False Testimony by Rose Connors Page B

my ribs. Even Clarence plants his palms against the wall, looking like he might lose his balance otherwise.
    St. Bartholomew’s is a parish in the Boston Archdiocese. For eighteen years, it was home to now-defrocked priest Frederick Barlow. A year ago, Barlow admitted to raping twenty-eight boys during his tenure. He’s at the Walpole Penitentiary now, doing twelve to fifteen. The twenty-eight boys, of course, are doing life.
    After a few moments, Judge Gould recovers. “Was your son involved in the settlement reached last year between the Boston Archdiocese and the Barlow plaintiffs?”
    Judges frequently use this device. When speaking with a victim’s loved one—especially the parent of a child victim—it’s much easier on everyone to refer to the lawsuit or settlement than it is to mention the crimes involved. Even so, Mrs. Meyers flinches at the mention of the former priest’s name. “Yes,” she says. “My son was one of the plaintiffs. Can we leave it at that?”
    “Of course we can,” Judge Gould says. “And again, we appreciate your willingness to give us that information.”
    She twists in her chair and looks toward the door, obviously hoping she can leave now. She can’t, though. Not yet.
    “Mrs. Meyers,” the judge continues.
    She faces him again, her eyes wide, surprised. My heart aches for her.
    “I have to ask you,” he says, “it’s my duty to ask this question. Do you believe the information you just shared with us will interfere with your ability to fairly decide this case if you are selected to serve?”
    She actually laughs. For the first time since she walked in here, she looks around the room at the rest of us. “Do any of you have children?”
    The judge and I both nod.
    “What do you think?” she asks us.
    Judge Gould’s eyes meet mine but neither of us speaks. No need.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Meyers,” the judge says as he stands. “Please return to your seat in the jury box. We’ll be done here in a few minutes.”
    She complies without a word and Big Red sends in the last of our jurors to be interviewed, the silver-haired woman from the back row. “Mrs. Rowlands,” the judge says, gesturing toward the empty chair, “please join us.”
    She does, careful to smooth her coatdress before she sits. Her handbag is the size of a large bread box; it covers her entire lap. “I’ve had it,” she tells us before Judge Gould says another word, “with the entire Roman Catholic Church.”
    The judge laughs a little, then catches himself. He sits up straighter and forces his face into neutral. “Tell us why,” he says.
    She looks at him the way Luke looks at me when I can’t recite the latest Red Sox stats. She wonders if he’s been living under a rock. “They robbed me of my church,” she says. “ My church. The church I was born and raised in. Now I’m without a place to worship. And I’m seventy-three. Too old to shop for a new one.”
    The judge looks like he might have a question, but Mrs. Rowlands doesn’t wait for it. “I can’t walk into a Catholic church without getting so angry I want to scream. Criminals, every last one of them.”
    The judge puts both hands up to stop her. “Mrs. Rowlands, surely you don’t think every Catholic priest was involved in child molestation?”
    “Involved? Oh, they were involved, all right. Those who weren’t actively abusing protected the abusers, moved them from parish to parish, knowing a whole new crop of youngsters would be waiting at each one. While the children suffered, they protected their pals. Organized crime, plain and simple.”
    “But Mrs. Rowlands, many priests did neither. They didn’t abuse children and they knew nothing about those who did.”
    “Oh, they knew,” she says. “Don’t kid yourself. It was there to be seen. They knew and they kept quiet. Cowards. Criminals and cowards.” Her eyes dart around the room, daring any one of us to contradict her.
    “Mrs. Rowlands,” the judge takes a deep breath