Free False Testimony by Rose Connors Page B

his body was discovered by his pastor.”
    Calvin Ramsey has been Barnstable County’s Medical Examiner for a year and a half. He’s a meticulous scientist, a persuasive witness. His report nails Holliston—to the corpse, to the scene, and to the weapon—six ways from Sunday. The doctor won’t comment on the self-defense claim, of course. He can’t.
    “Dr. Ramsey will also tell you that blood samples taken from the crime scene came from two sources.”
    Geraldine turns her back to the jurors now, and walks slowly across the room to our table. It’s time to point. In every murder trial, there comes a time for the prosecutor to point. And no prosecutor does it more effectively than Geraldine Schilling.
    “Most of it came from the deceased,” she says. “But some, trace amounts, came from this man.”
    Holliston looks directly at her index finger as if he’s staring down the barrel of a shotgun. And he is.
    “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