The plaintiff’s attorney, Terry Marshall, was a woman in her thirties, trim, well dressed, with shoulder-length dark hair. She stepped smartly and pivoted like a circus pony as she questioned her next witness, Andrew Snelling, a former colleague of James’s who had worked at Mount St. Joseph at the time of the made-up-for-profit crime.
Snelling was a beak-nosed priest of about forty who grinned inappropriately, his eyes darting around the courtroom as he told the court, “I always thought Aubrey was guilty of something.”
He was going for a laugh, but he didn’t get it.
Richardson jumped to his feet and snapped, “Objection, Your Honor. Speculative, irrelevant, and improper character evidence.”
“Sustained,” said Judge Fiore. “Clerk, please strike the witness’s last remark. The jury will disregard. Father Snelling, facts only, please.”
It was one small point for our side, the first of the day. Terry Marshall had no further questions for Snelling, and Kyle Richardson cross-examined him, asking, “Did you ever see James act in a sexual way toward Mr. Brent?”
Snelling had to admit, “I never actually saw anything with my own eyes.” But the tone and the sordid implications remained like the odor of rotting garbage.
“I have nothing further,” said Richardson, and with that, Marshall stood up and told the judge, “We rest our case.”
When James turned to his attorney, I saw from his expression that all of the plaintiff’s blows had landed. I was worried for James and couldn’t do a damned thing to help him.
That hurt.
Chapter 76
AT HALF past noon, court recessed for lunch.
I went down to the street and saw just how crazy it had gotten outside Suffolk County Superior Court. A restless, chanting mob filled Pemberton Square, clearly enraged by what they had read in the media. James Aubrey, yet another priest, was accused of committing obscene acts with a child. And they just knew he was guilty.
Signs with vile words and James’s face scrawled in black marker pen bobbed over the heads of the riotous crowd. TV news outlets interviewed the loudest, angriest protesters.
I texted James: Courage. The truth will out.
He didn’t reply.
I leaned against the courthouse wall and surfed the news with my phone. The stats of priests found guilty of child abuse were all there on the front pages, including one that claimed that 98 percent of sexual-abuse allegations against Catholic priests were found to be true.
The Boston Globe had scooped the original, shocking priest child-abuse scandal and had a proprietary interest in the subject.
Today, the Globe had profiled the “victim,” Wallace Brent, peppering the piece with ugly quotes from Brent himself. It was disgusting, disgraceful, and the media found it irresistible.
At 2:15, I was back inside courtroom 6F, where the trial began again, this time with Kyle Richardson presenting James’s case.
First up was a grade-school registrar who testified that Wallace Brent had lied about his salary and address in order to get his kids into their private school.
The next witness testified that Brent had lied about the extent of his injuries in a car accident, received a whopping settlement, and had later been photographed snowmobiling.
A third witness, a bank VP, told the court that Brent had forged a college transcript and that he was stunned to learn that, in fact, Brent hadn’t gone to college at all.
Brent was being revealed as not just a liar, but a hard-core, long-term fabricator. At least, that was how I saw it.
Having taken a few shots at Brent’s character, Richardson called character witnesses to speak for James.
Father Harry Stanton had been the dean of students at Mount St. Joseph ten years before. There was a respectful hush in the courtroom as the stately old gentleman took the stand.
When he’d been sworn in and seated, Dean Stanton detailed James’s five years at the school, describing him as a highly regarded and inspirational history teacher. He was a good witness, but his testimony was dry, and the jurors looked bored.
Three sterling members of the St. Paul’s congregation took the stand in succession to say that they would trust James with their money, their wives, their children, and their secrets.
I grew increasingly hopeful that these testimonies were helping James, but the plaintiff’s attorney repeatedly responded, “No questions for the witness, Your Honor.”
This dismissive rejoinder was meant to convey to the jurors that the testimonies of Richardson’s witnesses were meaningless, as none of these people could support James’s claim that he had never touched Wally Brent.
As promised by Cardinal Cooney, no one from the archdiocese testified for James.
The third day was coming to a close when James leaned toward his attorney and whispered to him from behind his hand. Whatever he was saying, Richardson wasn’t going for it.
He shook his head and said, “No, I don’t agree.”
The judge asked what was going on, and Richardson stood up and said, “My client would like to testify in his own defense.”
Fiore asked James if he understood that he was not required to testify and that the jury was not permitted to make any inference or draw any conclusion if he didn’t testify.
James said, “I understand, Your Honor. I need to be heard.”
“Well, Mr. Richardson,” said the judge, “call your client to the stand.”
Chapter 77
JAMES WORE a black suit with his priest’s collar and had brushed his sandy-blond hair back from his face. When he got to his feet, he flicked his gaze toward me, and I nodded my encouragement. I saw the new creases in his forehead and tightness around his eyes and mouth.
He couldn’t hide what this trial was doing to him.
He crossed the thirty-foot distance between the defense table and the witness box, placed his hand on the Bible, and, after being sworn in by the bailiff, took the stand.
Kyle Richardson approached James and asked preliminary questions. Then he said, “Father Aubrey, is it okay for me to call you James?”
“Of course.”
“How do you know the plaintiff?”
“He was a student of mine ten years ago.”
“Have you spoken with him since that time?”
“After I was notified that Wally was taking me to court, I called him and asked him why he was doing this.”
“Did he answer you?”
“He told me to speak with his lawyer.”
“Okay, then, James. Ten years ago, when Mr. Brent was in your tenth-grade history class, did you have occasion to see him after class?”
“I did.”
“Could you describe the nature of these meetings?”
“Sure. Wally was having trouble with reading comprehension. We went over the assignments, and I showed him how the text was organized, how each part had a beginning, a middle, and an end, how the parts related to the whole. But he couldn’t grasp it. He needed more than I could give him. I suggested he take a remedial reading course, but I don’t believe that he followed through.”
“And did you have any social relationship with him?”
“Absolutely not,” James said.
“And his testimony that you had inappropriate physical contact with him about a dozen times during his sophomore year at Mount St. Joseph?”
James snapped, “There’s no truth to it at all.”
“Any idea why Mr. Brent would make up such a story?”
James said, “No idea at all. I’ve never had a personal relationship with Wally Brent, as God is my witness.”
Richardson nodded and said, “Now, we all know you can’t address Mr. Brent directly, but if you could, what would you say to him?”
Terry Marshall was on her feet in a flash, shouting, “Objection, Your Honor!”