False Testimony by Rose Connors

he’s unaware she’s talking about him. “He told no one until he was charged with murder. He told no one until he needed an excuse.”
    Harry gets to his feet.
    Judge Gould holds up both hands, palms out; an objection isn’t necessary. Once again, Geraldine is at the outer boundary of proper opening. The judge doesn’t plan to wait until she steps over it this time. “Counsel,” he says. He removes his glasses and massages the bridge of his nose. “Move on.”
    She looks up at him and smiles, as if that’s precisely what she had in mind, but she doesn’t answer. She turns to the panel instead. “And finally,” she says, “you’ll hear from Monsignor Dominic Davis, the pastor of St. Veronica’s Parish.”
    Harry drops back into his chair.
    Geraldine leans on the rail of the jury box and turns to stare at Holliston yet again. “Monsignor Davis will tell you in no uncertain terms that the defendant’s claims are false. He’ll tell you they’re ridiculous. He’ll tell you Father McMahon never assaulted anyone, sexually or otherwise, in his fifty-seven years of life. The pastor will tell you the deceased was a man of God, a man of principle, a man of peace.”
    She turns and walks toward us. “Now I can’t tell you,” she says, “whether or not you will hear from this defendant. He’s under no obligation to testify.” She stops in front of our table, studies Holliston as if he’s a still life, then does a U-turn and walks toward the jurors again. “But I can tell you this: you will hear his story; you will hear his version of the events that transpired in St. Veronica’s sacristy last Christmas Eve. You will hear it even if he doesn’t take the witness stand—because it’s what he told the police officers when he was arrested. His story is part of their report.”
    Geraldine Schilling is good at what she does.
    “And the rules of evidence dictate that if part of a police report is admitted into evidence, the rest of that report comes in as well—even if part of it was manufactured by the accused. Bear in mind, as you listen to the recitation of events as described by the defendant, that it’s nothing more than that. His recitation. His story. His belated attempt to justify a senseless, vicious murder.”
    With that, she nods up at the judge, fires a final glare in Holliston’s direction, and reclaims her seat next to Clarence.
    Judge Gould checks the pendulum clock hanging on the wall behind the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “we’ll hear from the defense now. After that, we’ll adjourn for the day. We’ll begin with witnesses in the morning.”
    Harry stands, buttons his suit coat, and takes a halfhearted stab at straightening his tie. Holliston gets to his feet as well. I reach up and take hold of his jacket sleeve, to tell him to stay put. This isn’t the seventh-inning stretch, after all.
    Holliston shakes my hand away and steps out from behind the table. Harry looks over at him, then down at me, and I shrug. I don’t know what the hell our client’s up to. And then—in a millisecond—I do.
    “Siddown, Madigan,” he says as he struts toward the jury box. “You’re fired.”

Chapter 11
    Geraldine paces around Judge Gould’s chambers like a woman possessed. She stops short, faces the judge, and plants her hands on her narrow hips. “He can’t do this,” she says, exhaling so hard her blond bangs billow.
    She knows better. He can. Like every criminal defendant who’s compos mentis, Derrick Holliston is entitled to represent himself if he so chooses, even if it amounts to tactical suicide. It’s a constitutional guarantee. It’s a judicial headache. And it’s a prosecutorial nightmare.
    The newly pro se defendant helped himself to a seat as soon as we filed in here. Two guards keep watch on either side of him, standing just inches from his chair, hands clasped behind their backs, gazes focused on their prisoner. Clarence, Harry, and I are lined up against