice, then back at me. I shrug. I don’t have any idea what she’s mad about now.

“What are you doing, Mr. Madigan?” Beatrice leans forward on the bench and folds her hands together, as if praying for patience.

“Packing up?” Harry looks down at his schoolbag, checking to make sure he’s not doing something criminal instead.

“And why would you be packing up, Mr. Madigan?” Beatrice enunciates each word carefully again. Apparently, I’m not the only dull-witted child in the room.

Harry looks at me and I shrug again. He leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head, elbows pointed out. He stares up at Beatrice, waiting for her to identify his misstep. This is a new twist. Normally, Harry knows why he’s in trouble.

“This courtroom adjourns at five-thirty, Mr. Madigan, not a moment sooner.”

This is a woman with no plans for the evening. Her message is clear: She calls the shots now. We’re not in Judge Leon Long’s courtroom anymore.

“Call your next witness,” she says.

Our next witness is Patty Hammond, but I had planned to call her in the morning. I don’t want to call her now. I need to walk her through the testimony one more time before she takes the stand. Aside from Buck, she’s our most important witness. She shouldn’t be called so abruptly; she shouldn’t be rattled.

Stanley wheels around in his chair and stares at me, a savage glee in his eyes. He knows I’m sweating.

I’m searching the recesses of my brain for a reason to delay, one old Beatrice will at least consider, when I feel a hand on my arm. It’s Patty, on her feet and leaning over from the front row. “It’s okay,” she says, her eyes dry, her voice calm. “I’m ready.”

The room is silent while Patty Hammond makes the short trip from the front row to the witness box. She’s wearing black slacks and heels, a white turtleneck and an oversized gray sweater. Small coral starfish rest on her earlobes, and a pewter locket hangs from a chain around her neck. Her short hair is brushed back, away from her face. She has a fresh-scrubbed look-fair skin with a few freckles, no makeup.

Patty takes the oath, then perches on the edge of the witness seat, as if she doesn’t plan to stay long. She faces the jurors and nods, then turns to me and folds her hands on her lap. Her gaze is steady. She looks sad, as always, but at ease. She really is ready.

We walk through the preliminaries smoothly. She is Patricia Lowell Hammond and she lives on Bayview Road in South Chatham. She was born and raised here on the Cape. She is the wife of the accused and the mother of the deceased. The deceased child, that is. “Billy,” she tells them, fingering her locket. “His name is Billy.”

All of the women on the panel nod at Patty, then most of the men do too. The boy’s name is important; he’s real. They understand that. Finally, a genuine reaction.

I have always been of two minds about Patty Hammond’s testimony. On the one hand, I want to prolong it, keep her on the stand as long as possible so the jurors can get to know her. I want them to witness her unassuming manner, to listen at length to her understated words. I want them to appreciate her gentle nature, still intact in spite of the grief. I want them to realize she owns the wisdom of those who have suffered too much.