Read Online False Testimony by Rose Connors - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rose Connors
Ads: Link
doesn’t react at all, but the judge does. He sees what’s going on here and he’s appalled, but there’s not a damned thing he can do about it.
The ball is back in Geraldine’s court. She stands but doesn’t say anything, looking down at her table and tapping the eraser end of a pencil against her own hand-drawn diagram of the jury box. The third peremptory is always a difficult call. Pass on it and you give up an opportunity to improve your panel, to get rid of one more candidate who doesn’t feel quite right. Exercise it and you may get stuck with a far worse juror from the gallery.
“Number two,” she says at last. “The Commonwealth respectfully excuses juror number two.”
I’m surprised. Juror number two is a sixty-year-old carpenter from Dennis who told us he views the Catholic Church’s insistence that its priests remain celibate as “abnormal.” Otherwise, though, he has no feelings about the church one way or the other. If I were in Geraldine’s shoes—and I was for many years—I’d keep him. I wouldn’t run the risk of ending up with someone more opinionated in his place.
The carpenter exits and Dottie pulls yet another slip from the dwindling supply in her glass bowl. “Cora Rowlands,” she announces. Geraldine actually groans.
Harry and I twist in our seats to watch the newest candidate approach from the back row. Geraldine turns completely around, her back to the judge, to do the same. No doubt she’s hoping to see a female Rowlands other than the woman we heard from in chambers. Too bad for Geraldine.
Cora nods to each of us as she walks between our tables and then crosses the front of the room to the box, settling in the second seat, front row. The jury box seats are narrower than the chairs in chambers; her pocketbook doesn’t fit between the armrests. She sets it on the floor at her feet and purses her lips, unhappy with the accommodations.
“Your Honor,” Geraldine intones, “the Commonwealth renews its motion to dismiss this juror for cause, based on the content of her comments in chambers.”
Geraldine doesn’t have a prayer. I can’t blame her for trying, though, for attempting to undo the damage she did when she used that last peremptory. We’ve all been there, most of us more than once.
Judge Gould shakes his head. “I’ve already ruled on that, Counsel. And the ruling stands.”
Cora Rowlands looks from the judge to Geraldine, hands clasped on her lap, shoulders erect. Her expression says: So there .
Geraldine pretends she doesn’t notice. I know her, though; she does. She remains on her feet, looking like she has more to say on the matter, even when Judge Gould moves on. He runs quickly through the preliminaries with Cora and then turns his attention to Harry. “Mr. Madigan, anything further?”
Holliston takes his pen and reaches over to my diagram again. He draws an X through the number-one box and another through number seven—opposite ends of the front row—Anthony Laurino and Maria Marzetti. Maria is the woman Holliston identified as a cat-lick as soon as he arrived this morning.
“We don’t get two more,” I tell him. “We get one. Three total.”
He looks at me and his eyebrows fuse. He’s certain I’m lying, it seems, cheating him out of a fair shake.
“Pick one,” I say. “Believe it or not, the Rules of Criminal Procedure aren’t going to change in the next five minutes, not even for you.”
“Hold on,” Harry tells both of us. “This is a mistake. We’ve got a decent panel right now. Why take a chance on making it worse?”
He’s right, of course, but Holliston doesn’t think so. He takes his pen and darkens the X over juror number one. Anthony Laurino must go. It seems an Italian male is even more objectionable than an Italian female. I’ve no idea what rationale is at work here. But I do know our exercise of peremptories bears a frightening resemblance to ethnic cleansing.
Even so, Harry seems prepared to let our
The ball is back in Geraldine’s court. She stands but doesn’t say anything, looking down at her table and tapping the eraser end of a pencil against her own hand-drawn diagram of the jury box. The third peremptory is always a difficult call. Pass on it and you give up an opportunity to improve your panel, to get rid of one more candidate who doesn’t feel quite right. Exercise it and you may get stuck with a far worse juror from the gallery.
“Number two,” she says at last. “The Commonwealth respectfully excuses juror number two.”
I’m surprised. Juror number two is a sixty-year-old carpenter from Dennis who told us he views the Catholic Church’s insistence that its priests remain celibate as “abnormal.” Otherwise, though, he has no feelings about the church one way or the other. If I were in Geraldine’s shoes—and I was for many years—I’d keep him. I wouldn’t run the risk of ending up with someone more opinionated in his place.
The carpenter exits and Dottie pulls yet another slip from the dwindling supply in her glass bowl. “Cora Rowlands,” she announces. Geraldine actually groans.
Harry and I twist in our seats to watch the newest candidate approach from the back row. Geraldine turns completely around, her back to the judge, to do the same. No doubt she’s hoping to see a female Rowlands other than the woman we heard from in chambers. Too bad for Geraldine.
Cora nods to each of us as she walks between our tables and then crosses the front of the room to the box, settling in the second seat, front row. The jury box seats are narrower than the chairs in chambers; her pocketbook doesn’t fit between the armrests. She sets it on the floor at her feet and purses her lips, unhappy with the accommodations.
“Your Honor,” Geraldine intones, “the Commonwealth renews its motion to dismiss this juror for cause, based on the content of her comments in chambers.”
Geraldine doesn’t have a prayer. I can’t blame her for trying, though, for attempting to undo the damage she did when she used that last peremptory. We’ve all been there, most of us more than once.
Judge Gould shakes his head. “I’ve already ruled on that, Counsel. And the ruling stands.”
Cora Rowlands looks from the judge to Geraldine, hands clasped on her lap, shoulders erect. Her expression says: So there .
Geraldine pretends she doesn’t notice. I know her, though; she does. She remains on her feet, looking like she has more to say on the matter, even when Judge Gould moves on. He runs quickly through the preliminaries with Cora and then turns his attention to Harry. “Mr. Madigan, anything further?”
Holliston takes his pen and reaches over to my diagram again. He draws an X through the number-one box and another through number seven—opposite ends of the front row—Anthony Laurino and Maria Marzetti. Maria is the woman Holliston identified as a cat-lick as soon as he arrived this morning.
“We don’t get two more,” I tell him. “We get one. Three total.”
He looks at me and his eyebrows fuse. He’s certain I’m lying, it seems, cheating him out of a fair shake.
“Pick one,” I say. “Believe it or not, the Rules of Criminal Procedure aren’t going to change in the next five minutes, not even for you.”
“Hold on,” Harry tells both of us. “This is a mistake. We’ve got a decent panel right now. Why take a chance on making it worse?”
He’s right, of course, but Holliston doesn’t think so. He takes his pen and darkens the X over juror number one. Anthony Laurino must go. It seems an Italian male is even more objectionable than an Italian female. I’ve no idea what rationale is at work here. But I do know our exercise of peremptories bears a frightening resemblance to ethnic cleansing.
Even so, Harry seems prepared to let our
Similar Books
