False Testimony: A Crime Novel

by Rose Connors

  “Were you worried?” Geraldine asks.

  The Monsignor shakes his head. “Not at all,” he says. “I fully expected to find Frank relaxed in one of the back pews, chewing the fat with a parishioner. That was his way; he always had time for a heart-to-heart or a good yarn.”

  “So what made you check on him?”

  The Monsignor shrugs. “I figured I’d join them,” he says, “Frank and whatever parishioner was enjoying a Christmas Eve visit with him.”

  Geraldine pauses, clasps her hands behind her back, and takes a deep breath. “Tell us, Your Eminence, what you found when you returned to the chapel that night.”

  Harry’s up. “Absolutely not,” he says.

  Judge Gould nods; he knows what Harry’s about to say. And he agrees. Geraldine has a half dozen graphic crime scene photographs in evidence. She doesn’t get a verbal description as well.

  “It’s cumulative,” Harry continues. “It’s out of the question.”

  Monsignor Davis looks surprised. This is the first time he’s heard Harry raise his voice.

  “That’s nonsense,” Geraldine counters. “The Monsignor’s entitled to tell us what he found when he went back to the church.”

  “No, he’s not.” Harry’s directly in front of the judge, pointing back at Geraldine. “Not after she introduced multiple photographs of the scene. At this point, the prejudicial impact of this testimony far outweighs its probative value. It has no probative value. It’s nothing but repetitive.”

  Judge Gould continues to nod. “Sustained,” he says. “Monsignor Davis, please disregard the District Attorney’s last question.”

  “Whatever you say,” the witness answers.

  “Ms. Schilling,” the judge adds, “move on.”

  She gives another short performance for the jury—another thrust of her arms and shake of her head—and then plasters a resigned expression on her face. The judge has left her with no alternative; she’ll have to get to the proper questions now. “Your Eminence,” she says, “are you aware that the defendant in this case has raised a self-defense claim?”

  “I am,” he says. “I’m aware of that through your office.” The Monsignor delivers his answer to Geraldine, but she’s not looking at him. She’s continuing her slow journey toward us, staring at Derrick Holliston’s profile.

  “You’re aware, are you not, Your Eminence, that the defendant claims Father Francis Patrick McMahon made inappropriate sexual contact with him, that Father Francis Patrick McMahon became violent when his advances were rejected, so violent, in fact, that this defendant had no choice but to fight for his own life?”

  The Monsignor is quiet for a moment, apparently unsure who he should speak to now that Geraldine is on the other side of the room. “I am,” he says to the jurors. “I’m aware of those claims, all of them.”

  Geraldine stops smack in front of Holliston and turns to face the witness again. All outward appearances suggest she’s completely calm, relaxed even, but I know better. She’s on an adrenaline high. She doesn’t say a word until the room falls silent. “Now I ask you, Your Eminence,” she says quietly, “based upon your knowledge of Father Francis Patrick McMahon, based upon your knowledge of his character, based upon your observations of his conduct with third parties, based upon the totality of your experience with him, are this defendant’s claims credible?”

  Geraldine didn’t point at Derrick Holliston until she said the last phrase, an extraordinary exercise of willpower on her part.

  Monsignor Davis doesn’t answer right away. He looks at the jurors, one at a time, as he seems to search for words. “They’re not,” he says at last. “They’re simply not.”

  Geraldine doesn’t move. Her index finger is still in Derrick Holliston’s face, and she keeps it there while the Monsignor’s words resonate through the silent courtroom. Finally, she drops her hand to her side and looks at Harry. “Your witness,” she says.

  Harry stands and smooths his suit coat, then walks toward the witness box, pointing a pen at its occupant. “No disrespect intended here,” he says, “but I’m going to have trouble with this ‘Your Emperor’ thing.”

  “Your Honor!” Geraldine’s on her feet, but Harry keeps going.

  “Any reason I can’t just call you Monsignor?”

  Most of the jurors laugh now. Even Judge Gould struggles to suppress a smile. Dominic Davis wears his openly. “None at all,” he says. “Monsignor will do nicely.”

  Geraldine shakes her head and drops back into her chair.

  “Now about Veronica Giuliani,” Harry says, “is she related to Rudy?”

  More laughter, from the gallery, from the jury box, even from the bench. Geraldine is beside herself. There’s not a hell of a lot she can do about it, though. She’s the one who dragged Veronica into this in the first place.

  “Could be.” Monsignor Davis seems intrigued by the idea. “If the mayor were to trace his family tree back far enough, he might just bump into her.”

  Harry laughs. “So maybe old Rudy’s related to a saint?”

  The Monsignor takes a moment to consider and then smiles. “God calls each and every one of us to be a saint,” he says.

  Harry scratches his head. “I must’ve been out,” he says. “And the big guy didn’t leave a message.”

  “Your Honor, please.” Geraldine’s on her feet. “This is far beyond the scope of direct. My Brother Counsel is out of line.”

  Harry turns to face her. He looks offended. “Not so,” he says. “I didn’t know Veronica’s last name until you, Sister Counsel, brought it to my attention. I’m entitled to explore.”

  Judge Gould leans forward on the bench and peers down at both of them over the tops of his dark-framed glasses. He looks like a frustrated parent dealing with perpetually bickering children. Gives a whole new meaning to the “Brother/Sister Counsel” phenomenon. “Mr. Madigan,” he says, “I’m afraid your theological pursuits, admirable though they may be, will have to wait until another day, sir. Move on.”

  Harry feigns abject disappointment before turning back to the witness. “Monsignor Davis,” he says, “the collection money disappeared last Christmas Eve, didn’t it?”

  “It did.”

  “Any estimate on how much money vanished?”

  The Monsignor shrugs. “Our parishioners are quite generous all year round,” he says, “but never more so than at Christmas and Easter. Most years the Vigil collection brings in more than a thousand dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Harry says, “to have erased from your operating budget without warning.”

  “It is,” the priest agrees.

  “Anything else disappear that night?”

  Monsignor Davis nods. “The monstrance,” he says. “The holy monstrance was taken from the altar, the consecrated host within it.”

  “Yesterday afternoon, Monsignor, we heard testimony from Chatham’s Chief Fitzpatrick.”

  The witness nods again.

  “He told us you discovered Father McMahon’s body in the sacristy last Christmas Eve, called the police, and then noticed the empty collection basket. Do you agree with that sequence of events?”

  “I do,” the priest says. “That’s exactly how it happened.”

  “When did you notice the monstrance was missing?”

  The question is perfectly proper, but Geraldine gets to her feet anyway. She does this frequently. It’s her “I don’t have an objection yet but give me a minute and I’ll sure as hell come up with one” stance.

  “Right away,” Monsignor Davis says. “As soon as I entered the church, I saw that the altar was empty. I thought maybe Frank had taken the monstrance to the sacristy to polish it up a bit. Sometimes it gets smudged when we handle it, when we transfer it from its usual home in the Holy Tabernacle.”

  “When you called the police, did you mention the monstrance?”

  “No.” The Monsignor shakes his head. “I don’t remember what I said, to tell you the truth, but I’m certa
in I spoke of nothing but Frank.”

  “When did you mention it?”

  “That night. I met with the Chief and another officer after the Medical Examiner’s people took Frank’s body away. I tried to explain the significance of the consecrated host, the urgency with which our parishioners would want it recovered, if possible.”

  “Did you meet with the Chief or other Chatham officers after that night?”

  “Oh yes,” the witness answers. “Several times.”

  “Give us a guesstimate,” Harry says.

  Monsignor Davis shrugs. “I don’t know. Three, four times, maybe.”

  “What about our District Attorney?” Harry turns and smiles at her as he asks. She doesn’t smile back. “How many times would you say you’ve met with her?”

  “Five or six,” the Monsignor says. “Again, though, I’m guessing.”

  “Did you mention the monstrance at each of those meetings?”

  “I’m sure I did,” the priest says. “It’s been a constant concern.”

  “Would it be fair to say, Monsignor Davis, that during your multiple meetings with the Chatham police, and during your multiple meetings with our District Attorney, you expressed more urgency over the disappearance of the monstrance than you did over the missing money, the missing thousand-plus dollars?”

  “Just a minute.” Geraldine leaves her table and heads for the bench. It took a few moments, but she’s come up with a beef. “This witness isn’t a forensic expert,” she says to the judge. “His ‘sense of urgency’ about a particular piece of evidence doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.”

  Geraldine Schilling doesn’t often make tactical mistakes, but I’m pretty sure she’s making one now. Trying to silence one’s own witness is almost never a good idea. Harry actually laughs. “I missed the hill-of-beans class in law school,” he says, “but I do believe my Sister Counsel is telling us this witness’s opinion on the matter is irrelevant.”

  Judge Gould looks as if he’s prepared to rule, but Harry keeps talking.

  “That would be the same Sister Counsel who spent the last half hour discussing rectory staffing, canonical prayers, and stigmata,” he says. “And now she raises a relevance objection to a question about a piece of evidence that was taken from the scene of the crime?”

  “All right, Mr. Madigan,” the judge says, his voice low. “That’s enough.”

  Harry’s not finished, though. He turns to the jurors. “That would be the same Sister Counsel who withheld the fact of that theft from the defense for an entire year.” He points back toward our table. “Maybe our District Attorney would like to object to this man’s having a trial at all. Maybe we’re taking up too much of her time. Maybe it would be more convenient for her if we just lock him up now, ask questions later.”

  “Mr. Madigan!” Judge Gould bangs his gavel once, hard, to shut Harry up. “You’ve made your point,” he says. “You may proceed.” He sets his gavel down and turns to Geraldine. “Ms. Schilling, your objection is overruled.”

  She storms back to her table and Derrick Holliston jabs my arm with his elbow. He actually looks pleased when I turn to face him—a first. He narrows his eyes to slits and points his pen at Harry. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” he says.

  I’m weary of him.

  “Monsignor Davis,” Harry continues, his voice raised as if he’s still arguing, “can you answer the question, sir?”

  The Monsignor looks flustered, his brown eyes even wider than usual. “What was it?” he asks.

  Most of the jurors chuckle.

  “Damned if I know,” Harry says.

  The entire panel laughs now. Geraldine is furious.

  Harry points to the court reporter, an attractive, thirty-something brunette who’s new to her courthouse job. She stops tapping at once and reaches for the narrow strip of encoded paper that snakes from the front of her machine. She searches for a few moments and then clears her throat. “ ‘Would it be fair to say, Monsignor Davis,’ ” she recites in a monotone, “ ‘that during your multiple meetings with the Chatham police, and during your multiple meetings with our District Attorney, you expressed more urgency over the disappearance of the monstrance than you did over the missing money, the missing thousand-plus dollars?’ ”

  The Monsignor nods emphatically. “Absolutely,” he says. “We hated to lose so much money, especially at that time of year. We try to help our less fortunate families make ends meet through the winter, when heating expenses are so steep, so the loss of the money was a real blow. But the theft of the monstrance—the theft of the Blessed Sacrament—was far worse.”

  “Tell us why,” Harry says.

  Generally speaking, lawyers ask questions that call for yes-orno answers during cross-examinations. Even a witness who wants to elaborate on a particular point is normally barred from doing so during cross, forced to wait until redirect, if there is one. Not this witness, though. Harry will let Dominic Davis talk all day, as long as he’s emphasizing the importance of the missing monstrance.

  The Monsignor pauses now, seems to want to choose his words carefully. “The consecrated host,” he says at last, “is the body of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Maria Marzetti bows her head at the mention of the Lord’s name. Cora Rowlands makes the sign of the cross; when she raises her hand to her forehead, I realize she’s cradling rosary beads. Holliston notices too; he snorts and turns to stare at the side wall again.

  “You must understand,” the witness says, leaning toward the jury. He seems concerned that he hasn’t made himself clear. “The consecrated host is not a symbol of Christ’s body, it is his body.”

  Maria and Cora nod in agreement. The others don’t react.

  “We’ll take your word on that,” Harry says. “But what about the other two?”

  “Other two?”

  “Aren’t there three of them?” Harry asks. “A trio?”

  The Monsignor appears to be at a loss for a moment, but then he breaks into a smile. “You’re referring to the Trinity,” he says to Harry. “The Holy Trinity.”

  “Bingo,” Harry says.

  Geraldine jumps to her feet. She sees more levity coming and she wants to head it off at the pass. “We’ll stipulate,” she says, holding both hands up like a traffic cop. “For God’s sake, let’s not go down that path. We’ll stipulate to the doctrine of the Trinity. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

  “ ‘They caught the last train for the coast,’ ” Harry half sings. Gregory Harmon laughs out loud, then covers his mouth and fires a facial apology to the judge.

  “Spirit,” Monsignor Davis says to our District Attorney. “Since the Second Vatican Council, we call the third member of the Trinity the Holy Spirit.”

  Harry turns and gives Geraldine yet another smile, this one accompanied by a wink. “Been a while, heh, Counselor?”

  “Mr. Madigan!” Judge Gould bangs his gavel again, kneading his temple with his free hand. Harry had better curb his editorial comments; the judge’s patience is wearing thin. His little ditty was well worth it, though. The jurors are still laughing. And Geraldine Schilling is livid.

  Harry nods up at the judge, then turns back to the witness. “The man in charge wants me to wrap it up here,” he says to Monsignor Davis. “So let’s talk turkey.”

  The Monsignor laughs a little. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s.”

  “Father McMahon was already dead when you entered the church last Christmas Eve, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” the priest says, “he was.”

  “And you didn’t see what happened to him, did you?”

  Monsignor Davis hesitates.

  “You saw the aftermath of what happened,” Harry adds quickly, “but you didn’t see the altercation itself—or any portion of it—or anything that led up to it.”

  This clarification seems to assuage the witness’s concerns. “That’s correct,” he says. “I didn’t.”

  “And it’s equally true to say you didn’t hear any portion
of it, isn’t it, Monsignor?”

  “Yes, that’s equally true.”

  “So what you’ve offered us here today, Monsignor Davis, is your opinion, isn’t it? You’ve testified to your opinion about what Father McMahon may or may not have done that night.”

  Again the priest hesitates and again Harry jumps in quickly to clarify. “In other words, Monsignor, your testimony isn’t based on anything you perceived through your physical senses, is that correct?”

  Still, the witness seems reluctant. “That is correct,” he says after a moment. “But bear in mind that my vocation—my life’s work—isn’t based on anything I perceive through my earthly senses, either.”

  Harry should have seen that answer coming, but he didn’t. It’s written on his face. And there’s no way in hell he wants to end the cross-examination on that note. “In any case,” he says, pretending the prior response is of no significance, “you’re not here today under subpoena, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re here voluntarily, having told the District Attorney there was no need for a subpoena, is that correct?”

  “Yes. That’s correct.”

  “And Monsignor, your voluntary appearance here today is explainable—at least in part—by the fact that Francis Patrick McMahon was your good friend, isn’t that true?”

  “In part,” the witness says. “Yes, I agree with that.”

  “Is it fair to say you felt you owed Father McMahon that much? Is it fair to say that by showing up here today voluntarily you hoped to honor your good friend’s memory, to seek some semblance of justice for his untimely death?”

  Monsignor Davis is quiet. He seems to have aged on the witness stand; his demeanor is subdued, his complexion pale. “I suppose that is true,” he says at last. “Certainly the part about honoring Frank’s memory.” He pauses and tilts his head to one side. “But perhaps a man can’t do that answering lawyer questions.”

  Now it’s Harry’s turn to be quiet. “Perhaps not,” he says after a moment. He turns away from the witness, walks toward our table, but then stops. “About the weapon,” he says, turning back to face the witness. “Where did it come from?”