For the next couple of days I stayed away from the court. I followed things in the news as best I could. Mr. Leo didn’t get his mistrial. “JUDGE RULES PRIEST’S TRIAL TO CONTINUE,” I read in the paper. The prosecution had rested its case, and now it was the defense’s turn. I knew Mr. Leo would come out swinging, that, as he’d put it, he still had a few punches to throw. He brought in a string of witnesses to testify for Father Jack. There was several former altar boys, among them fellows like Freddy Mayette, Jimmy Santanelli, whose son Father had baptized, as well as Drew Thibodeau and Karl Whaley and several others. I read how they all said Father was a wonderful man who had helped them in any number of ways, was there for them if they ever had a problem, and never so much as harmed a hair on their heads. Even Dina Cerutti, bless her heart, testified. She said Father Jack was a kind and sweet man, always nice to her. Several people who’d spent time at the teen shelter testified, too, saying if it wasn’t for Father Jack, why, they’d have ended up in trouble for sure. I saw on the news how one young girl said she’d been a drug addict and was supporting her habit by selling her body on the street. Father had helped her get off the drugs, had counseled her, helped her get a job. Now she was a dental hygienist and was going to get married and attended church on a regular basis—all of it thanks to Father Jack.
Several priests also took the stand to testify for him. Some had known him from back in the seminary. They described him as a bright student, hardworking, dedicated, a man committed to helping people. Father Duncan said he’d never heard a bad word spoken about Father Jack. He knew him as someone people trusted, someone who loved kids.
Mr. Leo also called several witnesses that didn’t have much good to say about either of them Robys. One fellow, the probation officer of the younger brother, testified that Robert Roby had given a false statement to police about violating a restraining order his ex-wife had taken out against him, but that he was found out and sent back to prison. Another witness, who they showed on the news in prisoner’s clothes and manacles, testified that he’d once helped Russell Roby in a credit card scheme and when they were caught Roby lied and said he’d had nothing to do with it, tried to leave him holding the bag. Which just proves there’s no honor among thieves. Mr. Leo even brought in his own memory expert, another Dr. Somebody-or-other. Unlike the other fellow, this one said how people’s memories were not always reliable. He said there was lots of cases of people bringing charges against perfectly innocent people, only to have it turn out it was a pack of lies.
The day before I was to testify, Mr. Leo had me come to his office again, to “prep me,” as he put it, like I was going in for surgery or something. Which, as it turned out, wasn’t too far off the mark. He told me to put some makeup on but not to overdo it, get my hair done, wear something modest but nice. “You don’t want the women on the jury to get jealous if the men stare at your ass,” he said matter-of-factly. Though when I described the four plain dresses I had to my name, he thought they were too “old-maidish.” He felt I needed something a tad flashier. He said the jury expected court to be a little “sexy” after all. He had Gina Demarco go out and buy me a red, figure-hugging pantsuit at the J. C. Penney’s in Montville.
He told me when I took the stand I was to relax and speak in a loud, clear voice just as we’d practiced. But not too loud, nor was I to talk in such a way as to make it look as if I’d rehearsed my lines, which of course I had. He said it was important to appear natural, that everything seem to come directly from the heart and didn’t look forced or contrived. He told me not to stare at the jury so it seemed like I was challenging them, but on the other hand not to look away either so it made them think I was avoiding them. He told me to keep my answers with Lassiter short, yes or no, if possible. He warned that she’d try to get me jabbering and get me tangled up in my own words. And most important, he advised, I was not, under any circumstances, to get angry with the woman, even though she would surely try to get my goat and make me look bad.
“Just tell the truth, Maggie,” Mr. Leo told me. “That’s all.”
That’s bloody all! I thought, as I drove over to the courthouse one crisp fall morning. The truth of it was, all of his instructions and his prepping and his warnings had got me so jumpy I didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. I hadn’t slept a wink the night before, even though I’d taken a sleeping pill and had downed a couple of drinks to boot. Out in the car before I went inside, I opened the glove compartment and helped myself to a wee bit of the oul’ Mr. Boston, on account of my nerves. My throat was so dry I feared I’d get up there on the witness stand and my mouth would open but nothing would come out. What would it hurt? And then I figured if one was good, two would be even better. The drink calmed the blood that was pulsing in my neck. There, I thought. Now you’re ready. I took a couple of breath mints to cover the smell, got out of the car, and headed in.
I went up to the third floor and took a seat on one of the benches outside Superior Court. They had me wait a very long time. I hadn’t noticed before, but on the wall opposite were dark-hued portraits of these sour-pussed old farts, judges and the like. Directly across from me one stern-looking old bastard wearing a white wig seemed to be staring at me. What in bloody hell are you looking at? I felt like saying. My hands were still twitching a bit, and I wished I’d taken another belt of the brandy. Or none at all. As it was, I was sort of betwixt and between, not quite relaxed but feeling my neck a little wobbly. Take it easy, I said. Just tell the truth.
After a while the bailiff come out and called my name. I had to walk right past everybody, feeling the eyes of all those birds on me—the judge and D.A. Lassiter, those people on the jury, the reporters and the cameramen, and all those other folks in the court, the lot of ’em no doubt thinking, Would you look at herself, strutting up there grand as you please in her new J. C. Penney outfit. It was all sort of a blur. I felt this weakness in the knees and my stomach was churning, my face flushed. I knew then I shouldn’t have had anything to drink. Before I sat, that fellow asked me to put my hand on the Bible and swear that every last word that came out of my mouth was the whole truth and nothing but so help me God. “I do,” I said.
Once I was seated, I felt kind of trapped, claustrophobic, like an animal in a cage with everybody gawking at me. And that blasted microphone made every little noise resound throughout the courtroom like it came from the mouth of God Himself. But when I glanced over and saw Father sitting there, looking tenderly at me the way he might if we were playing Scrabble some evening, I knew I’d rather be no other place than where I was—trying to help him if it was in my power.
Mr. Leo got up and walked over and stood in front of me. He smiled, showing his crooked teeth.
“Would you tell the court your whole name?” he asked.
“Margaret Kathleen Quinn,” I replied, my name sounding strange and unfamiliar saying it out loud like that in front of everyone.
“What do people call you?” Mr. Leo asked, though of course he already knew the answer to that. While never in my entire life had I been on a stage, being up on that witness stand is what it must be like. All those people gawking at you and you saying lines you already knew by heart and trying to make it sound natural—from the heart.
“Some call me Maggie. Others it’s Ma Quinn.”
“Do you mind if I call you Ma Quinn?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Where do you work, Ma Quinn?”
“Why I work at the rectory, of course.”
“For the record, that would be St. Luke’s rectory in Hebron Falls, correct?”
“It would.”
“And you reside there as well?”
“I do.”
He went on to ask me questions in this vein—how long I lived there and who I was employed by and what my duties were and this and that. Which I couldn’t see the point of, if you want my opinion. What I learned about the law is that it’s a lot like life: most of it don’t add up to a fiddler’s fart, it’s just there to fill in between the big things. Now and again I’d look over at Father Jack. He sat straight up, still as a statue, his face expressionless, though occasionally I thought I detected a bit of a smile intended just for me. I might glance over at the jury, too, to see how they were taking in what I was saying. That woman with the crocheting was still at it, hardly looked up. But I remembered Mr. Leo telling me not to stare at them so I didn’t. And once, I happened to catch D.A. Lassiter writing something down after I’d answered one of Mr. Leo’s questions. I got nervous just thinking how she’d lay into me when it came her turn. Just relax, I kept saying to myself. Easy does it.
“Ma Quinn,” Mr. Leo said, “there’s been testimony that Father Devlin had a drinking problem. In your opinion, based on what you personally observed of the defendant, did he have a drinking problem?”
“Certainly not. He may have had a drink now and again, like anybody, but it wasn’t a problem. Wasn’t even close to a problem.”
“Did he keep alcohol in the house?”
“He did.”
“To your knowledge, did he ever give alcohol to children?”
“No sir. He did not.”
“You’re certain about that?”
“Not to my knowledge, he didn’t.”
“Did Father Devlin have boys over to the rectory?”
“Why, sure he did.”
“How often?”
“On many occasions. They were always coming over.”
“For what reason?”
“Would depend. He might invite some kids over for supper. Or sometimes a few of ’em and Father would watch a ball game on the television or play basketball out in the driveway. Or to help them with homework. Other times he just had ’em over, no reason at all. Especially those in need of his attention,” I said, staring right at the Robys in the front row.
“What do you mean, those in need of attention?”
“The ones with problems at home. In trouble with the law.”
“An eyewitness testified that she came to the rectory door one time and saw boys running around in their ‘birthday suits.’ Is that true?”
“Yes,” I replied. You could hear people shifting about in their seats and this low sort of murmur when I said that.
“Would you explain why they were naked, Ma Quinn?”
“They’d got their clothes dirty and they were supposed to help Father over to the church. So he had them clean up while I washed their clothes. And, well, they come running out chasing each other with towels, like boys’ll do. It was my fault. I should’ve been watching ’em.”
“So nothing happened?”
“No, nothing happened. Father wasn’t even home. He was over to the church then.”
Mr. Leo paused for a moment to look at his notes. While he did I gazed out over the courtroom. I looked for Pete but didn’t see him. He probably couldn’t take any more time off from work, I thought. I did spot Father Duncan though, seated right behind Father Jack. And way in the back I happened to notice that blond fellow I’d seen there before. He was sitting by himself.
“All right, Ma Quinn,” Mr. Leo began again, “did Father Devlin take pictures of his parishioners?”
“Why, all the time. He likes keepin’ pictures in his albums. They’re like his family, you see.”
“Did he own a Polaroid camera?”
“Polaroid?” I asked.
“You know. One that takes instant pictures.”
“No sir. Just a regular one. I don’t know what kind it is. The sort you had to get the pictures developed. In fact, Father used to have me bring ’em down to the drugstore for him.”
“You’re quite sure he didn’t own a Polaroid camera?”
“I never saw one around.”
“Ma Quinn, are you usually home?”
“Aye, usually. Unless I’m doing errands.”
“Don’t you ever take some time off? Go away on vacation?”
“I like sleeping in my own bed.”
“So you’re on duty at the rectory all the time?”
“I have Tuesdays off. But the rest of the time I wouldn’t call it ‘on duty.’ It’s my home, you see. A body’s not on duty in her own home.”
I looked over and saw Father smile at that.
“Where’s your room?” Mr. Leo asked.
“At the back of the house. Near the kitchen.”
“And where is Father’s bedroom?”
“Second floor. Right above…” I got a frog caught in my throat then and I started to cough. Mr. Leo walked over to his table, poured me a glass of water from a pitcher he had and brought it over to me. “Thank you,” I said, when my throat was clear. “Father’s room is right above mine.”
“If you’re in your room, can you hear Father up in his room?”
“That I can. When he plays his music I can hear it. Or even when he’s pacing up there. He’s right above me. And the floors are old and squeak when you walk on them.”
“So would it be fair to say if someone were up there with him, you would hear them?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” said Lassiter. “Asking for an opinion.”
“I’m going to let Mr. Manzetti have that one,” declared the judge. “You may answer the question, Ms. Quinn.”
“It’d be hard for me not to,” I said. “Right below him like I am.”
“To the best of your knowledge, did Father Devlin ever have boys up in his room?”
“He most certainly did not.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Like I said, I’d have heard ’em.”
“Ma Quinn, do you remember either of the Robys being in the rectory?”
“The older one, I do.”
“To your knowledge was he ever in Father Devlin’s bedroom?”
“No sir, not to my knowledge, he wasn’t.”
“Did you ever knock on Father Devlin’s door and say…” Mr. Leo looked down at his yellow pad. “‘Is everything all right in there, Father?’”
I stared right at that Roby before answering. “I most certainly did not.”
Mr. Leo walked over to the jury box, rested his hand on the railing.
“Ma Quinn, did you ever have occasion to question the truth and veracity of the plaintiff, Russell Roby?”
“I did, yes.”
“Do you recall an incident involving Mr. Roby and a certain gold cross of Father Devlin’s?”
“Indeed, I do.”
“Can you tell the jury about it?”
“Father had this gold cross, you see,” I explained, looking over at them. “His late mother gave it to him for his ordination. It was very special to him. And then one day I see that one,” I said, pointing at the older Roby, “wearing it around his neck.”
“Are you sure it was the same one? Could it have been another one that just looked like it?”
“It was the very same. I’d held it in my hands before. It was Father’s all right. No doubt on that score.”
“And how do you think he got it?”
“I’ll tell you how he got it. He stole it, that’s how. I saw him coming out of Father’s office over at the church and the cross was around his neck.”
“And did you confront him about it?”
“I did.”
“Did he deny it?”
“At first. He gave me some cock-and-bull story saying it was his.”
“So in other words, he lied to you?”
“That he did.”
“And what did you do?”
“Why I told him I was going to call the police.”
“And then what did he do?”
“He started crying and begging me not to. He didn’t want to get in trouble, you see.”
As I was speaking, I saw Lassiter turn around and begin talking with Russell Roby, who sat right behind her.
“While under oath, Mr. Roby denied ever having stolen anything from the rectory. Was that a true statement, Ma Quinn?”
“It was not.”
“So he perjured himself. In other words, Mr. Roby lied under oath?”
“He did.”
“Ma Quinn, in all the years you were employed by the parish, did you ever see Father do anything inappropriate with these two boys?”
“No sir.”
“How about with any other children?”
“I did not.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No sir. Never. Not once. And believe me, if something had happened in that house I’d have known about it. I would, for sure.”
“And in all those years did you form an opinion regarding the character of the defendant?”
“Indeed I did.”
“And what is your opinion?”
“That he’s a good and decent man. As fine a priest as you’re ever likely to meet. And he would not have done what those two are saying.”
“Thank you, Ma Quinn. No further questions, Your Honor,” said Mr. Leo.