Текст книги "False Testimony"

Автор книги: Rose Connors

Соавторы: Rose Connors
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Also By Rose Connors

Maximum Security

Temporary Sanity

Absolute Certainty

SCRIBNER

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2005 by Rose Connors

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Connors, Rose.

False testimony / Rose Connors.

p. cm.

I. Title.

PS3603.O553F35   2005

813’.6—dc22   2005045052

ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-7451-7

ISBN-10: 0-7432-7451-2

Visit us on the World Wide Web:

http://www.SimonSays.com

For Peggy Sharkey

Acknowledgments

Sincere thanks to the literary dream team: my editor, Sarah Knight, and my agent, Nancy Yost.

Thanks also to those individuals who contributed generously to the Cape Cod & Islands United Way in exchange for the right to christen a character.

And finally, thanks to the members of my weekly writing circle: Sara Young, Pauline Grocki, Penny Haughwout, and Maureen Hourihan—wordsmiths one and all.

MASSACHUSETTS RULES

OF PROFESSIONAL CONDUCT

RULE 3.3—CANDOR TOWARD THE TRIBUNAL

(e) In a criminal case, if defense counsel…knows that the client has testified falsely, the lawyer shall call upon the client to rectify the false testimony and, if the client refuses or is unable to do so, the lawyer shall not reveal the false testimony to the tribunal.

Chapter 1

Monday, December 13

A person of interest. That’s what local authorities dubbed Charles Kendrick, the senior United States Senator from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He wasn’t a target of the investigation, they told him. He was merely an individual believed to have information relevant to the search.

And he did. Twenty-five-year-old Michelle Forrester was a member of his D.C. staff. He hired her more than three years ago, just after she graduated from the University of Virginia with dual degrees in government science and drama. An ambitious and disarmingly attractive young woman with obvious political aspirations of her own, she quickly became Senator Kendrick’s preferred spokesperson. For the past year—while rumors ran rampant about his planned bid for the Democratic nomination—Michelle Forrester alone fielded questions at his frequent public appearances. She enabled the Senator to say his piece at each event and then make a dignified—perhaps even presidential—exit.

This past Thursday, Michelle handled the members of the media after the Senator addressed a standing-room-only crowd at Cape Cod Community College in Hyannis. The evening news featured a poised and charming Michelle entertaining endless inquiries from local reporters, joking and laughing with them easily and often. She stayed until their voracious journalists’ appetites were satisfied, until the last of their detailed and often repetitive questions was answered. She extended Senator Kendrick’s sincere thanks to all of them, for their attendance and their attention, before she left the auditorium.

And then Michelle Forrester vanished.

She was due at her parents’ home in Stamford, Connecticut, the next day to help with preparations for a cocktail party to be held that evening in honor of her father’s sixtieth birthday. She didn’t show up—not for the preparations and not for the party. She was expected back at work in D.C. first thing this morning, her office calendar jammed with appointments from eight o’clock on. She didn’t show there, either. And though her worried parents had been calling both Massachusetts and Connecticut authorities all weekend, it wasn’t until her no-show at work that the search began in earnest.

Postpone it. That’s what I advised when Senator Kendrick called my office at ten A.M. He’d stayed on the Cape after Thursday’s speech, intending to work by phone and fax through the holidays from his vacation home in North Chatham. The Barnstable County District Attorney’s Office called his D.C. number first thing this morning and his executive secretary phoned him right away with the message. It was from Geraldine Schilling—the District Attorney herself—wanting to set up a time when she might ask him a few questions. Today, if at all possible.

Senator Kendrick made it clear to me from the outset that he wasn’t seeking formal representation. He simply wanted to know if one of the lawyers in our office would be available by telephone later in the morning in case he needed a word of advice during his interview. He didn’t anticipate a problem, he assured me more than once. He was calling only out of an abundance of caution.

Twenty-four hours, I told him. Of course you’ll cooperate with the investigation, and of course you’ll do it promptly; time is paramount in these matters. But you shouldn’t speak to the DA—or to any other representative of the Commonwealth, for that matter—without an attorney at your side. He was quick to inform me that he is an attorney—Harvard-trained, he added—whereupon I recited my personal version of the old adage: Never mind the fool; the lawyer who represents himself has a certifiable moron for a client.

Answer questions tomorrow, I urged. Spend this afternoon in my office, preparing, and we’ll go to the District Attorney together in the morning. That way, if her questioning takes a direction it shouldn’t, I’ll be the one to hit the brakes. You’ll remain the willing witness, reluctantly accepting advice from your overly protective attorney.

Senator Kendrick’s laughter took me by surprise. I wasn’t trying to be funny. After a good chuckle, he thanked me for my time. And before I could answer, I was listening to a dial tone.

Chapter 2

“Good of you to join us, Martha.” Geraldine Schilling is the only person on the planet who calls me Martha. And she knows damned well I’m not here to join anybody. Charles Kendrick called me a second time—ten minutes ago, at one-thirty—because he’s worried. And he should be.

“Party’s over, Geraldine. No more questions.”

“Attorney Nickerson can be a bit rude.” Geraldine presses an index finger to her cheek and directs her observation exclusively to Senator Kendrick, as though I’m not in the room. “I should have trained her better,” she adds. She sounds almost apologetic.

Geraldine “trained” me for a solid decade, when I was an ADA and she was the First Assistant. If she’d done the job as she intended, I’d be a hell of a lot worse than rude. I’d also still be a prosecutor, not a member of the defense bar. I lift her black winter coat from the back of an upholstered wing chair in the corner and hold it out, letting it dangle from two fingers. “Adios,” I tell her. “You’re done here.”

She accepts the heavy coat but doesn’t put it on. Instead, she takes a pack of Virginia Slims from its inside pocket and then drapes it over her arm. She tamps a beige cigarette from the pack, shakes her long blond bangs at me, then turns to the Senator and arches her pale eyebrows. She seems to think he might override my decision. She’s mistaken, though; she trained me better than that.

“You’re done,” I repeat. “Senator Kendrick spoke with you voluntarily this morning but he’s not doing that anymore. Not at the moment, anyway. He called his attorney. That’s me. This is his home. And I’ve asked you to leave.”

“Marty, is that really necessary?” Senator Kendrick is seated on his living room couch, a deep-maroon, soft leather sectional. Behind him, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, is a heart-stopping view of the winter Atlantic. His long legs are crossed—in perfectly creased blue jeans—and his starched, white dress shirt is open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms. His gray-blue eyes mirror the choppy surf, yet he seems far more relaxed than he should be under the circumstances.

“Take a look outside,” I tell him, pointing to a pair of mullioned windows that face the driveway. “And then you tell me if it’s necessary.”

He stands, sighing and looking taxed by the effort, and crosses the antique Oriental carpet to the dark, polished hardwood at the perimeter of the vast room. I follow and stop just a few steps behind him, eyeing his chiseled profile as he parts the curtains and leans on the sill. He’s silent for a moment as he gets a gander of the scene that greeted me when I arrived. “Standard procedure?” he asks at last.

“Not even close,” I tell him.

Four vehicles occupy the crushed-shell driveway, all facing the closed doors of the dormered, three-car garage. The shiny Buick is Geraldine’s; she gets a new one every two years without fail, always dark blue. The ancient Thunderbird in desperate need of a trip to the car wash is mine. The enormous gray Humvee, I can only presume, is the Senator’s. And the patrol car belongs to the Town of Chatham. Two uniforms stand in front of it, leaning against its hood and talking, their breath making small white clouds in the cold December air.

The Kendrick estate sits on a point, a narrow spit of land that juts out into the Atlantic. It has a solitary neighbor, a small bungalow, to the north. Otherwise, the Kendricks enjoy exclusive use of this strip, the front and sides of their spacious house bordered by nothing but open ocean. The cops are in the driveway for a reason, not passing through on their way to someplace else. The Kendrick estate isn’t on the way to anyplace else.

“The one closest to us is the Chief,” I tell the Senator. “Ten bucks says he’ll shoot the lock off your front door if your friend the DA here presses the right button on her pager.”

Senator Kendrick pulls the curtains back together and turns away from the windows to face Geraldine. She dons her coat as she stares back at him, transferring her still unlit cigarette from one hand to the other as she threads her arms through the coat’s tailored sleeves. “Senator,” she snaps, her tone altogether different than it was just moments ago.

He stiffens beside me and turns my way, but I stare at Geraldine as her deep green eyes bore into him. “We’ve barely begun to check out your story,” she says, “and already, parts of it don’t fly.”

He takes a step toward me but still I don’t look at him. Since I’m the only person in this room who hasn’t heard his story, there’s not a hell of a lot I can offer.

“That can’t be,” he says.

“Shut up, Senator.” The utter shock of my command renders him compliant—for the moment, at least. Still, I keep my eyes fixed on our District Attorney. She carries little more than a hundred pounds on her five-foot-two-inch frame, but there’s not a tougher DA in the Commonwealth. Geraldine Schilling is no lightweight.

I take my cell phone from my jacket pocket and flip it open as I walk toward the kitchen—and Geraldine. “At this point,” I tell her, “you’re nothing more than a common trespasser.”

She laughs.

“And I’ve got the Chief on speed-dial too.”

She laughs again, louder this time, but she moves toward the kitchen door. She pauses, digs out a lighter from her coat pocket, and ignites the tip of the cigarette now pressed between her well-glossed lips. She opens the inner door, sucks in a long drag as she reaches for the outer one, and then blows a steady stream of smoke over her shoulder, her smoldering green eyes moving from mine to the Senator’s. “Mark my words,” she says to both of us. “I’ll be back.”

Chapter 3

“How’s Chuck?” Harry stares at the snowy road ahead as he asks, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He apparently finds it amusing that the Commonwealth’s senior senator is proving to be a less-than-model client.

“Chuck is the same as he was this morning,” I tell him. “Difficult.” I flip the heater in Harry’s old Jeep up another couple of notches and shift in the passenger seat to face him. He’s driving with one gloved hand, clutching a cardboard cup of steaming coffee with the other.

“Makes sense,” he says. “The guy’s usually the one calling the shots; he isn’t used to taking orders.”

“I’m not issuing orders, Harry. I’m offering advice.”

He smiles at me and then swallows a mouthful of coffee. “And you’re just the drill sergeant for the job.” He laughs.

Now there’s a sentiment every forty-something woman hopes to hear from the man in her life.

It’s three o’clock and we’re pulling into the Barnstable County Complex, headed up the hill to the House of Correction. We’ll spend the next couple of hours with Derrick Holliston, a twenty-two-year-old creep who’s accused of murdering a popular parish priest last Christmas Eve. Harry is Holliston’s court-appointed defender and—according to Harry—neither of them is happy about it. Holliston apparently thinks Harry’s efforts are less than zealous. And Harry calls Holliston a lowlife, a bottom-feeder.

Like it or not, Harry and I will spend the rest of the afternoon walking Holliston through his direct testimony. Tomorrow, to the extent possible, we’ll prepare him for cross. His first-degree-murder trial starts Wednesday morning. And unless Harry can convince him otherwise in the next forty-eight hours, Holliston intends to take the stand. He plans to tell the judge and jury that he acted in self-defense; that fifty-seven-year-old Father Frank McMahon made aggressive sexual advances toward him on the evening in question; that when Holliston resisted, the older man became violent. If Harry’s instincts are on target—and I’ve never known them to be otherwise—Holliston’s story is just that. Fiction.

Harry pulls into a snow-clogged spot and parks near the steps leading up to the foreboding House of Correction. He leaves the engine running, though, and shifts in his seat to lean against the driver’s side door. It seems he intends to finish his coffee before we go inside. “The guy’s a liar,” he says.

“You don’t know that, Harry. You think he’s lying, but you don’t know it.” Harry and I have had this discussion a hundred times over the course of the past year, but he can’t let it go. It’s eating at him.

“Trust me,” he says. “I know.”

“No, you don’t. Not the way the Rules of Professional Conduct require. There were two people in St. Veronica’s Chapel when it happened. One of them is dead. Holliston is the only living person who was there. No one can prove he’s lying.”

Harry shakes his head and stares into his coffee cup. He’s struggling with the ugly issue that confronts every criminal defense lawyer sooner or later: what to do when you believe—but can’t prove—your client’s story is fabricated. If he could prove it—before Holliston testifies—he could move for permission to withdraw from the case completely. His motion wouldn’t necessarily be granted, but at least he’d have a shot. As it stands, with nothing but his gut telling him his client’s a liar, he’s stuck. And once Holliston testifies, Harry will be stuck for good. At that point, even if he were to discover slam-dunk evidence of perjury, he’d be obligated to keep it to himself. The Massachusetts Canons of Professional Ethics say so.

Harry stares through the now foggy windshield and his eyes settle on the chain-link fence surrounding the House of Correction. The fence is twenty feet high—twenty-two if you count the electrified barbed wire coiled at the top—but Harry doesn’t seem to see an inch of it. He’s preoccupied, brooding even. And I don’t need a crystal ball to tell me his thoughts are back in Chatham, in the center of the small sacristy at St. Veronica’s Chapel.

“I can prove Holliston’s lying,” he says, still staring uphill. “Give me fifteen minutes alone with him—in a dark alley.”

“Listen to yourself, Harry. If you ever got wind of a cop saying something like that, you’d call him a miscreant. You’d raise the courthouse roof to suppress his testimony. And then you’d go after his badge.”

Harry nods, conceding all points, and drains the last of his coffee. “Come on,” he says, dropping the empty cup into a plastic bag dangling from the cigarette lighter. “Let’s get this over with.”

We emerge into the late-day mist and both lock our doors before slamming them shut. Most of the time, Harry doesn’t bother to lock his Jeep. Any thief dumb enough to steal this crate deserves to drive it for a while, he always says. But here in the county complex the rules are different. Harry locks without fail, not because he’s more concerned about car theft here than anywhere else, but because he’d rather not have an unexpected visitor waiting in the backseat when he returns.

The stone steps are covered with snow that melted a little during yesterday’s foray into above-freezing temperatures and then refroze during last night’s return to single digits. I opt to climb the hill beside the steps instead, where my boots can find a little traction in the snow. Harry trudges up the hill too, on the opposite side of the stairs, though he seems oblivious to the icy conditions. He looks down at the shin-high snow, one hand clutching the battered schoolbag he carries in lieu of a briefcase, the other tucked into his coat pocket. “So what did you tell old Chuck?” he asks, glancing sideways at me. “What are his marching orders?”

“I didn’t give him marching orders, Harry.”

“Oh, right.” He removes his free hand from his pocket and taps his temple. “Advice,” he says, feigning the utmost seriousness. “You gave him lawyerly advice. What was it?”

At six feet, 210, Harry has a good half foot and ninety pounds on me. But I’d like to clock him upside the head anyway. “Simple,” I say. “I told our senior senator to keep his mouth shut.”

Harry laughs out loud, sending a cloud of white vapor into the cold air ahead of us. “Simple? Are you serious, Marty? The guy’s been a politician his entire adult life. You think it’s going to be simple for him to keep his mouth shut?”

I walk ahead of Harry as the guard at the front booth presses a button that opens the prison’s enormous double doors, two slabs of black steel in the center of a redbrick mountain. “It better be,” I answer over my shoulder. “The guy’s front and center in a high-profile missing person case. And the young woman’s been gone four days now. He damn well better keep his mouth shut.”

The front desk is manned by two guards who would look ominous even without their shiny weapons. They greet us with silent nods and wait, knowing we’ll jump through the institutional hoops without instruction. We hand over our Massachusetts Bar cards to be checked against the list of warden-approved appointments. We empty our pockets of keys, paper clips, and coins. We turn in our coats, hats, and gloves. I surrender my Lady Smith as well and Harry pulls Derrick Holliston’s thick file from the old schoolbag. The file goes in with us; the bag stays here.

Once each of us is stripped to a single layer of clothes, we’re directed—one at a time—through the metal detector beside the desk. Neither of us sets if off, which comes as a great shock to everyone in the room. This particular machine usually shrieks at all of us—for no apparent reason. A third guard meets us on the other side of it, his expression wary. He looks like he’s about fifteen and his eyes say he’s already made up his mind about Harry and me. Our failure to set off the alarm renders us suspect.

We wait with the vigilant guard—our assigned escort, I presume—while the two at the front desk rummage through Holliston’s file. They seem to think we might have hidden something sinister amid our pretrial motions. A miniature hacksaw, perhaps, along with a diagram of the escape route voted most likely to succeed by the county’s cleverest guests. Minutes pass before they apparently conclude that the overstuffed accordion folder holds nothing of interest. They turn it over to the cautious one, who directs us toward the dingy corridor behind him with a toss of his crew-cut head.

Harry and I lead the way, our escort three paces behind with the file tucked under one arm. “Stop right there,” he orders soon after we pass the first door on our left. We do, knowing he allowed us to walk past our destination on purpose. It’s a device some of them use—mostly the new guys—to avoid ever turning their backs to their charges, no matter who their charges happen to be. His key is already in the lock when we turn to face him. He keeps his focus on us as he opens the door and steps aside. He hands the file to Harry when we approach and Harry enters the meeting room first. As I follow, the young guard assumes a sentinel’s pose in the hallway and gives me a gentlemanly nod.

Our client is already here. Derrick Holliston is seated at a small, banged-up card table and I’m initially surprised to see he’s free of restraints. I shouldn’t be, though. This eight-by-ten room is windowless—the air in it long past stale—and its solitary door locks automatically. The accused isn’t going anywhere.

Harry drops the heavy file onto the table and roots through his jacket pockets until he comes up with his glasses. “This is Marty Nickerson,” he says to Holliston as he puts them on. “She’ll sit second-chair at trial.”

Harry and I frequently second-chair for each other. Limited resources dictate that only one of us actively works each file, but when a trial rolls around, an extra set of eyes and ears can be critical. The second chair also takes a witness or two in most cases, giving lead counsel a much-needed breather. We’ve decided I’ll handle Tommy Fitzpatrick in this one. He’s Chatham’s Chief of Police. And I was an ADA long enough to establish a pretty good rapport with him.

Holliston stares at me for a moment, then turns his attention back to Harry. “Good,” the less-than-satisfied client says. “You need help.”

Harry looks over his glasses at Holliston and smirks, but otherwise lets the remark pass. He sits and starts unpacking the file without a word. I retrieve my own glasses from my jacket pocket and then claim the only remaining seat.

“First of all,” Harry says, opening a manila folder in the middle of the table, “let’s go over the Commonwealth’s offer again.”

“Let’s not,” Holliston says, mimicking Harry’s cadence. “Let’s tell the Commonwealth to stick its lousy offer where the sun don’t shine. I told you—I ain’t doin’ time. Not for this one.”

Harry leans back on two legs of his chair. “You are if you’re convicted,” he says evenly. “You’re doing endless time.”

“Well, now, that’s where you come in, ain’t it? You got a job to do, remember? You’re the guy whose job is to get me off.”

On the surface, Harry appears entirely unaffected by his client’s comments. But I know better. He’d like to deck this smart-ass.

“I’m also the guy who’s supposed to advise you,” he says, his words measured. “And I’m advising you to seriously consider pleading out.”

“Yeah? Well, you can stick your advice right up there with the offer.” Holliston stands, folds his arms against the chest of his orange jumpsuit, and presses his back against the wall. He’s a wiry man, five-ten or so, with a sketchy mustache and greasy brown hair that hangs below his collar. His pallid complexion is partially covered by a five o’clock shadow—yesterday’s and today’s, I’m guessing. “I told you a hundred times,” he says, jutting his chin out at Harry. “No deal. What’re you, deaf?”

Holliston reaches up to the low, suspended ceiling and dislodges one fiberglass square. He peers into the opening, presumably expecting to find the treasure he stashed up there the last time he was here.

“Did you lose something?” Harry asks.

Holliston glares at him like an impudent child. “No, I dint lose nothing,” he says. He goes back to examining the gap he created, appearing to be in no hurry to continue our discussion. “I was an electrician in a prior life,” he says. “I like wires.”

Harry laughs. “I’m surprised you had a job in your prior life,” he says. “That’s more than you can say this time around.”

Holliston glares at him again.

“What’s the offer?” I ask them both.

“What’s the difference?” Holliston demands.

“Humor me,” I tell him. “Generally speaking, I try to learn a fact or two about each case before trial begins. Crazy, I know.”

“Murder two,” Harry says. “Eligible for parole in fifteen. And he’ll get it if he keeps his hands clean and his mouth zipped.”

“You can’t not consider it,” I tell Holliston.

He turns toward me, his eyes wild, apparently infuriated by my audacity. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about it,” he says.

“You’re wrong there,” I tell him, meeting his angry eyes. “I know a few things. I know you’re looking at life if you get bagged for murder one, for instance. I know life means life, as in, until you draw your last breath behind bars. And I know this deal gets you out in your late thirties—still young enough to build a decent future. Only a complete fool would reject it out of hand.”

Holliston snorts and spreads his arms wide, as if he’s onstage and the house is sold out. “What’s with you people?” he asks. “First I get this guy”—he tosses his head toward Harry—“wantin’ to sell me down the river. And now you come in here tellin’ me I don’t need to have a life till fifteen years from now. What the hell kind of sorry lawyers are you? Ever hear of stickin’ up for your client, for Chrissake?”

“Advising you is part of our job,” Harry tries again.

“And you already done that part,” Holliston fires back. “I ain’t takin’ your advice. And I’m the boss here. So give it a rest. Get to the other part of your job. Tellin’ me how to tell them people what happened that night. I want it done right. I want everything crystal clear. And I don’t want nothin’ left out.”

Harry drums his fingers on the table and his eyes move to mine. He’s resigned. Holliston is correct; at this particular point in the process, he is the boss. He claims he acted only as necessary to preserve his own life. If the jury believes him, he’ll walk away a free man. And like it or not, we have a duty to try to make that happen.

Harry stops drumming and again leans back on the two rear legs of his chair, staring at Holliston. He cups his hands behind his head, fingers laced, elbows akimbo, and takes a deep breath. “Go ahead,” he says to our system-savvy client at last. “Tell us your tale.”