“Not so in our criminal justice system. In fact, the opposite is true. In a criminal case, the defendant is entitled to a decision rendered by a panel of his peers. Our Constitution guarantees it. The jury has the final word in criminal trials. Always.”

The jurors with notebooks and pens haven’t written anything, haven’t taken their eyes from me.

“Most of the important facts in this case aren’t contested. The Commonwealth told you Buck Hammond shot and killed Hector Monteros. Buck Hammond took the witness stand and said the same thing. The Commonwealth told you he intended to kill Monteros. Again, Buck took the witness stand and said the same thing…”

I turn to the defense table for just a moment, arch my eyebrows at Buck before facing the panel again.

“More emphatically than Mr. Madigan and I would have liked.”

Most of the jurors look toward the defense table, at Harry and Buck; a few almost smile. A couple of the men in the back row shake their heads, though. I don’t know what that means.

I pause a moment before directing their attention to the easel. The few near-smiles disappear.

“Some of the evidence in this case was difficult to present. And I know it was difficult to receive. It was gut-wrenching to listen to Chief Fitzpatrick’s testimony. It was awful to look at the two photographs of Billy Hammond.

“And it still is.”

Their eyes remain on the easel, so I wait. They can stare at those photos until summer, as far as I’m concerned.

“We had trouble-all of us-listening to the details of Billy Hammond’s unspeakable suffering, his unimaginable death. It’s safe to say that those details made us angry, outraged even. And not one of us ever met Billy Hammond.”

Their gazes stray from the easel. Some eyes rest on me; others stare across the room again toward Buck. The retired schoolteacher shakes her head in his direction; her face reveals nothing.

“If the details of Billy’s ordeal-of his suffering and his death-made you and me angry, outraged, what did those details do to the child’s father? To decide this case, you must answer that question.”

Most jurors drop their gazes from me to their laps, considering the question, I hope. Two men in the back row, though, exchange troubled glances, shake their heads again. Maybe they can’t imagine what the details would do to the boy’s father. Or maybe they don’t like their assignment.

“Dr. Simmons told you that Buck Hammond was in the midst of a psychotic episode-a break from reality-when he pulled the trigger of his hunting rifle on the morning of June twenty-first. Even the Commonwealth’s expert psychiatrists agreed that Buck was in the throes of severe trauma at the time. Was he insane?”

I pause here, let the question hang for a moment.

“That’s for you to decide.”

I turn from the panel and point toward Buck. “Should he spend the rest of his life at Walpole-in the penitentiary-for what he did?”

Another pause.

“That’s also for you to decide. And that-”

I wait until their eyes return to mine.

“-is as it should be.

“This, people, is what’s right about our criminal justice system: you, twelve of Buck Hammond’s peers, are the final arbiters of justice. You decide what happens next. You and your consciences.”

Stanley drums his fingers on the prosecution table. I stare at him until he stops. He shakes his head at me; I’m an unreasonable opponent, it seems. I turn back to the jurors.

“This is my final opportunity to speak to you. When I’m finished, the prosecutor will address you. I have no way to know what he will say. I get no opportunity to respond. Those are the rules.

“My guess, though, is that he will spend at least some time discussing the need for you to send a message. He might tell you to convict so that our streets won’t be overrun with men taking the law into their own hands. He might tell you to convict so that other would-be killers will think twice before slaying their victims. He might say your failure to convict will unravel the very fabric of our society.

“I tell you now, because it’s my last chance to do so, don’t buy it.” I turn from them and cross the courtroom to stand beside Buck’s chair.

“Your verdict is about one man and only one man. This one. You are seated in that jury box for one reason and one reason alone. Not to send a message to the masses. Not to predict the future of crime control. Not to theorize about the fabric of our society. You’re here because you are Buck Hammond’s peers.

“It’s an awesome thing, people, to sit where he sits, to face the machinery of the Commonwealth as it moves systematically against you. This is his trial. He’s entitled to it. Don’t let the prosecutor convince you to make it about anyone-or anything-else.”

Not one juror moves as I leave Buck’s side and cross the silent courtroom toward them.

“In recent weeks I’ve spent more than a few evenings in the Hammonds’ living room, talking with Buck’s wife, Patty. We talked about Billy, and about Buck. We talked about Hector Monteros. And we talked, a lot, about this trial, about all that would happen in this courtroom.

“At the time, I thought I was preparing Patty Hammond for this ordeal, for this public rerun of her little boy’s tragic end. But I see now that I was wrong. Patty was already prepared. She’d already been through much worse. She’d lived through the real thing. And she knew I hadn’t. She was preparing me.

“One night about two weeks ago, just before I left their cottage, Patty asked a question she’d never raised before. It was a question I’m sure she’d thought about often during the past six months. But until two weeks ago, she’d never said the words-not out loud, anyway.

“Patty asked, that night, if I’d be able to send Buck home, if I could give them the opportunity to piece together the shards of their shattered lives. She asked if I could bring a close to this seemingly endless tragedy, if I’d be able to make at least this chapter of their pain-filled saga end the way it should.

“I was honest with Patty Hammond that night, people. I told her I couldn’t do that.

“But you can.”

“Convenient, isn’t it, this temporary insanity plea? Love it or hate it-believe it or not-you have to admit it’s convenient.” Stanley steps out from behind his table and shoves both hands in his pants pockets. He saunters across the front of the courtroom, head down, his back to the jury. When he reaches our table, he stops as if he hit a brick wall.

For a moment, he says nothing, stares at the tassels of his shiny black shoes. He looks sideways, then, and sneers at Buck before pivoting to face the jury. “It’s not only convenient. It’s clever.”

He takes his hands from his pockets, folds his arms across his chest, and stands perfectly still in front of our table. “Yes, it’s downright clever for this man to claim he was temporarily insane when he took a human life. Insane at that moment, mind you, but not now.”

Stanley smiles at the jurors, as if they share a secret. “That’s the part that’s so clever-the temporary part. It’s perfect. There’s no need to commit him, you see, no need even for psychiatric care. Just send him home. As if it never happened.”

Stanley shakes his head at the jurors, lets out another hiccup, another almost-laugh. “Don’t fall for it.”

He moves so close to our table that the hem of his suit coat brushes the edge. His gaze remains focused on the panel as he raises one arm and points into Buck’s face. “Because if you fall for it, he gets away with murder.”

Buck leans as far back in his chair as he can without tipping. Still, Stanley’s index finger is only a few inches from Buck’s chin. “Don’t let him. Don’t let him get away with murder.”

Prosecutors point. I know this; I was a pointer too, in my day. Even so, I have a powerful urge to push Stanley’s arm away, to get his hand out of our space, so we can breathe.