“He admits it,” she says, turning back to face the panel, her finger still inches from Holliston’s face. “He admits stabbing the priest to death. But he wants you to say it’s okay.”
Harry shifts in his seat, one hand on the edge of our table, the other clutching his armrest. She’s inching toward improper territory; he’s preparing to pounce.
“This man,” she says, still pointing, “wants you to say Father Francis Patrick McMahon deserved it.”
Harry explodes as he jumps to his feet. The gavel pounds the desk three times before he finishes the word objection. Judge Gould is a step ahead of him.
The judge is on his feet too. “Attorney Schilling, you know better.” He’s not shouting, exactly, but he’s close. He and Geraldine have a history.
“Move for an instruction, Your Honor.” Harry’s shaking his head at the inadequacy of the remedy even as he asks for it. He’ll get the instruction. But the damage is done. The words can’t be unspoken.
“The jury will disregard the prosecutor’s last comment,” Judge Gould tells the panel, “in its entirety.”
They nod at him, most wearing earnest expressions. They’ll disregard the comment. Or at least they think they will.
The judge sits again, his attention back to Geraldine. “One more remark like that, Counsel, and your opening statement is over.”
“My apologies to the Court, Your Honor.”
Baloney. Her apologies are offered strictly to mollify the jury. Every lawyer in the room knows that, including Judge Gould. “Move on,” he says, frowning at her.
Harry sits as Geraldine walks back toward the panel.
“After Dr. Ramsey testifies,” she says, “you’ll hear from Chatham’s Chief of Police, Thomas Fitzpatrick. He’ll tell you it took a full week to assemble the forensic evidence necessary to file the appropriate charges. Chief Fitzpatrick will tell you this defendant told his tall tale immediately—as soon as the police stormed his apartment. The Chief will also tell you this defendant told no one about the alleged sexual assault until that time. He sought no medical care. He sought no assistance of any kind. An entire week had passed. And he told no one about the trauma he claims to have suffered. Think about that.”
She pauses so they can.
Harry grips the edge of our table, poised to pounce once more. Her job is to give them a road map of the evidence she intends to present, not to argue about what it does or doesn’t mean. Not now, anyway.
“Think about the fact that this defendant”—she points at Holliston yet again, from across the room, and raises her voice for the first time today—“claims he was sexually assaulted by Father McMahon, claims a physical altercation ensued, an altercation so serious he had no choice but to stab the older man in self-defense. Eight times, remember.”
Every juror nods. They remember.
“And then he told no one. For a week.” She plants herself in front of the box and turns to stare at Holliston. He gazes straight ahead, the blank look on his face suggesting he’s unaware she’s talking about him. “He told no one until he was charged with murder. He told no one until he needed an excuse.”
Harry gets to his feet.
Judge Gould holds up both hands, palms out; an objection isn’t necessary. Once again, Geraldine is at the outer boundary of proper opening. The judge doesn’t plan to wait until she steps over it this time. “Counsel,” he says. He removes his glasses and massages the bridge of his nose. “Move on.”
She looks up at him and smiles, as if that’s precisely what she had in mind, but she doesn’t answer. She turns to the panel instead. “And finally,” she says, “you’ll hear from Monsignor Dominic Davis, the pastor of St. Veronica’s Parish.”
Harry drops back into his chair.
Geraldine leans on the rail of the jury box and turns to stare at Holliston yet again. “Monsignor Davis will tell you in no uncertain terms that the defendant’s claims are false. He’ll tell you they’re ridiculous. He’ll tell you Father McMahon never assaulted anyone, sexually or otherwise, in his fifty-seven years of life. The pastor will tell you the deceased was a man of God, a man of principle, a man of peace.”
She turns and walks toward us. “Now I can’t tell you,” she says, “whether or not you will hear from this defendant. He’s under no obligation to testify.” She stops in front of our table, studies Holliston as if he’s a still life, then does a U-turn and walks toward the jurors again. “But I can tell you this: you will hear his story; you will hear his version of the events that transpired in St. Veronica’s sacristy last Christmas Eve. You will hear it even if he doesn’t take the witness stand—because it’s what he told the police officers when he was arrested. His story is part of their report.”
Geraldine Schilling is good at what she does.
“And the rules of evidence dictate that if part of a police report is admitted into evidence, the rest of that report comes in as well—even if part of it was manufactured by the accused. Bear in mind, as you listen to the recitation of events as described by the defendant, that it’s nothing more than that. His recitation. His story. His belated attempt to justify a senseless, vicious murder.”
With that, she nods up at the judge, fires a final glare in Holliston’s direction, and reclaims her seat next to Clarence.
Judge Gould checks the pendulum clock hanging on the wall behind the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “we’ll hear from the defense now. After that, we’ll adjourn for the day. We’ll begin with witnesses in the morning.”
Harry stands, buttons his suit coat, and takes a halfhearted stab at straightening his tie. Holliston gets to his feet as well. I reach up and take hold of his jacket sleeve, to tell him to stay put. This isn’t the seventh-inning stretch, after all.
Holliston shakes my hand away and steps out from behind the table. Harry looks over at him, then down at me, and I shrug. I don’t know what the hell our client’s up to. And then—in a millisecond—I do.
“Siddown, Madigan,” he says as he struts toward the jury box. “You’re fired.”
Chapter 11
Geraldine paces around Judge Gould’s chambers like a woman possessed. She stops short, faces the judge, and plants her hands on her narrow hips. “He can’t do this,” she says, exhaling so hard her blond bangs billow.
She knows better. He can. Like every criminal defendant who’s compos mentis, Derrick Holliston is entitled to represent himself if he so chooses, even if it amounts to tactical suicide. It’s a constitutional guarantee. It’s a judicial headache. And it’s a prosecutorial nightmare.
The newly pro se defendant helped himself to a seat as soon as we filed in here. Two guards keep watch on either side of him, standing just inches from his chair, hands clasped behind their backs, gazes focused on their prisoner. Clarence, Harry, and I are lined up against the side wall. Even Judge Gould is on his feet, leaning against the bookcase behind his desk. “Mr. Holliston,” he says, his tone grave, “I urge you to reconsider.”
Holliston snorts. The judge’s advice seems to rate right up there with Harry’s. “That’s what I did,” he says. “I reconsidered. I don’t want no lawyer. I want the job done right. So I’m gonna do it myself.”
“The ramifications of this decision will follow you for the rest of your life,” the judge tells him. “Taking this step will dramatically increase the likelihood of conviction. And if you are convicted of first-degree murder, you’ll spend the rest of your earthly days behind bars. I’m sure your lawyers have explained that to you.”
Holliston wags a finger at Judge Gould. “Used-to-be lawyers,” he says. “My used-to-be lawyers explained that to me. And I don’t like the idea of spending the rest of my earthly days behind bars.” He imitates the judge’s inflection when he repeats his words. “I don’t like it one bit. That’s why I’m my lawyer now.”