Antonelli - 03 - The Judgment by D. W. Buffa Page A

witness, and from the moment he took the stand, Spencer Goldman treated him like a victim. And Goldman believed it, believed it with a passion. He looked upon himself as the boy’s protector. When I asked for the chance to interview my client’s son before trial, Goldman turned me down flat. ‘He doesn’t want to talk to you,’ he told me as if I was the one who had been accused of abuse.
    “Gerald Larkin was poised—too poised—for his age. He sat straight, with his hands in his lap and his legs close together. He waited for each question Goldman asked, and then, without a moment’s pause, produced his answers, answers that were direct, to the point, not a word out of place. And each time he did it, he looked at the jury. He described the ways his mother had aroused him in bed the way any other child might have described what he had done at camp. We are supposed to like children, but I did not like him. I had believed his mother nearly from the moment I met her; I knew he was lying with the first answer he gave. All he was asked was to state his name and spell his last for the record. The way he did it told me everything I needed to know. Here he was, a child claiming that his own mother had sexually abused him, not once, not twice, but on numberless occasions over a number of years, and he walked into court like he owned the place. A child who has been sexually abused does not like to talk about it, and he will never look you in the eye when he does. Gerald Larkin was like an actor taking center stage.
    “On cross, I asked him if he remembered talking to the officer and whether everything he had said to him was true. He looked me right in the eye and said it was.
    ” ‘You say that the first time this happened you were living in the house on Roanoke Avenue. Is that right?’
    “He was never hesitant. ‘Yes.’
    ” ‘I see.’ Stroking my chin, I stared down at the floor. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked, lifting my eyes. ‘Absolutely sure?’
    ” ‘Yes.’
    ” ‘Your family moved from that house to the one over on Ar-lington Street, right?’
    ” ‘Yes.’
    ” ‘That happened when you were just starting the first grade, when you were seven years old, correct?’
    “He did not grasp the significance of this. ‘Yes,’ he replied.
    ” ‘So you’re telling us that you were seven years old when you began to have sexual intercourse with your mother. Is that what you’re telling us?’
    “His gaze never wavered. ‘Yes.’
    ” ‘And it went on until you moved out of the house with your mother and sister and into the apartment with your father. Is that what you’re telling us?’
    ” ‘Yes.’
    “I was standing a few feet in front of him. Turning away, I walked over to the jury box and put my hands on the railing.
    ‘And you told the officer that each time this happened, it lasted for one and a half to two hours, didn’t you?’ One by one I looked into the eyes of the jurors. ‘And did it always last that long—
    one and a half to two hours—right from the beginning?’
    ” ‘Yes,’ I heard him answer.
    ” ‘When you were seven years old,’ I added, searching the last juror’s eyes.
    “I went back to my chair and sat down next to the boy’s mother.
    He could look me in the eye, and he could look the prosecutor in the eye; he could even look at all twelve adults in the jury box when he answered a question; but he would not, and I dare say could not, look at her.
    “Shoving the chair back from the table, I bent forward, my elbows on my knees, and looked up at him. ‘What is it you really want?’ For the first time, he hesitated, and in that moment, watching his eyes, I saw a glimmer of doubt, as if he now realized that things might not work out the way he had thought they would.
    ‘When your father left,’ I asked, more sympathetically, ‘did he tell you that one day things would be like they were before?’
    “He looked down at his hands. ‘Yes.’
    ” ‘When your father