False Testimony by Rose Connors

back row, her silver hair styled and stiff above the collar of a charcoal gray coatdress. She nods at the judge but says nothing, a silent ditto .
    “Thank you,” Judge Gould says to all of them. “Thank you for your candor. Now I ask the three of you to come forward.”
    They hesitate. They weren’t expecting this. It’s routine, though. Judge Gould will question each of them individually, in the privacy of his chambers. If a potential juror does have a partiality problem, the last thing the judge wants to do is share it with the others.
    Dottie Bearse has been Judge Gould’s courtroom clerk since his District Court days. When he made the move to Superior Court, he arranged for her to transfer as well. I’ve never heard the judge ask her for anything; she’s always two steps ahead of him. She finishes sorting a stack of papers on her desk now and hands him three juror questionnaires.
    “You, sir.” The judge consults one of the forms and then looks up at the guy in the work boots. “Mr. Harmon, please take a seat in chambers.” Big Red crosses the room and opens the chambers door. All three jurors start down the center aisle.
    “And you two”—the judge shifts his attention to the women—“please be seated in the jury box. We’ll be with you shortly.” The judge stands to leave the bench and Big Red tells the rest of us to rise.
    Harry and I head toward chambers, Geraldine and Clarence on our heels. We pause at the door, though, to allow Judge Gould to enter first. He waits too, and directs the jeans-clad juror in ahead of all of us.
    The room is small and tidy, lit only by a burnished brass lamp situated on one corner of the judge’s dark walnut desk. Judge Gould takes his seat and directs our juror into one of the two chairs facing his. Geraldine settles in the other. Harry leans against a side wall next to the juror, where he can see everyone. Clarence and I hang back by the closed door.
    “Mr. Harmon,” Judge Gould says, “let me begin by telling you we appreciate your willingness to speak with us. We all do. And let me also assure you, sir, that what you say in this room stays here.” The judge glances up at Geraldine, then at Harry. They nod in unison, first at the judge, then at the juror.
    “Now what is it, Mr. Harmon, that makes you question your ability to remain impartial?” The judge leans back in his chair, the top of it brushing lightly against the floor-to-ceiling bookcase behind him.
    Mr. Harmon looks entirely comfortable, erect in his chair, hands resting on his knees. “Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “it’s not like I knew the guy or anything.”
    Geraldine stiffens, her antennae up. The judge fires a cautionary stare her way; he does the questioning in here. “Which guy are we talking about?” he says.
    “The priest,” Harmon answers. “I went to a Mass he said once. Must’ve been two years ago now.”
    We’re all quiet for a moment. Anyone with ties to St. Veronica’s Parish—religious or otherwise—was weeded out before the sixty juror candidates were brought to the courtroom this morning. Attendance at a single Mass celebrated by the deceased probably didn’t show up on the clerk’s radar screen.
    “I didn’t talk to him or anything,” Harmon continues. “But he seemed like a decent guy. Didn’t seem like somebody who’d…well, you know.”
    “Was this Mass at St. Veronica’s?” Judge Gould asks.
    Harmon nods.
    “How did you happen to be there?”
    “My wife’s sister lives in that parish,” he answers. “She and her husband were celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary—you know, renewing their vows and all that. Father McMahon said the Mass.”
    “Was this a private event?” the judge asks.
    “Oh no.” Mr. Harmon shakes his head. “It was a regular Sunday Mass, but just before the final blessing, he had them come up to the altar to say their I do s all over again.”
    The judge smiles. “And they both did, I