Текст книги "False Testimony"

Автор книги: Rose Connors

Соавторы: Rose Connors
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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 interfere 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 walked 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.

Dottie Bearse stands behind her desk, holding what looks like a small fishbowl. She draws consecutive slips of paper from it, reading a name from each, and one by one, fourteen potential jurors file into the box. Harry takes three blank sheets of legal-size paper from his file and hands two of them to me. Holliston looks hostile when I pass one to him with a pen. “It gets hard to keep them all straight after a while,” I explain to him. “You might want to jot down their names and seat numbers.”

His stare suggests I just asked him to draft a doctoral thesis in quantum physics. I turn away from him and face Dottie, who’s delivering copies of the selected jurors’ questionnaires to both tables. I divide my sheet into fourteen squares, each with a seat number, and fill in their names, ages, and occupations as the judge asks them all the boilerplate questions. Does anyone work for law enforcement or have a relative or close friend who does? Has anyone been the victim of a violent crime? Does anyone know someone who has been?

A couple of jurors are excused on the basis of their answers and Dottie pulls two more slips from her fishbowl. Robert Eastman and Alex Doane, both in their midfifties and wearing suits, fill the vacant seats. An investment banker and a nursing home administrator, both are dressed for work, hoping their time spent here today will be short, no doubt. Yes, they heard the questions asked of the others. No, neither of them has anything significant to report.

Judge Gould moves on to the legal standards jurors are expected to honor—the presumption of innocence, the burden of proof, the unanimous verdict. He asks if any of them will have difficulty accepting those parameters. Not a single hand goes up this time. Every last one of them plans to play by the rules. At this stage in the proceedings, most jurors believe they will.

The judge keeps Geraldine and Harry on a short leash as they ask their follow-up questions. In the end, neither of them has a valid challenge for cause as far as I can see, but Geraldine gets to her feet and announces she does. She always says she does. She can’t help herself. “Number eight, Your Honor, for cause.”

Juror number eight is a twenty-seven-year-old lobsterman from Hyannis. He told us in response to Geraldine’s questions that his view of the Catholic Church in general is grim, the result of too many years spent in repressive parochial schools. He also said that view wouldn’t affect his judgment in this case one whit. Geraldine doesn’t have a leg to stand on here. Even she knows that, I think.

Judge Gould apparently thinks likewise. He smiles at her. “Not going to happen, Ms. Schilling.”

She shakes her blond head at the injustice of it all and then exercises her first peremptory. The lobsterman takes his leave and his replacement answers all the preliminary questions. It’s our turn now. “Mr. Madigan?” the judge says.

Harry leans forward on the table and arches his eyebrows at Holliston. It’s routine to solicit opinions from criminal defendants during voir dire. And this particular defendant certainly seems to have some. He takes the pen I gave him earlier, reaches over to my diagram of the jury box, and draws a big X through the Margaret Murphy square. She’s a fourth-grade teacher, an ex-nun.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks. “She’s had some difficulties of her own with the Catholic Church, remember.”

Holliston reaches in front of me again and draws another X on top of the first one. He’s sure.

Harry excuses Margaret Murphy and she looks a little bit hurt as she leaves the box. Dottie pulls another slip from the fishbowl and we repeat the litany with Ms. Murphy’s replacement. Geraldine exercises her second peremptory, dismissing a middle-aged woman from Wellfleet who confessed to a lifelong belief that Catholicism, with all its martyrs and miracles, is nothing more than myth. A tall, slender black man replaces her, a native of Haiti, according to his questionnaire.

Holliston stiffens at once. He grabs my diagram and draws an X through the newest candidate’s box even before he sits down.

“Maybe we should let him answer a question first,” I suggest.

Our client’s stony expression tells me he can’t imagine why I would propose such a thing. He pushes my diagram, with its new X, across the table toward Harry. Harry sighs and closes his eyes, but says nothing. He’s not obligated to follow Holliston’s instructions, of course. But as a practical matter, most criminal defense lawyers honor their clients’ wishes when it comes to jury selection. We’re choosing the decision-makers, after all. And it’s the client who will live with the decision they reach.

Judge Gould walks through the preliminaries with the tall Haitian and then Harry dismisses him. Just like that. Without a single follow-up question. The dismissed juror doesn’t react at all, but the judge does. He sees what’s going on here and he’s appalled, but there’s not a damned thing he can do about it.

The ball is back in Geraldine’s court. She stands but doesn’t say anything, looking down at her table and tapping the eraser end of a pencil against her own hand-drawn diagram of the jury box. The third peremptory is always a difficult call. Pass on it and you give up an opportunity to improve your panel, to get rid of one more candidate who doesn’t feel quite right. Exercise it and you may get stuck with a far worse juror from the gallery.

“Number two,” she says at last. “The Commonwealth respectfully excuses juror number two.”

I’m surprised. Juror number two is a sixty-year-old carpenter from Dennis who told us he views the Catholic Church’s insistence that its priests remain celibate as “abnormal.” Otherwise, though, he has no feelings about the church one way or the other. If I were in Geraldine’s shoes—and I was for many years—I’d keep him. I wouldn’t run the risk of ending up with someone more opinionated in his place.

The carpenter exits and Dottie pulls yet another slip from the dwindling supply in her glass bowl. “Cora Rowlands,” she announces. Geraldine actually groans.

Harry and I twist in our seats to watch the newest candidate approach from the back row. Geraldine turns completely around, her back to the judge, to do the same. No doubt she’s hoping to see a female Rowlands other than the woman we heard from in chambers. Too bad for Geraldine.

Cora nods to each of us as she walks between our tables and then crosses the front of the room to the box, settling in the second seat, front row. The jury box seats are narrower than the chairs in chambers; her pocketbook doesn’t fit between the armrests. She sets it on the floor at her feet and purses her lips, unhappy with the accommodations.

“Your Honor,” Geraldine intones, “the Commonwealth renews its motion to dismiss this juror for cause, based on the content of her comments in chambers.”

Geraldine doesn’t have a prayer. I can’t blame her for trying, though, for attempting to undo the damage she did when she used that last peremptory. We’ve all been there, most of us more than once.

Judge Gould shakes his head. “I’ve already ruled on that, Counsel. And the ruling stands.”

Cora Rowlands looks from the judge to Geraldine, hands clasped on her lap, shoulders erect. Her expression says: So there.

Geraldine pretends she doesn’t notice. I know her, though; she does. She remains on her feet, looking like she has more to say on the matter, even when Judge Gould moves on. He runs quickly through the preliminaries with Cora and then turns his attention to Harry. “Mr. Madigan, anything further?”

Holliston takes his pen and reaches over to my diagram again. He draws an X through the number-one box and another through number seven—opposite ends of the front row—Anthony Laurino and Maria Marzetti. Maria is the woman Holliston identified as a cat-lick as soon as he arrived this morning.

“We don’t get two more,” I tell him. “We get one. Three total.”

He looks at me and his eyebrows fuse. He’s certain I’m lying, it seems, cheating him out of a fair shake.

“Pick one,” I say. “Believe it or not, the Rules of Criminal Procedure aren’t going to change in the next five minutes, not even for you.”

“Hold on,” Harry tells both of us. “This is a mistake. We’ve got a decent panel right now. Why take a chance on making it worse?”

He’s right, of course, but Holliston doesn’t think so. He takes his pen and darkens the X over juror number one. Anthony Laurino must go. It seems an Italian male is even more objectionable than an Italian female. I’ve no idea what rationale is at work here. But I do know our exercise of peremptories bears a frightening resemblance to ethnic cleansing.

Even so, Harry seems prepared to let our client call the shots. These men and women will determine Derrick Holliston’s fate, after all. Harry shakes his head and leans close to me. “Are we forgetting anyone?” he whispers. “I’d hate like hell to leave a left-handed Latvian in the room.” He stands and perfunctorily bounces Anthony Laurino.

After meeting the judge’s less-than-happy stare, Harry drops back into his chair, kneading his temples. The newest dismissed juror doesn’t mind a bit, though. He looks relieved, happy even, as he leaves the courtroom. Dottie draws another slip from the few left in her bowl and announces: “Gregory Harmon.” Harry plants his elbows on the table, buries his face in both hands.

Holliston stares at our final juror, in flannel shirt and work boots, as he walks to the front of the room. When Mr. Harmon settles into the number-one spot in the box, right next to Cora Rowlands, our client clicks his pen and sets it on the table. “There,” he says to no one in particular. “That’s better.”

Chapter 9

For attorneys in the midst of trials—particularly defense attorneys in the midst of criminal trials—lunch breaks have little to do with food. Unless, of course, the attorney is Harry Madigan. We’re at the Piccadilly Deli, waiting for his mega–meatball sub with extra mozzarella and a gallon of Tabasco. We take seats at our usual spot—near the front windows—and slide today’s Cape Cod Times to one side of the table’s mottled red Formica surface. Harry downs a quart of chocolate milk. I sip my coffee and call the office.

The Kydd answers on the third ring. “Marty,” he says as soon as he hears my voice, “this is nuts. We need a secretary.”

He’s right; we do. The three of us have been operating without administrative help for two years now. It’s getting old.

“Well, why didn’t you say so sooner, Kydd? I’ll hire one today. Della Street, if she hasn’t retired yet.”

Harry opened our South Chatham office a couple of years ago, after spending two decades as a public defender. I joined him within weeks, having resigned from a ten-year stint with the District Attorney’s office six months earlier. We recruited Kevin Kydd—then in his second year of practice—right out from under Geraldine’s nose. She’s still sore about it—and with good reason. The Kydd’s a keeper.

“I’m not joking,” he says. “I’ve spent the entire day talking to walk-ins and fielding phone calls. I’m getting zero done here.”

I know how frustrated he is; I’ve been there. But between the substandard hourly rates paid on court appointments and the fee forfeitures we face in drug cases, the office isn’t exactly a cash cow these days. “Hang in there,” I tell him. “We’re hoping to bring an administrative person on board in the new year—part-time, at least.”

A deli worker delivers Harry’s sub to our table—a perk reserved for the regulars—and Harry grabs a second quart of chocolate milk from the cooler. He also takes a cranberry muffin from the basket on top and puts it in front of me, even though he knows better. I don’t eat lunch during trials; my stomach doesn’t allow it. He takes an enormous bite of his foot-long feast and then leans over to read while I jot down a list of the phone calls we’ve missed so far today: eight for him; a half dozen for me.

“And the Senator,” the Kydd says. “He called just before you did.”

“Kendrick?” The question isn’t necessary, of course. There aren’t many senators on my Rolodex.

“How did you know?” The Kydd oozes sincerity. I don’t get away with much in our circle.

“Lucky guess,” I tell him. “What did the good Senator want?”

“He needs to see you. He’s coming in this afternoon.”

“I won’t get back until after five. Probably closer to six.”

“I told him that,” the Kydd answers, “but he insisted. Says it’s important that he see you today.”

“Did he say why?”

“Nope. Once he found out when you’d be back here, he seemed anxious to get off the phone.”

It occurs to me that the Commonwealth’s senior senator is frequently anxious to get off the phone.

“Wish they all felt that way,” the Kydd adds. “Every other joker who calls this joint wants to tell me his life’s story.”

“Have you had lunch?”

Like Harry, the Kydd tends to get pretty cranky when he misses a meal. “Lunch?” he bellows. “I haven’t had time to pour a second cup of coffee. How the hell would I have gotten lunch?”

“Order in,” I tell him. “And put it on the tab.”

Harry and I have an open account with Cape Wok, Chatham’s only Chinese takeout. The food’s pretty good and they deliver. It’s one of our heftier monthly expenses.

“Oh, I get it,” the Kydd says. “Szechwan duck will fix everything. Throw in a little pork fried rice and I won’t mind spending my days in the secretarial pool.”

“Eat,” I tell him. “We’ll see you in a few hours.”

He’s still complaining when I snap my cell phone shut.

Harry swallows the last of his sandwich, drains the milk carton, and then dumps his trash in the bin. I stand to put on my coat, but his stricken expression stops me.

“What?” I ask.

“We can’t leave yet,” he says.

“We can’t?”

“No way.” He carries his empty tray to the counter, exchanges a few words with the clerk, and then hurries back to our table.

“Is there a reason?” I ask.

He unwraps my cranberry muffin, pops a third of it into his mouth, and then leans down to whisper, as if he doesn’t want the other customers to hear. “They have apple pie,” he says at last. “And it’s warm.”