“Speak only to your attorney,” the judge said to James. “I’m allowing it for now, Ms. Marshall.”
James leaned forward, directing himself to Kyle Richardson, who stood at an angle between himself and Wally Brent.
James said, “The first thing I would say is, ‘Wally, to say that I’ve been alone with you outside the classroom, that we had any kind of personal relationship, is totally untrue, and you know that.
“‘I cared about you, Wally, of course I did. You were a likable kid, and you were frustrated at Mount St. Joseph. I wanted to help you succeed. I did the best I could.’
“I would tell Wally that I am shocked and very angry that he would make up this vicious story that discredits everything I have done in my life and everything I might do in the future. And I would say, ‘You can’t do this, Wally. I don’t deserve it. Take it back.’”
Before the last word had left James’s mouth, a woman in a blue checked dress sitting at the rail right behind the plaintiff’s table jumped to her feet and screamed, “God knows what you have done to my son, James, you snake! You LIAR! You-”
The bailiff reached the woman at the same time Wallace Brent turned in his chair and shouted, “Mom, noooo!”
The courtroom went crazy.
Brent’s mother shouted “You corrupted my boy!” as the bailiffs forcibly moved her out through the doors. The judge hammered his gavel, and the volume got even louder.
Brent’s anguished features as his mother was ejected from the courtroom kind of worked for him. It was as if James’s speech and his mother’s reaction to it had brought back all the suffering he had described to the jury.
I felt heartsick for James, but I also had a moment’s doubt. That was how convincingly Wally’s reaction gripped me. He had all my attention when he pressed his palms to the table and got heavily to his feet.
“Wait a minute, Terry,” he said to his attorney.
“Mr. Brent,” said the judge. “Sit down. You may not speak unless you are on the stand.”
“Terry,” Brent said. “I’ve got something to say.”
Chapter 78
EVERY EYE in the courtroom was focused on Wallace Brent.
His posture was awkward, his face was red, and his breathing was labored. I thought maybe he was about to go into cardiac arrest.
He looked across the well toward the witness box and called out, “Father Aubrey, I have something to say.”
Say what? Was he going to hurl more disgusting accusations at James?
Judge Fiore said to Ms. Marshall, “Counselor, control your client, or I will have him removed.”
Ms. Marshall snapped, “Wally. Sit.”
And, like the big dog he was, he did it-reluctantly.
Fiore asked Richardson if he had anything else for the witness, and Richardson said that he did not. Fiore told James to stand down and Wally Brent to retake the stand.
Judge Fiore said, “You are still under oath, Mr. Brent. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
Marshall approached her client with a little less pep in her step.
She said, “Mr. Brent, what is it that you want to say?”
Brent wiped his boyish face with his jacket sleeve and then looked across the well to James.
“Father Aubrey,” Brent said, “I’m the liar. When you flunked me, I held that against you. I didn’t get into college, and it was easy to blame you for that, too. I make crap for money now, and I read that settlements in these kinds of cases can be over-the-top, and I thought, ‘Yeah. Aubrey owes me.’
“But you don’t. If I go to hell for doing this, that’s not your fault, either. You never touched me. I’m sorry I made all this trouble for you. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but for what it’s worth, I am truly, truly sorry. I mean…”
Brent sagged forward and, raising his hands to his face, broke into sobs so heavy, they echoed like an oncoming train.
The judge slammed the gavel, shouting, “Order! Everyone! Quiet!”
James spoke from his seat at the defense table. “Wally, I understand. I understand, Wally. I forgive you as a man of God.”
The judge again made an attempt to establish order, but the commotion in the gallery overwhelmed even the sharp crack of his gavel. Fiore threw up his hands, and I heard him say over the noise, “Stand down, Mr. Brent. Case dismissed.”
Chaos ruled as the jury was released through a side door and the spectators scrambled for the exits.
I opened the gate and ran to James. His face was bright with relief. He stretched out his arms, and I hugged him. I felt a rush of energy flow between us, unlike anything I had felt before.
Honestly, it scared me.
“James, you won,” I said with my face pressed against his shoulder. “I’m so happy for you. Thank God this is over.”
Chapter 79
JAMES PUT his hand at my waist and guided me through the surging throng inside the courthouse and out to the street. Gleaming black limos waited for us at the curb and minutes later delivered us to Kyle Richardson’s office at Park Plaza.
There were buckets of champagne on ice in the glass-walled conference room in the sky where, only weeks before, Cardinal Cooney had tried to bully James into confessing to a crime he didn’t commit.
The room filled with giddy lawyers and staff until there was standing room only. Richardson toasted James, and James returned the toast with a wholehearted thanks to the entire team for believing in him. And he thanked me, too.
“Friends, if you don’t know her, this is Brigid Fitzgerald. She introduced me to Kyle and hung in, believing in me and supporting me throughout this awful ordeal. Brigid, you’ve done a wonderful thing here. I can’t thank you enough.”
I waved away the compliment as a young associate came into the room with the latest headlines on his phone.
“Everyone, listen up,” he said. “This is the Globe quoting His Eminence Cardinal Brian Cooney. ‘We thank the Lord that Father Aubrey was acquitted. We have always believed in his innocence and forgive his accuser. We pray Wallace Brent will seek forgiveness from God.’”
The hypocrisy was dazzling, and Richardson nailed it, saying, “What bullshit.”
A hundred people applauded.
An hour later, James and I tripped down the stairs to St. Paul’s basement, where the congregation had pulled together an impressive spread of food and drink in the brightly lit, low-ceilinged room.
James made a short, heartfelt speech about friends and faith and closed by saying, “Thank you all for believing in me. It means so much.”
Men and women crowded him, hugged him, and told him that they never doubted him. We drank wine from Styrofoam cups and ate home-baked sugar cookies, and after the last well-wishers called out their good-byes, James invited me to the rectory.
“I really need to feed my poor cat,” he said.
While James fed Birdie and changed out of his suit, I plopped onto the sofa. I kicked off my shoes and leaned back so that I could really take in the quaint painting over the mantel of Jesus carrying the lamb.
I must have dozed off, because I started when James came into the sitting room. He wore khakis and a blue shirt, and his hair was wet. There was a look on his face that I couldn’t quite read.
He was nervous, I saw that, but I had no idea why. He pulled a chair up to the sofa, sat in it with his hands clasped in his lap, and said, “Brigid, now that I’m free of this trial, I want to tell you my plans.”
Plans? What plans?
“Don’t hold back,” I said. “You know my shock threshold is quite high.” I put my hand above my head.
He grinned.
“Okay. I’m leaving St. Paul’s. After the way the archdiocese treated me, I just can’t be their kind of priest any longer.”