The Hand of God
By
Ayesha Haqqiqa
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Dick Wolf; no profit is made from this story, but I hope you enjoy reading it!
Jack McCoy leaned back in his chair as the jury filed in. This Murder One case had been an easy one. Jeff Wellingham’s attorney had put on a half-hearted defense, but the evidence was overwhelming that Wellingham had murdered his wife and daughter by drowning them in a bathtub. His attorney, Public Defender Arthur Rice, had tried to prove Wellingham was insane at the time of the murder, but since his client had never seen a psychiatrist or been in therapy, it was a tough sell.
A very tough sell, from the looks on the faces of the jurors as they filed in, Jack decided. Idly he wondered why Rice hadn’t insisted his client take a plea bargain, life in prison without parole. Oh well, too late now. The foreman handed the verdict to the bailiff, who took it to Judge Rivera. He glanced at it, and then looked at the foreman.
“The defendant will rise,” he said. “How says the jury?”
The foreman put on some reading glasses and read the verdict aloud. “On the first count of the indictment, murder in the first degree, we find the defendant, Jeff Wellingham, guilty. On the second count of the indictment, we find the defendant, Jeff Wellingham, guilty.”
The defendant stood, stock still, as the verdict was read. A brief smile seemed to flit across his face as Judge Rivera said, “We will hear arguments about sentencing next week. Defendant is remanded to Rikers until ten o’clock Tuesday. Court is adjourned.”
Jack put his notepad in his briefcase and turned to go. To his surprise, Nora was there.
“I had to come and hear the verdict for myself,” she said.
“I know that the idea of capital punishment still bothers you,” Jack said, “but in this case, I’ll be surprised if the jury decides on life in prison.”
“I will too,” Nora said. “But the way Arthur Rice presented the case—I had to come and see the defendant myself. And I’m inclined to believe the man is insane, even though he never got help.”
Jack held the door for Nora and Serena as they left the courtroom. “Are you saying that we shouldn’t push for the death penalty?” he asked.
“I’m saying let the jury decide,” Nora said cryptically.
Next Tuesday, Jack stood before the jury box. “We have chosen not to call any witnesses for the sentencing phase of the trial,” he said. “You have heard our case, and I am sure you will chose the appropriate punishment.”
Arthur Rice then rose. “Your Honor, I, too, have no witnesses to call. The defense puts itself on the mercy of the jury.” Jack raised his brows and looked at Rice, who shrugged helplessly.
The jury was out less than an hour. When they returned, the foreman said, “Your Honor, we have unanimously reached our decision. Jeff Wellingham should be executed.”
Wellingham, who was standing, broke into a broad grin. Then he turned and shouted to the jury. “I wish to thank you,” he said. “For being the hand of God. My life is not worth living. It has never been worth living. Yet suicide is a mortal sin. Thank you for taking my life from me. Thank you!” He was still yelling his thanks to the jury as the bailiffs led him away.
The courtroom was in an uproar, and Judge Rivera had to gavel it to silence. He turned and looked at the stunned jury. “Members of the jury, the Court wishes to thank you for your services. You are hearby dismissed.” Then he turned to the attorneys. “Mr. Rice, Mr. McCoy, I want to see you in my chambers—NOW!”
“Did you have any idea he would pull this stunt?” Rivera said angrily as soon as the lawyers were in his chambers. “Because if you think this will get you a leg up on appeal, Arthur, you are wrong!”
Rice shook his head. “It was all Wellingham’s idea, I assure you. I was as shocked as you were when he started his tirade. It’s been very hard being this man’s attorney, Judge. He blocked some of my ideas for the defense, saying all the while that justice would be done. He refused to consider McCoy’s plea bargain. I thought he was living in a fantasy world, thinking that somehow he’d get off. But I had no clue that execution was what he wanted.”
Judge Rivera muttered something about the competence of Legal Aid attorneys and then looked from Rice to Jack. “This is a fine mess. Please send Nora my apology. I know that the anti-capital punishment crowd will have a field day with this.”
A field day was a mild word for it, Jack discovered. He and Serena found it difficult to push their way past the group of reporters and camera crews that were congregated by the courthouse steps.
“No comment, no comment,” Jack muttered as he put his arm protectively around Serena and headed down the steps. He was not looking forward to telling Nora the news.
He found he didn’t have to. When he got to his office, Nora was waiting for him.
“Nora, he surprised us all,” Jack said defensively.
“All but me,” Nora said grimly. She paced the floor. “Now the question is what to do with this person. How can we kill him now, when that is what he wants? If we do, it will encourage every suicidal person out there to commit a horrible crime in hopes the state will give them the needle!”
“But we have to punish the man,” Jack argued. “Because he did murder his family. We’ve got to keep focused on that.”
“How did this happen, Jack?” Nora snapped. “How was it that you didn’t see the signs?”
“Arthur Rice kept his client isolated from us—at the client’s insistance, it turns out,” Jack explained. “He was as much in the dark about Wellingham’s intentions as we were.”
Nora shook her head. “Not good enough, not good enough.” She looked at Jack. “Did you know I’ve already received calls from CNN? They want me on The Point to argue in favor of the death penalty! In FAVOR, mind!”
Jack went over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Nora, you don’t have to, you know. You can state your personal viewpoint, and then—“
“And then what? Make this office look ridiculous?” Nora pushed away from Jack angrily. “I’m dreading the next few days!” She stormed from the room.
Jack lay low the rest of the week. He watched the television, and he could see the strain on Nora’s face as she fielded questions about the prosecution and what would be done with a killer who wanted to be killed.
“It’s a real dillemma,” she conceded as she talked with Greta Van Sustern. “Jeff Wellingham, without a doubt, brutally murdered his family and deserved to be punished. But the punishment is what he wanted, all along. My question is why someone who was this far out in his thinking was allowed to go on without anyone getting him help?”
“Arthur Rice put on an insanity defense,” Van Sustern pointed out.
“Yes, but there was no evidence of problems before the murder,” Nora said. “No counselling, no visits to a psychiatrist, not even a call to a help hotline.”
“So you are saying that a person who is obivously crazy has to have documented proof before we can call him crazy?” Mark Phillips, head of Citizens Against the Death Penalty, asked.
“It has to be proved so that the jury has no reasonable doubt,” Nora said, raising her voice a notch. “That was not the case here.”
“And so a man who wants to be executed will lie willingly on the gurney,” Phillips said sarcastically.
“It won’t happen again,” Nora replied stoutly.
“And how can you prevent it?” Phillips shot back. The show cut to a commercial, and Jack snapped off his TV. He went to his liquor cabnet and poured himself a shot. Not a good time to start drinking heavily, he knew. But he had to have solace in the bottle. He sipped the Scotch, and put the glass down on the desk. The warm glow of the alcohol did not dispel his feeling of desolation.
He had won—but he had lost, big time. He’d always been in favor of the death penalty, but he had always assumed that nut cases like Wellingham would be discovered before the penalty phase of the trial. He kept telling himself that this was one case in a million, but a voice inside his head kept saying, “But why did I have to be the prosecutor? And why did Nora have to take the heat?”
Because this bothered him more than anything else. Nora was in an awkward spot, and the strain showed. She was personally against the death penalty; and Wellingham was the poster boy for those who advocated getting rid of executions. Yet she was the Manhattan DA, and was sworn to uphold the laws of the State of New York, which meant she had to defend the death penalty. Jack knew it was tearing her apart, and he felt helpless to do anything about it.
She’d avoided him since the day of Wellingham’s outburst. He would stop by to see her, and she would have some excuse to keep from talking with him. He wondered, for a time, if he would wind up reprimanded or with a suspension because of his conduct during the trial; but he realized that it was merely parnoia on his part. He had done nothing illegal. And if Nora wanted to berate him over his performance, she wouldn’t avoid him; she’d confront him.
Jack sighed, and got ready for bed. He climbed under the covers and turned out the light. He turned on his side and looked out the window. Would this be another sleepless night, or would he be awakened by nightmares again?
The dream was always the same. Jack was on the dock, and the jury foreman read the verdict. “Jack McCoy, we find you guilty, and sentence you to be hung by the neck until dead.” The courtroom changed to the execution yard of a nineteenth-century prison. Jack, hands bound behind him, was led up the thirteen steps of the scaffold, where a hooded executioner awaited him, noose in hand….
Jack woke up, gasping for air. It wasn’t his fault, wasn’t his fault, he thought as he ran a hand across his neck. Wellingham had manipulated the system, that was all. He shivered and pulled up the covers to his chin. A sleepless night would be better than dreams. He watched the lights of the city as the night crawled along towards dawn, hoping his eyes would not grow heavy and lead him back to his nightmare.
He entered the elevator from the parking garage the next day, and, to his surprise, there was Nora.
“You look terrible, Jack,” she said.
“You don’t look so hot yourself,” he said, and then instantly regretted it. “Sorry, Nora. I just haven’t been sleeping lately, and it shows.”
“You’re not the only one,” Nora sighed and leaned back against the elevator. “And you’re right—I feel lousy. Comes from having to fight an internal struggle between what is right and what is legal.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “The worst kind of criminal in my book is one who manipulates the system to obtain their ends. Wellingham is just an example of it.”
Nora looked at him. “Has it changed your thoughts on the death penalty, then?” she asked.
“It’s changed my thoughts on the procedure we go through to try and get Murder One,” Jack said. “We have to focus more on the defendant’s true motives for committing a crime. I will never again ask for the death penalty unless I know that such punishment is viewed with fear and loathing.”
Nora sighed, and the coolness between them vanished. They both stood in the elevator in amicable silence for the rest of the ride.
Not that the day went any better. Jack was involved in another murder case. This one was the result of a domestic dispute, and involved only the spouse. He was going for Murder Two. But the thoughts of the Wellingham trial kept haunting him as he prepped witnesses.
“And what did you discover when you came to the defendant’s house?” he asked Lennie Brisco.
“Uh, Counsellor, I just answered that,” Lennie said gently.
“Right.” Jack gripped the papers in his hand a bit tighter. “Ok, then I’ll be asking you about the demeanor of the defendant as you talked to him.”
“He appeared to be nervous and distracted,” Lennie said. “He couldn’t stand still, and kept licking his lips.”
“Couldn’t this be ascribed to grief and shock at discovering his wife’s body in the bedroom?” Jack asked.
“Well, generally people either cry or shut down,” Lennie said. “This guy was nervous. He kept glancing toward the door. My partner suggested we check the house to see if anything was missing, and he blurted out no, then changed his mind.”
“And what did you find as a result of your search?” Jack asked.
“A 22 caliber pistol,” Lennie said, “with one round fired.”
“Ok, that’s good,” Jack said, putting down his papers and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.
Lennie looked at him with concern. “You know, Jack, it might be a good idea to take a day off before the trial starts.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Jack said sarcastically. He got up, and Lennie did, too. “Look, Lennie, I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I’ve got to keep going.”
“Don’t keep going until you’ve gotten so sick you can’t get up,” Lennie advised, and left.
Serena came in with a folder. “Dr. Brown will be late for his prep session,” she said, then stopped. Jack was sitting down again, with his head in his hands. “I can handle the session, Jack. You really need to go home.”
“So Lennie said,” Jack sighed as he looked up at her. “I’m not going to leave you alone with this, though. You’ve been under just as much a strain as I have the past few days.”
“Jack, I’m ok,” Serena said earnestly. “I can take up the slack. This I can do—but I’ll need you for the trial.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Jack said. He got up slowly and went to his office. He’d go home—but what good would it do if he couldn’t sleep?
He met Nora at her office door. She was putting on her coat.
“I’m so tired, I can’t think,” she said. “I’m going to try and go home and get some rest.”
“I’m doing the same thing,” Jack said. “Guess I’ll stop by a pharmacy and pick up some sleeping pills. I don’t like to, but that may be the only way I can get to sleep.”
Nora stopped and looked at Jack. “I don’t like using sleeping pills, either. You know, maybe we could help each other out. Why don’t we go out, get something to eat, and then maybe take a walk? That way, we’ll both get some exercise and maybe our thoughts can be on something other than Jeff Wellingham!”
“Let me change,” Jack said, and disappeared into his office.
A half an hour later found a jeans-clad Jack escorting Nora into a little hole in the wall restaurant not far from Central Park.
“They have really good homemade potato soup here,” he said. “Nothing fancy, but it’s comfort food.”
“Comfort, that’s what I need,” Nora sighed as she took off her coat and draped it on the back of her chair. “When I was a child, my mother used to fix me potato soup, and put hunks of cheese in it. I thought it was a real treat.”
“Cheese? My mother used lots of pepper, and we ate it with hunks of bread,” Jack said as he took off his jacket and sat down. “Mary’s version is close to my mother’s, only I add more pepper. I bet she’ll give you cheese if you ask.”
“I will,” Nora smiled. They ordered their soup, and two steaming bowls soon came. They ate in silence for a while, relishing the warmth of the dish and the memories it brought back.
“Very good, indeed,” Nora said as she put down her spoon. “And just what I needed.” She looked at Jack. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” he replied as he ate the last bit of bread. He sighed. “You want anything else?”
“Something chocolate always helps me combat stress,” Nora said, “although I know the effect is psychological.”
“Then I know the prescription,” Jack said, waving the waitress over. “Two pieces of chocolate cake.”
“I really shouldn’t have eaten so much,” Nora said as they walked out of the restaurant. “But I know we’ll walk off the excess calories. But I wish you’d let me pay for mine, at least.”
Jack shook his hand. “Not my style. Old fashioned, I guess.”
“I’m glad you’re old fashioned,” Nora said, slipping her arm in his. They walked towards Central Park, where they lingered by the fountain.
“It’s getting chilly,” Jack remarked. “Want me to call you a cab—or do you feel like walking over to my place? It’s not far.” He looked at her shyly.
“Is that Jack McCoy charm?” Nora teased. “Are you trying to take advantage of me?”
“No, it’s an honest invitation,” Jack said earnestly. “Actually, Nora…I don’t want to be alone right now. It’s –“
“Say no more, Jack,” Nora said, shivering slightly. “I feel the same way.”
They walked to Jack’s apartment, where Nora sat down on the sofa.
“How about listening to some music?” Jack asked as he went to his CD player.
“Bach, if you’ve got some,” Nora sighed. “It is the only music that soothes me when I’m stressed.”
“Bach it is,” Jack said, selecting a CD and putting it on. The Double Violin Concrto in D Minor filled the room. He went back and sat down beside Nora.
“This music,” Nora sighed. “It’s so beautiful.”
Jack looked at her as she leaned back and closed her eyes. “Thanks for coming, Nora,” he said softly. “I don’t know why, but just having you here—well, it helps.”
“I know,” Nora said as the music rose and fell and enveloped them. Her hand reached out for his and he clasped it as the violins continued playing the delicate counterpoint. He’d put the CD on continuous play, and neither he nor Nora noticed when the concerto began again.
He woke up with a start. It was dark. The CD continued to play, and Nora was snuggled up against him, her head on his chest, sound asleep. He relished her warmth, her closeness, and he was loath to let it end. He patted her back, and her eyes fluttered.
“I think we both fell asleep, Nora,” he said softly.
She looked up in his face. “The first good sleep I’ve had in days,” she said. Slowly, she sat up and stretched. It was only then that she realized it was dark.
“I’ll call you a cab,” Jack said quickly.
“Yes, that would be for the best,” Nora said. She looked down on him and said, “Thanks, Jack.”
He groped around the side of the couch for his phone, then made the call.
“I didn’t realize it was so late,” Nora said as she looked at the clock. “Nearly midnight! Well, we both got in a good five hour nap.”
Jack came over to her. “The cab will be here in about five minutes. You’ll be able to see it from the window.”
“Good,” Nora said. She didn’t move, and neither did Jack. They stood in the silence until they heard the cab rattle up. Nora went to get her coat, Jack following her. When she got to the door, she turned.
“Thanks again, Jack,” she said, and reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
Jack watched as she got in the cab, lifted his hand to his cheek, and smiled.