Three sterling members of the St. Paul’s congregation took the stand in succession to say that they would trust James with their money, their wives, their children, and their secrets.
I grew increasingly hopeful that these testimonies were helping James, but the plaintiff’s attorney repeatedly responded, “No questions for the witness, Your Honor.”
This dismissive rejoinder was meant to convey to the jurors that the testimonies of Richardson’s witnesses were meaningless, as none of these people could support James’s claim that he had never touched Wally Brent.
As promised by Cardinal Cooney, no one from the archdiocese testified for James.
The third day was coming to a close when James leaned toward his attorney and whispered to him from behind his hand. Whatever he was saying, Richardson wasn’t going for it.
He shook his head and said, “No, I don’t agree.”
The judge asked what was going on, and Richardson stood up and said, “My client would like to testify in his own defense.”
Fiore asked James if he understood that he was not required to testify and that the jury was not permitted to make any inference or draw any conclusion if he didn’t testify.
James said, “I understand, Your Honor. I need to be heard.”
“Well, Mr. Richardson,” said the judge, “call your client to the stand.”
Chapter 77
JAMES WORE a black suit with his priest’s collar and had brushed his sandy-blond hair back from his face. When he got to his feet, he flicked his gaze toward me, and I nodded my encouragement. I saw the new creases in his forehead and tightness around his eyes and mouth.
He couldn’t hide what this trial was doing to him.
He crossed the thirty-foot distance between the defense table and the witness box, placed his hand on the Bible, and, after being sworn in by the bailiff, took the stand.
Kyle Richardson approached James and asked preliminary questions. Then he said, “Father Aubrey, is it okay for me to call you James?”
“Of course.”
“How do you know the plaintiff?”
“He was a student of mine ten years ago.”
“Have you spoken with him since that time?”
“After I was notified that Wally was taking me to court, I called him and asked him why he was doing this.”
“Did he answer you?”
“He told me to speak with his lawyer.”
“Okay, then, James. Ten years ago, when Mr. Brent was in your tenth-grade history class, did you have occasion to see him after class?”
“I did.”
“Could you describe the nature of these meetings?”
“Sure. Wally was having trouble with reading comprehension. We went over the assignments, and I showed him how the text was organized, how each part had a beginning, a middle, and an end, how the parts related to the whole. But he couldn’t grasp it. He needed more than I could give him. I suggested he take a remedial reading course, but I don’t believe that he followed through.”
“And did you have any social relationship with him?”
“Absolutely not,” James said.
“And his testimony that you had inappropriate physical contact with him about a dozen times during his sophomore year at Mount St. Joseph?”
James snapped, “There’s no truth to it at all.”
“Any idea why Mr. Brent would make up such a story?”
James said, “No idea at all. I’ve never had a personal relationship with Wally Brent, as God is my witness.”
Richardson nodded and said, “Now, we all know you can’t address Mr. Brent directly, but if you could, what would you say to him?”
Terry Marshall was on her feet in a flash, shouting, “Objection, Your Honor!”
“Speak only to your attorney,” the judge said to James. “I’m allowing it for now, Ms. Marshall.”
James leaned forward, directing himself to Kyle Richardson, who stood at an angle between himself and Wally Brent.
James said, “The first thing I would say is, ‘Wally, to say that I’ve been alone with you outside the classroom, that we had any kind of personal relationship, is totally untrue, and you know that.
“‘I cared about you, Wally, of course I did. You were a likable kid, and you were frustrated at Mount St. Joseph. I wanted to help you succeed. I did the best I could.’
“I would tell Wally that I am shocked and very angry that he would make up this vicious story that discredits everything I have done in my life and everything I might do in the future. And I would say, ‘You can’t do this, Wally. I don’t deserve it. Take it back.’”
Before the last word had left James’s mouth, a woman in a blue checked dress sitting at the rail right behind the plaintiff’s table jumped to her feet and screamed, “God knows what you have done to my son, James, you snake! You LIAR! You—”
The bailiff reached the woman at the same time Wallace Brent turned in his chair and shouted, “Mom, noooo!”
The courtroom went crazy.