False Testimony by Rose Connors Page A

presume?”
    Mr. Harmon smiles too, first at the judge, then at the rest of us. “Yeah,” he says, “they did. And that priest, he made my brother-in-law kiss the ‘bride’ right there in front of everybody. My wife and I took them out to breakfast afterward and that was all they talked about. They didn’t expect to have to do that again.”
    The judge looks at his hands for a moment, then back up at Harmon. “So you liked Father McMahon?”
    “Sure.” He shrugs. “When my brother-in-law hesitated—you know, at the kissing part—the priest led the whole congregation in a big round of applause.” Harmon shakes his head, still smiling. “Talk about pressure.”
    Geraldine is relaxed now, happy even. She wants to keep this juror on the panel. She likes his take on things.
    Judge Gould picks up a pen from his desk and taps it in his palm. “Anything else?” he says. “Any other contact with the priest?”
    Harmon shakes his head. “Nope. Just saw him that once.”
    The judge leans forward, sets the pen down again, and clasps his hands together on the desk. “Now Mr. Harmon, clearly you formed a favorable impression of the deceased on that occasion. What we want to know now is whether or not that fact will interfere with your ability to fairly decide this case if you’re chosen to serve. Do you believe you’re capable of putting your impression from two years ago aside? Will you be able to base your decision strictly on the evidence presented in the courtroom this week?”
    Mr. Harmon sits in silence for a moment, considering. I have to give him credit; he thinks about it longer than most. “I believe I can,” he says.
    “And if the evidence shows that the deceased was, in fact, the aggressor in this case, you would be able to so find?”
    Harmon rubs his chin. “If that’s what the evidence shows, then yes.”
    “And if the evidence shows that Mr. Holliston acted only as necessary to preserve his own life, you would vote to acquit?”
    Harmon nods, looking thoughtful. “Yes,” he says, “I would.”
    Harry shifts against the wall and faces the desk, but says nothing. He doesn’t need to. Judge Gould knows Harry wants to bounce this guy. They’ll argue about it later.
    “Thank you, sir.” The judge stands and motions toward the courtroom. “You may have a seat in the jury box while we speak with the others.”
    Clarence opens the chambers door and Mr. Harmon exits. Big Red instructs the younger of the two waiting women to join us. Judge Gould checks one of the forms on his desk and smiles at her when she enters. She doesn’t smile back.
    “Mrs. Meyers,” the judge says, “please have a seat.” He gives her the same thanks and promise of confidentiality he gave to Mr. Harmon, and then asks her to share her concerns.
    She doesn’t. She looks down at her lap, then opens her purse and takes a Kleenex from it. I move closer to Harry, so I can see her face. She’s blinking back tears. “Please,” she says to Judge Gould. “I can’t do this. I just can’t.”
    “Take your time,” he says quietly, leaning forward on his desk. “When you’re ready, tell us why you can’t.”
    We wait while Mrs. Meyers dabs at the corners of her eyes and takes a few deep breaths. “My son,” she whispers. She falls silent again.
    “What would you like to tell us about him?” The judge’s expression is kind, concerned, but Mrs. Meyers doesn’t seem to notice. Her small laugh turns at once into a grimace. “Nothing,” she says. “I don’t want to tell you anything about him.”
    She stares into her lap again and, once more, we wait. “Look,” she finally blurts out, “we moved here from St. Bartholomew’s.”
    Everyone in the room reacts. It’s as though an invisible hand slapped each of us simultaneously. The judge sits up straighter in his chair. Harry sets his jaw and jams both hands into his pants pockets. Geraldine folds her arms and I find myself doing the same, pressing them hard against