Did anyone ever see the two of you together?
Did you ever tell anyone about this alleged sexual attention, either at the time or later?
No mention to a friend, a parent, another student, a nurse?
Is there anyone at all who can verify your unsupported accusations against my client?
Richardson was so good, most liars would have folded under his skillful cross. But there was only so much Richardson could do. It was James’s word against Brent’s. And Brent didn’t have to prove what happened. He just needed to convince the jury that he was telling the truth.
If he did that, he stood to cash in, Father Aubrey be damned.
The plaintiff’s attorney, Terry Marshall, was a woman in her thirties, trim, well dressed, with shoulder-length dark hair. She stepped smartly and pivoted like a circus pony as she questioned her next witness, Andrew Snelling, a former colleague of James’s who had worked at Mount St. Joseph at the time of the made-up-for-profit crime.
Snelling was a beak-nosed priest of about forty who grinned inappropriately, his eyes darting around the courtroom as he told the court, “I always thought Aubrey was guilty of something.”
He was going for a laugh, but he didn’t get it.
Richardson jumped to his feet and snapped, “Objection, Your Honor. Speculative, irrelevant, and improper character evidence.”
“Sustained,” said Judge Fiore. “Clerk, please strike the witness’s last remark. The jury will disregard. Father Snelling, facts only, please.”
It was one small point for our side, the first of the day. Terry Marshall had no further questions for Snelling, and Kyle Richardson cross-examined him, asking, “Did you ever see James act in a sexual way toward Mr. Brent?”
Snelling had to admit, “I never actually saw anything with my own eyes.” But the tone and the sordid implications remained like the odor of rotting garbage.
“I have nothing further,” said Richardson, and with that, Marshall stood up and told the judge, “We rest our case.”
When James turned to his attorney, I saw from his expression that all of the plaintiff’s blows had landed. I was worried for James and couldn’t do a damned thing to help him.
That hurt.
Chapter 76
AT HALF past noon, court recessed for lunch.
I went down to the street and saw just how crazy it had gotten outside Suffolk County Superior Court. A restless, chanting mob filled Pemberton Square, clearly enraged by what they had read in the media. James Aubrey, yet another priest, was accused of committing obscene acts with a child. And they just knew he was guilty.
Signs with vile words and James’s face scrawled in black marker pen bobbed over the heads of the riotous crowd. TV news outlets interviewed the loudest, angriest protesters.
I texted James: Courage. The truth will out.
He didn’t reply.
I leaned against the courthouse wall and surfed the news with my phone. The stats of priests found guilty of child abuse were all there on the front pages, including one that claimed that 98 percent of sexual-abuse allegations against Catholic priests were found to be true.
The Boston Globe had scooped the original, shocking priest child-abuse scandal and had a proprietary interest in the subject.
Today, the Globe had profiled the “victim,” Wallace Brent, peppering the piece with ugly quotes from Brent himself. It was disgusting, disgraceful, and the media found it irresistible.
At 2:15, I was back inside courtroom 6F, where the trial began again, this time with Kyle Richardson presenting James’s case.
First up was a grade-school registrar who testified that Wallace Brent had lied about his salary and address in order to get his kids into their private school.
The next witness testified that Brent had lied about the extent of his injuries in a car accident, received a whopping settlement, and had later been photographed snowmobiling.
A third witness, a bank VP, told the court that Brent had forged a college transcript and that he was stunned to learn that, in fact, Brent hadn’t gone to college at all.
Brent was being revealed as not just a liar, but a hard-core, long-term fabricator. At least, that was how I saw it.
Having taken a few shots at Brent’s character, Richardson called character witnesses to speak for James.
Father Harry Stanton had been the dean of students at Mount St. Joseph ten years before. There was a respectful hush in the courtroom as the stately old gentleman took the stand.
When he’d been sworn in and seated, Dean Stanton detailed James’s five years at the school, describing him as a highly regarded and inspirational history teacher. He was a good witness, but his testimony was dry, and the jurors looked bored.