False Testimony (14 page)

It’s almost nine by the time Harry and I pull up to my Windmill Lane cottage. A candy-apple Mustang is parked behind Luke’s pickup in our newly shoveled driveway. Harry whistles and strolls around it as soon as we get out of the Jeep, and then he points out the Harvard bumper sticker. “Looks like your son has a visitor,” he says, shaking his head. “Damn, that guy’s doing something right.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “You saw his heartthrob,” he says. “And she drives
this
to boot
.
”

I stare at him.

“This isn’t one of the new ones,” he tells me, examining the car again. “This baby is restored—vintage.”

I’m feeling a bit vintage myself at the moment.

“I wonder if she has trouble getting parts,” he adds.

I continue to stare. I’m not about to discuss Abby Kendrick’s parts. Certainly not with Harry. He runs one gloved hand along the hood and chuckles. “That Luke,” he says, “I’ve got to hand it to him. He’s doing something right.”

“So you mentioned.”

Harry looks up all of a sudden, his eyes wide, as if he’d forgotten I was here until just now. “Of course,” he says in a professorial tone, “I prefer a more
mature
woman myself.”

“You’re not helping your cause.” I head for the back stairs.

“Preferably with a not-so-high-maintenance car,” he says to my back.

“Give it up, Harry.”

“With extremely high mileage,” he calls after me.

“
Not
helping.”

“And a low-to-the-ground chassis.”

We’re laughing uncontrollably by the time we spill through the kitchen door, more from fatigue than anything else. Harry pours a glass of Sancerre for me and opens a Heineken for himself, while I slice a loaf of French bread and take a wheel of Camembert and a bag of green grapes from the refrigerator. Not until we go into the living room do I realize it’s dimly lit. My son has taken a stab at ambiance. A first, as far as I know.

A floor lamp in the far corner is on its lowest setting and two tapered candles flicker on the coffee table. The only other light in the room is the glow behind the glass doors of the woodstove. Abby Kendrick is seated on the couch, flanked by Luke and Danny Boy, and it’s tough to tell which of them is more smitten. Danny Boy’s tail wags when he sees me, thumps harder when Harry comes into the room, but he doesn’t budge from Abby’s side. “I’m going to remember this,” Harry tells him, “the next time you want your ears scratched.”

Luke flips on the light by the couch as soon as we join them. No need for ambiance now that Harry and I are here. I’m surprised he doesn’t blow out the candles. “Harry,” he says, “this is Abby Kendrick.”

Harry shakes her hand. “Hello, Abby,” he says. “We were just admiring your Mustang. It’s a beauty.”

I arch my eyebrows at him. He must be using the royal
we
.

“And you know my mom,” Luke says to Abby.

“Yeah.” She smiles at me as I set the fruit and cheese platter on the coffee table. “We met the other day.”

Luke was surprised—and a little bit worried, I think—when I told him I’d met Abby on Tuesday morning. I’m pretty sure he was wondering if I’d said anything he should be embarrassed about, but he had the good sense to keep his concern to himself. “You two are in early,” I say as I sink into one of the overstuffed chairs facing the couch.

“Yeah,” Luke says, “we were thinking about watching a movie, but there’s not much on.” He picks up the remote and hits the power button, as if he needs to prove it. An acid reflux ad extinguishes what little ambiance was left in the room.

“You have trouble finding parts for that thing?” Harry asks Abby. He’s a one-issue candidate sometimes.

She shakes her head. “My dad knows a guy in Southie,” she says, “who services it for us. He never seems to have any trouble finding parts.”

Southie is South Boston. If you know the right guy in Southie, you can get just about anything.

Abby looks like she has more to say on the matter of Mustang parts, but her eyes dart to the TV behind me and she stops talking. Harry and I both turn to see what’s caught her eye. Bold print in the center of the screen says
BREAKING NEWS:
UPDATE ON THE HOUR
. A banner at the top says
BODY OF SENATE AIDE FOUND IN CAPE COD WATERS
.

“On Cape Cod today,” a familiar Boston anchorwoman says, “the body of Michelle Forrester, the Senate aide who’s been missing since Thursday, was found in the shallows of Pleasant Bay, off the coast of Chatham. More at eleven.”

“Jesus,”
Luke says.

The color drains from Abby’s face. “Did you know?” she asks me.

I nod. “We heard about it this afternoon.”

“Does my father know?”

“Yes,” I say. “He just left our office.”

“How is he?”

“He’s upset,” I tell her honestly. “Like everyone else involved, he’s extremely upset.”

“I’m sorry,” she says to Luke, “but I should go. My dad must be a mess.”

She’s right about that.

“And my mother,” she adds. “Oh, God.”

“Okay,” Luke says. “Sure. I’ll walk you out.”

Harry and I are quiet as they put on their coats and head for the kitchen door. “That’ll be interesting,” Harry says as it shuts behind them.

“What will?”

“The dynamic in the Kendrick household tonight,” he says. “You saw Chuck in the conference room. He’s not going to be able to hide his pain, not even from his wife.” He runs his hands through his tangled hair. “What in God’s name does it feel like to watch your spouse grieve his dead lover?”

I shake my head at him. I hope I never know.

Danny Boy leaves the couch, trots across the room, and rests his grayish-red head on Harry’s knees. “Oh,
now
you know who I am,” Harry says. He’s a pushover, though; he scratches Danny Boy’s ears anyway.

“You know,” Harry says, abandoning one ear long enough to point at the front window, toward the driveway, “if things work out here, you could land yourself some influential in-laws.”

“Please,” I say, “don’t go there.”

“Just think,” he says to Danny Boy, “we could be eating our Thanksgiving dinners with a
senator’s
family.”

Danny Boy’s tail thumps against the living room floor; he must be a Democrat. I hate to disappoint him, but my head hurts when I even
try
to imagine Thanksgiving dinner with Honey Kendrick. Coffee was complicated enough. “I don’t think so,” I tell Harry. “There’s not enough Valium on the planet.”

“Think we interrupted?” he asks, pointing toward the driveway again.

“Interrupted what?”

He doesn’t answer; he just does the Groucho Marx thing with his eyebrows.

“Never mind,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I asked.”

The kitchen door slams and Luke appears in the living room doorway a few seconds later. He looks serious, worried even, but his eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed. And something tells me it’s not just the winter wind that accounts for his high coloring. He points toward the road out front, toward the fading sound of Abby Kendrick’s candy-apple coupe. “Is she great,” he says eagerly, looking from Harry to me, “or what?”

Monsignor Dominic Davis is in full Roman Catholic regalia—Geraldine’s brainchild, no doubt. I’m not a member of the flock, but I’ve met enough priests in my day to know they don’t
always
sport ankle-length robes and pastel accessories. The Monsignor’s skullcap and waistband are a pinkish purple, and a matching sash on his right side flows to the hem of his black linen cassock. I catch Geraldine’s eye and frown over the finery. A black suit with a simple Roman collar would have done the job.

Geraldine ignores me. She stands beside Monsignor Davis and beams at him as he raises his right hand, places his left on the Holy Bible, and takes the oath. “Your Eminence,” she says as he sits, “please state your full name and occupation for the record.”

Harry turns to me, his hazel eyes as wide as they get, as the priest introduces himself to the jurors. “Your
what
?” he whispers.

“Don’t look at me,” I tell him. “I’m among the unsaved.”

“And how long have you served as the pastor at St. Veronica’s Parish?” Geraldine asks.

“Eight years,” the witness says. “I was stationed in New Bedford before that, at the Church of St. Peter the Apostle.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence.” Geraldine glows again, as if her witness just provided us all with vital information. “Now, in the course of your service at St. Veronica’s, did you come to know the Reverend Francis Patrick McMahon?”

“I did,” he answers.

“Tell us about your getting to know each other, if you will, Your Eminence.”

Harry turns to me and rolls his eyes farther back in his head than I’d have thought possible. I can’t blame him; Geraldine’s laying it on pretty thick. “I’m going to object like hell,” he says, “as soon as she kisses his ring.”

“Frank—Father McMahon—was already stationed at St. Veronica’s when I was named pastor,” Monsignor Davis says. “He’d been there five years at that point, stayed on another seven, until his death a year ago.” The Monsignor shifts in the witness box and looks toward our table for the first time, his gaze settling on Derrick Holliston. The priest’s dark brown eyes are heavily lashed and unusually wide. They convey not a shred of reproach, but Holliston twists in his chair and stares at the side wall anyway.

“How many priests serve St. Veronica’s Parish?” Geraldine asks.

“Two,” he says. “We have plenty of visiting priests who help out during the summer months, when our Sunday Mass schedule triples, but only two of us are stationed there year-round.”

“So am I correct in presuming, Your Eminence, that you and Father McMahon got to know each other fairly well during the seven years you served together?”

“We did,” he says, turning his attention back to the jury. “Frank and I came to be great friends.”

“Tell us about him,” she says.

Harry’s on his feet, headed for the bench. “Your Honor,” he says, “I hate to interrupt my Sister Counsel.”

His Sister Counsel knows better; there are few sports Harry enjoys more. She pivots and scowls at him.

“But I have to ask the court to set some parameters here,” he says.

Judge Gould nods. Every lawyer in the room knows Harry’s right—even Geraldine. Technically, this witness shouldn’t be on the stand more than five minutes; he has precious little to say that’s relevant. Since we’ve put the self-defense claim into play, he’s entitled to opine that Father McMahon wasn’t a violent man, that he had no propensity toward assault, sexual or otherwise. Beyond that, the dead priest’s character is of no import. Murder is murder, whether the deceased was a nice guy or not.

Geraldine isn’t happy with Harry’s request, though, and she doesn’t give a damn that he’s right. Technical considerations notwithstanding, she’d like to keep the priest in the witness box all day. If the jurors like him, if they conclude he’s a decent, moral man, they’re likely to presume the same of his late colleague.

“Counselor,” the judge says to her, “narrow your question, please.”

She will, but not before she throws her hands in the air and shakes her blond head at the jurors. She’s hamstrung, she’s telling them. These two less-than-reasonable men are preventing her from telling the story as it should be told.

Harry backs up to our table, watching her performance, and remains standing in front of his chair. No point in sitting down again until he hears the new question.

Geraldine turns and smiles at him. “Where is Father McMahon buried?” she asks, still looking at Harry. He drops into his seat and sighs. The question is narrow, after all. It’s also irrelevant, but an objection would be pointless.

“Behind the church,” the witness answers. “There’s a small cemetery back there, a dozen or so ancient graves clustered around a statue of Saint Veronica. Frank used to go out there in all sorts of weather to say his Divine Office.”

Geraldine’s eyebrows arch before she turns back to her witness. “Divine Office, Your Eminence?”

Harry stirs beside me but he doesn’t stand. Again, the question is irrelevant but harmless. Harry Madigan is good at choosing his courtroom battles; Catholicism questions are fights he can forfeit.

“Canonical prayers,” Monsignor Davis explains to the jurors, “prayers we priests recite every day. Frank liked to say his out behind the church. He seemed to find peace there, amid the centuries-old graves and the image of our parish’s patron.”

“Ah, Saint Veronica.” Geraldine’s somber expression suggests the witness just raised a critical point. “Tell us about her.”

Judge Gould looks toward Harry, no doubt wondering how long he plans to let this line of questioning continue. When their eyes meet, they both cover their mouths quickly, using fake coughs to camouflage unexpected laughs. Between the two of them, they’ve handled every thug in the county, but neither has the chutzpah to bounce a lady saint from the courtroom. I lean into Harry and cluck like a chicken. Still he keeps his laughter in check, but his face turns beet-red from the effort.

“Veronica Giuliani,” the Monsignor says, “a remarkable woman. She was born in Mercatello, a small village in Italy, in 1660. At seventeen, she joined the convent—the Poor Clares—against her wealthy father’s wishes, I might add. Two decades later she received the stigmata.”

“The stigmata?” Geraldine sounds like she just can’t wait to find out what that’s all about.

“Think our District Attorney is planning to convert?” Harry whispers.

“Only if they let her be the Pope,” I tell him.

“Yes,” the Monsignor says, “an amazing phenomenon. Historically, certain saints and blessed persons became known as stigmatics. They developed wounds—physical markings—that mirrored those inflicted upon Jesus Christ at the crucifixion. Veronica’s stigmata met with a great deal of skepticism at first, as most of them did. But the Church conducted an extensive investigation and, after years of inquiry, determined there was every reason to believe her wounds were the result of divine action. Theologians have documented three hundred and twenty-one such cases since the thirteenth century. The first was Francis of Assisi.”

Judge Gould looks like he’s about ready to put a stop to all this, but Harry speaks up first. “Hey, Francis of Assisi,” he says, as if the witness just mentioned a mutual childhood friend. “He’s the animal guy.”

The jurors all chuckle and Monsignor Davis does too. “That’s right,” he says, smiling at Harry. “Saint Francis is well known as the patron saint of animals.”

Geraldine looks perturbed. No prosecutor wants levity injected into a murder trial, not even a few seconds of it. She’s hard-pressed to complain, though. She led us down this path, after all.

“Ms. Schilling,” the judge says, “I think we’ve gone pretty far afield here. Let’s get back to the matter at hand, shall we?”

“Certainly, Your Honor.” She sounds unusually agreeable, relieved even. Exploring the vagaries of Catholicism was fun until Harry piped up. “Your Eminence,” she says, “tell us what you remember about last Christmas Eve.”

Harry tenses beside me. Geraldine’s not in foul territory yet, but she’s batting in that direction.

“Well,” the Monsignor says, “Frank and I always took turns celebrating the Christmas Vigil Mass. Last year was his turn.” The priest pauses, looks out at the gallery, and shakes his head; for the first time since he took the stand, he looks sad, forlorn even. “Sometimes I wish it had been mine.”

Geraldine waits while her witness pours a glass of water and sips.

“In any event,” he says, “whichever one of us wasn’t celebrating the Vigil always came over to help out with Communion. We normally have quite a large turnout on Christmas Eve. I helped Frank last year, and then went back across the street, to the rectory.” He shakes his head again, his eyes lowered to his lap this time. “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret it. Things might have turned out differently if I’d stayed.”

He’s right, of course. Things almost certainly would have turned out differently if he’d stayed. If Holliston’s telling the truth, the presence of a third party would have nixed any amorous advances, real or imagined. If Holliston’s lying, the two-to-one ratio might have scared him off, forced him to stalk an alternate quarry. But if Holliston had his heart set on going home with the Christmas Eve collection no matter what, St. Veronica’s Parish probably would have ended up with two dead priests.

“But you went back to the chapel again later, is that right?” Geraldine turns away from the witness and walks slowly toward us, staring at Holliston and silently inviting the jurors to do likewise.

“I did,” Monsignor Davis says. “Mass had started at seven. We’d finished with Holy Communion just before eight. Frank would’ve given the final blessing a few minutes after that. When he wasn’t back at the rectory by nine, I went across the street to see what was keeping him.”

“Were you worried?” Geraldine asks.

The Monsignor shakes his head. “Not at all,” he says. “I fully expected to find Frank relaxed in one of the back pews, chewing the fat with a parishioner. That was his way; he always had time for a heart-to-heart or a good yarn.”

“So what made you check on him?”

The Monsignor shrugs. “I figured I’d join them,” he says, “Frank and whatever parishioner was enjoying a Christmas Eve visit with him.”

Geraldine pauses, clasps her hands behind her back, and takes a deep breath. “Tell us, Your Eminence, what you found when you returned to the chapel that night.”

Harry’s up. “Absolutely not,” he says.

Judge Gould nods; he knows what Harry’s about to say. And he agrees. Geraldine has a half dozen graphic crime scene photographs in evidence. She doesn’t get a verbal description as well.

“It’s cumulative,” Harry continues. “It’s out of the question.”

Monsignor Davis looks surprised. This is the first time he’s heard Harry raise his voice.

“That’s nonsense,” Geraldine counters. “The Monsignor’s entitled to tell us what he found when he went back to the church.”

“No, he’s not.” Harry’s directly in front of the judge, pointing back at Geraldine. “Not after she introduced multiple photographs of the scene. At this point, the prejudicial impact of this testimony far outweighs its probative value. It has no probative value. It’s nothing but repetitive.”

Judge Gould continues to nod. “Sustained,” he says. “Monsignor Davis, please disregard the District Attorney’s last question.”

“Whatever you say,” the witness answers.

“Ms. Schilling,” the judge adds, “move on.”

She gives another short performance for the jury—another thrust of her arms and shake of her head—and then plasters a resigned expression on her face. The judge has left her with no alternative; she’ll have to get to the proper questions now. “Your Eminence,” she says, “are you aware that the defendant in this case has raised a self-defense claim?”

“I am,” he says. “I’m aware of that through your office.” The Monsignor delivers his answer to Geraldine, but she’s not looking at him. She’s continuing her slow journey toward us, staring at Derrick Holliston’s profile.

“You’re aware, are you not, Your Eminence, that the defendant claims Father Francis Patrick McMahon made inappropriate sexual contact with him, that Father Francis Patrick McMahon became violent when his advances were rejected, so violent, in fact, that this defendant had no choice but to fight for his own life?”

The Monsignor is quiet for a moment, apparently unsure who he should speak to now that Geraldine is on the other side of the room. “I am,” he says to the jurors. “I’m aware of those claims, all of them.”

Geraldine stops smack in front of Holliston and turns to face the witness again. All outward appearances suggest she’s completely calm, relaxed even, but I know better. She’s on an adrenaline high. She doesn’t say a word until the room falls silent. “Now I ask you, Your Eminence,” she says quietly, “based upon your knowledge of Father Francis Patrick McMahon, based upon your knowledge of his character, based upon your observations of his conduct with third parties, based upon the totality of your experience with him, are this defendant’s claims credible?”

Geraldine didn’t point at Derrick Holliston until she said the last phrase, an extraordinary exercise of willpower on her part.

Monsignor Davis doesn’t answer right away. He looks at the jurors, one at a time, as he seems to search for words. “They’re not,” he says at last. “They’re simply not.”