False Testimony: A Crime Novel Page 5

  Judge Gould pauses for a sip of water. The citizens seated in the gallery are silent, paralyzed. Even those of us at the tables are frozen.

  “The accused, Derrick John Holliston, does not deny inflicting the fatal wound,” the judge continues. “But he does dispute the allegation that his actions constitute murder. He maintains that his conduct on the night in question was entirely lawful, that the deceased was the assailant. More specifically, the defendant maintains that the deceased became sexually aggressive and when he—the defendant—resisted, the deceased became violent. The defendant contends that he acted only as necessary to preserve his own life.”

  Judge Gould pauses again. Still, not a sound. Not a breath, even. “The Commonwealth disputes the defendant’s self-defense claim. And the cash from the Christmas Vigil Mass collection has not been recovered.”

  This final piece of information is more significant than the potential jurors know. Had the police been able to locate the missing money and tie it to Holliston, Geraldine would have charged him pursuant to the felony-murder rule. And she would much rather have done so. Under that rule, a person who causes the death of another while in the process of committing a felony is automatically guilty of first-degree murder, even if the death was unintended. If the rule could be successfully invoked, Geraldine’s burden would be substantially lightened: no need to prove premeditation; no need to prove intent, and no need to show extreme atrocity or cruelty.

  As it stands, though, the Christmas Eve collection is nowhere to be found. Without it, the underlying felony can’t even be charged, let alone proved. As long as the money is missing, the felony-murder rule doesn’t come into play. And if the jurors buy Holliston’s self-defense claim—if they believe he had to stab the priest in order to save his own life—he’ll walk.

  The judge removes his glasses, sets them on the bench, and leans on his forearms. “I ask each of you to take a moment now,” he says to the assembly, “and reflect. This will not be an easy case for anyone involved. The evidence from both sides will be graphic, detailed. It will be difficult to see and hear; that’s a given. But I ask each of you to alert us now if you believe you will have particular trouble being fair and impartial, looking at all of the exhibits and listening to all of the testimony with an open mind.”

  We attorneys swivel our chairs so we can see the jurors seated behind us. Holliston doesn’t move. For a moment, the silence blanketing the courtroom remains undisturbed. But then a man in an end seat in the center of the room gets to his feet and steps into the aisle. He looks to be about fifty, wearing blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and work boots. “I might have a problem with that,” he says.

  Two well-dressed women follow his lead. The first moves into the aisle across from him. She’s about my age, in a tailored, navy blue pants suit and heels. “I may also,” she says. The second woman is probably seventy. She stands in the middle of the back row, her silver hair styled and stiff above the collar of a charcoal gray coatdress. She nods at the judge but says nothing, a silent ditto.

  “Thank you,” Judge Gould says to all of them. “Thank you for your candor. Now I ask the three of you to come forward.”

  They hesitate. They weren’t expecting this. It’s routine, though. Judge Gould will question each of them individually, in the privacy of his chambers. If a potential juror does have a partiality problem, the last thing the judge wants to do is share it with the others.

  Dottie Bearse has been Judge Gould’s courtroom clerk since his District Court days. When he made the move to Superior Court, he arranged for her to transfer as well. I’ve never heard the judge ask her for anything; she’s always two steps ahead of him. She finishes sorting a stack of papers on her desk now and hands him three juror questionnaires.

  “You, sir.” The judge consults one of the forms and then looks up at the guy in the work boots. “Mr. Harmon, please take a seat in chambers.” Big Red crosses the room and opens the chambers door. All three jurors start down the center aisle.

  “And you two”—the judge shifts his attention to the women—“please be seated in the jury box. We’ll be with you shortly.” The judge stands to leave the bench and Big Red tells the rest of us to rise.

  Harry and I head toward chambers, Geraldine and Clarence on our heels. We pause at the door, though, to allow Judge Gould to enter first. He waits too, and directs the jeans-clad juror in ahead of all of us.

  The room is small and tidy, lit only by a burnished brass lamp situated on one corner of the judge’s dark walnut desk. Judge Gould takes his seat and directs our juror into one of the two chairs facing his. Geraldine settles in the other. Harry leans against a side wall next to the juror, where he can see everyone. Clarence and I hang back by the closed door.

  “Mr. Harmon,” Judge Gould says, “let me begin by telling you we appreciate your willingness to speak with us. We all do. And let me also assure you, sir, that what you say in this room stays here.” The judge glances up at Geraldine, then at Harry. They nod in unison, first at the judge, then at the juror.

  “Now what is it, Mr. Harmon, that makes you question your ability to remain impartial?” The judge leans back in his chair, the top of it brushing lightly against the floor-to-ceiling bookcase behind him.

  Mr. Harmon looks entirely comfortable, erect in his chair, hands resting on his knees. “Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “it’s not like I knew the guy or anything.”

  Geraldine stiffens, her antennae up. The judge fires a cautionary stare her way; he does the questioning in here. “Which guy are we talking about?” he says.

  “The priest,” Harmon answers. “I went to a Mass he said once. Must’ve been two years ago now.”

  We’re all quiet for a moment. Anyone with ties to St. Veronica’s Parish—religious or otherwise—was weeded out before the sixty juror candidates were brought to the courtroom this morning. Attendance at a single Mass celebrated by the deceased probably didn’t show up on the clerk’s radar screen.

  “I didn’t talk to him or anything,” Harmon continues. “But he seemed like a decent guy. Didn’t seem like somebody who’d…well, you know.”

  “Was this Mass at St. Veronica’s?” Judge Gould asks.

  Harmon nods.

  “How did you happen to be there?”

  “My wife’s sister lives in that parish,” he answers. “She and her husband were celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary—you know, renewing their vows and all that. Father McMahon said the Mass.”

  “Was this a private event?” the judge asks.

  “Oh no.” Mr. Harmon shakes his head. “It was a regular Sunday Mass, but just before the final blessing, he had them come up to the altar to say their I dos all over again.”

  The judge smiles. “And they both did, I presume?”

  Mr. Harmon smiles too, first at the judge, then at the rest of us. “Yeah,” he says, “they did. And that priest, he made my brother-in-law kiss the ‘bride’ right there in front of everybody. My wife and I took them out to breakfast afterward and that was all they talked about. They didn’t expect to have to do that again.”

  The judge looks at his hands for a moment, then back up at Harmon. “So you liked Father McMahon?”

  “Sure.” He shrugs. “When my brother-in-law hesitated—you know, at the kissing part—the priest led the whole congregation in a big round of applause.” Harmon shakes his head, still smiling. “Talk about pressure.”

  Geraldine is relaxed now, happy even. She wants to keep this juror on the panel. She likes his take on things.

  Judge Gould picks up a pen from his desk and taps it in his palm. “Anything else?” he says. “Any other contact with the priest?”

  Harmon shakes his head. “Nope. Just saw him that once.”

  The judge leans forward, sets the pen down again, and clasps his hands together on the desk. “Now Mr. Harmon, clearly you formed a favorable impression of the deceased on that occasion. What we want to know now is whether or not that fact will i
nterfere with your ability to fairly decide this case if you’re chosen to serve. Do you believe you’re capable of putting your impression from two years ago aside? Will you be able to base your decision strictly on the evidence presented in the courtroom this week?”

  Mr. Harmon sits in silence for a moment, considering. I have to give him credit; he thinks about it longer than most. “I believe I can,” he says.

  “And if the evidence shows that the deceased was, in fact, the aggressor in this case, you would be able to so find?”

  Harmon rubs his chin. “If that’s what the evidence shows, then yes.”

  “And if the evidence shows that Mr. Holliston acted only as necessary to preserve his own life, you would vote to acquit?”

  Harmon nods, looking thoughtful. “Yes,” he says, “I would.”

  Harry shifts against the wall and faces the desk, but says nothing. He doesn’t need to. Judge Gould knows Harry wants to bounce this guy. They’ll argue about it later.

  “Thank you, sir.” The judge stands and motions toward the courtroom. “You may have a seat in the jury box while we speak with the others.”

  Clarence opens the chambers door and Mr. Harmon exits. Big Red instructs the younger of the two waiting women to join us. Judge Gould checks one of the forms on his desk and smiles at her when she enters. She doesn’t smile back.

  “Mrs. Meyers,” the judge says, “please have a seat.” He gives her the same thanks and promise of confidentiality he gave to Mr. Harmon, and then asks her to share her concerns.

  She doesn’t. She looks down at her lap, then opens her purse and takes a Kleenex from it. I move closer to Harry, so I can see her face. She’s blinking back tears. “Please,” she says to Judge Gould. “I can’t do this. I just can’t.”

  “Take your time,” he says quietly, leaning forward on his desk. “When you’re ready, tell us why you can’t.”

  We wait while Mrs. Meyers dabs at the corners of her eyes and takes a few deep breaths. “My son,” she whispers. She falls silent again.

  “What would you like to tell us about him?” The judge’s expression is kind, concerned, but Mrs. Meyers doesn’t seem to notice. Her small laugh turns at once into a grimace. “Nothing,” she says. “I don’t want to tell you anything about him.”

  She stares into her lap again and, once more, we wait. “Look,” she finally blurts out, “we moved here from St. Bartholomew’s.”

  Everyone in the room reacts. It’s as though an invisible hand slapped each of us simultaneously. The judge sits up straighter in his chair. Harry sets his jaw and jams both hands into his pants pockets. Geraldine folds her arms and I find myself doing the same, pressing them hard against my ribs. Even Clarence plants his palms against the wall, looking like he might lose his balance otherwise.

  St. Bartholomew’s is a parish in the Boston Archdiocese. For eighteen years, it was home to now-defrocked priest Frederick Barlow. A year ago, Barlow admitted to raping twenty-eight boys during his tenure. He’s at the Walpole Penitentiary now, doing twelve to fifteen. The twenty-eight boys, of course, are doing life.

  After a few moments, Judge Gould recovers. “Was your son involved in the settlement reached last year between the Boston Archdiocese and the Barlow plaintiffs?”

  Judges frequently use this device. When speaking with a victim’s loved one—especially the parent of a child victim—it’s much easier on everyone to refer to the lawsuit or settlement than it is to mention the crimes involved. Even so, Mrs. Meyers flinches at the mention of the former priest’s name. “Yes,” she says. “My son was one of the plaintiffs. Can we leave it at that?”

  “Of course we can,” Judge Gould says. “And again, we appreciate your willingness to give us that information.”

  She twists in her chair and looks toward the door, obviously hoping she can leave now. She can’t, though. Not yet.

  “Mrs. Meyers,” the judge continues.

  She faces him again, her eyes wide, surprised. My heart aches for her.

  “I have to ask you,” he says, “it’s my duty to ask this question. Do you believe the information you just shared with us will interfere with your ability to fairly decide this case if you are selected to serve?”

  She actually laughs. For the first time since she walked in here, she looks around the room at the rest of us. “Do any of you have children?”

  The judge and I both nod.

  “What do you think?” she asks us.

  Judge Gould’s eyes meet mine but neither of us speaks. No need.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Meyers,” the judge says as he stands. “Please return to your seat in the jury box. We’ll be done here in a few minutes.”

  She complies without a word and Big Red sends in the last of our jurors to be interviewed, the silver-haired woman from the back row. “Mrs. Rowlands,” the judge says, gesturing toward the empty chair, “please join us.”

  She does, careful to smooth her coatdress before she sits. Her handbag is the size of a large bread box; it covers her entire lap. “I’ve had it,” she tells us before Judge Gould says another word, “with the entire Roman Catholic Church.”

  The judge laughs a little, then catches himself. He sits up straighter and forces his face into neutral. “Tell us why,” he says.

  She looks at him the way Luke looks at me when I can’t recite the latest Red Sox stats. She wonders if he’s been living under a rock. “They robbed me of my church,” she says. “My church. The church I was born and raised in. Now I’m without a place to worship. And I’m seventy-three. Too old to shop for a new one.”

  The judge looks like he might have a question, but Mrs. Rowlands doesn’t wait for it. “I can’t walk into a Catholic church without getting so angry I want to scream. Criminals, every last one of them.”

  The judge puts both hands up to stop her. “Mrs. Rowlands, surely you don’t think every Catholic priest was involved in child molestation?”

  “Involved? Oh, they were involved, all right. Those who weren’t actively abusing protected the abusers, moved them from parish to parish, knowing a whole new crop of youngsters would be waiting at each one. While the children suffered, they protected their pals. Organized crime, plain and simple.”

  “But Mrs. Rowlands, many priests did neither. They didn’t abuse children and they knew nothing about those who did.”

  “Oh, they knew,” she says. “Don’t kid yourself. It was there to be seen. They knew and they kept quiet. Cowards. Criminals and cowards.” Her eyes dart around the room, daring any one of us to contradict her.

  “Mrs. Rowlands,” the judge takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, “let’s talk about this particular case.”

  She shifts in her chair, adjusts her pocketbook.

  “You understand, don’t you, that this matter has nothing to do with the child-abuse scandal we’ve heard so much about lately?”

  She nods.

  “And you understand there’s no child involved here?”

  “I do,” she says. “I realize that.”

  “So even though you’re angry with the Catholic Church—as many people are—do you think you’d be able to put your anger aside if you were chosen to sit on this panel? Would you be able to base your decision solely on the evidence presented in the courtroom?”

  She frowns, doesn’t answer. Like Mr. Harmon, she seems to be giving it real thought. “I suppose so,” she says at last.

  Geraldine looks at each of us, then rolls her green eyes to the ceiling. Fat chance, she telegraphs.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Rowlands,” the judge says. “You may return to your seat in the jury box now.”

  She stands to leave and Clarence opens the chambers door for her. Geraldine begins her argument before it’s shut. “Meyers and Rowlands,” she says. “For cause.”

  “Harmon,” Harry counters. “For cause.”

  “Meyers is out,” the judge answers. “The other two stay.”

  “But, Judge,” Harry argues, “Harmon thinks the dead guy walk
ed on water. He’s not going to be able to put that aside. I don’t care what he says.”

  The judge shakes his head. “He said he would and I believe him. He went to one Mass two years ago. It’s not enough.”

  “But Rowlands,” Geraldine says. “She’s already made up her mind about every Catholic priest. She told us so.”

  “She also told us she’d decide this case on the evidence presented, nothing else.” Judge Gould stands and gathers his papers. We’re done in here, it seems.

  Harry and Geraldine both start in again, but the judge heads for the door. “If you feel that strongly,” he says to both of them, “use a peremptory.”

  Nobody’s happy. Geraldine storms out behind Judge Gould, Clarence in her wake. Harry gives my shoulder a little squeeze as he passes, his expression grim. Each side will be allowed just three peremptories at the conclusion of voir dire, three opportunities to oust a juror for no stated reason. No lawyer wants to waste a peremptory on a candidate who should be bounced for cause.

  The judge is already on the bench by the time Harry and I reach our table. “Mrs. Meyers,” he says, donning his glasses, “you are excused. Please report to the clerk’s office for further instructions.”

  She stands and leaves the jury box, heads for the center aisle.

  “And Mrs. Meyers…”

  She stops and turns, looks up at Judge Gould. “Thank you,” he says. She nods and continues her retreat.

  “Mr. Harmon and Mrs. Rowlands,” the judge says, “you may return to your seats in the gallery.”

  They both look somewhat surprised as they leave the box and head for the benches. I don’t blame them. Impartiality is a slippery concept. And jury selection is a far cry from an exact science.