“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 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.