Текст книги "False Testimony"

Автор книги: Rose Connors

Соавторы: Rose Connors
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Chapter 10

“An ice pick,” Geraldine says. She’s seated at her table, next to Clarence, motionless. She was in that spot when the rest of us left for the break at two and she was there when we got back an hour later. This isn’t normal. Geraldine Schilling rarely sits; her metabolism doesn’t allow it. Everyone involved in this case seems unusually troubled by it. Everyone except Derrick Holliston, that is.

The courtroom isn’t filled to capacity, but it’s close. More than a hundred people sit in the gallery’s benches—plus the twenty of us up here in front. Even so, there’s not a sound in the room as we all wait for her to continue. She swivels her chair toward the jurors now and steeples her hands beneath her chin. “Our Medical Examiner will tell you that Father Francis Patrick McMahon was stabbed to death with an ice pick.”

The pause is so long that a person who doesn’t know our District Attorney might think she has nothing more to say. That person would be wrong; Geraldine always has more to say. She wheels her chair back, away from the table, and stands. “Stabbed,” she repeats. “Eight times.”

Fourteen pairs of eyes remain fixed on her as she takes slow, deliberate steps toward the jury box. No one blinks.

“Three times in the left shoulder.” She holds up one finger, then a second, then a third. “Twice in the right.” She adds her little finger, then her thumb, and falls silent again, her raised right hand rigid as if she’s about to take an oath.

Maria Marzetti closes her eyes. Cora Rowlands does too, then bites her lower lip. No one else moves.

“Twice in the upper abdomen,” Geraldine says at last. She uses both hands now to continue the count. “And once…”

She abandons her finger tally and leans on the rail of the jury box.

“…directly into the aorta.”

Most of them react. A few shake their heads; others cover their mouths. All but two look away from Geraldine—at their laps, at the ceiling, at the floor—as they absorb the information she’s giving them. Side-by-side stoic souls in the back row, though—Robert Eastman and Alex Doane—remain immobile, arms folded across their suit coats.

“Dr. Ramsey will tell you that Father Francis Patrick McMahon bled to death in minutes. He was dead less than an hour when his body was discovered by his pastor.”

Calvin Ramsey has been Barnstable County’s Medical Examiner for a year and a half. He’s a meticulous scientist, a persuasive witness. His report nails Holliston—to the corpse, to the scene, and to the weapon—six ways from Sunday. The doctor won’t comment on the self-defense claim, of course. He can’t.

“Dr. Ramsey will also tell you that blood samples taken from the crime scene came from two sources.”

Geraldine turns her back to the jurors now, and walks slowly across the room to our table. It’s time to point. In every murder trial, there comes a time for the prosecutor to point. And no prosecutor does it more effectively than Geraldine Schilling.

“Most of it came from the deceased,” she says. “But some, trace amounts, came from this man.”

Holliston looks directly at her index finger as if he’s staring down the barrel of a shotgun. And he is.

“He admits it,” she says, turning back to face the panel, her finger still inches from Holliston’s face. “He admits stabbing the priest to death. But he wants you to say it’s okay.”

Harry shifts in his seat, one hand on the edge of our table, the other clutching his armrest. She’s inching toward improper territory; he’s preparing to pounce.

“This man,” she says, still pointing, “wants you to say Father Francis Patrick McMahon deserved it.”

Harry explodes as he jumps to his feet. The gavel pounds the desk three times before he finishes the word objection. Judge Gould is a step ahead of him.

The judge is on his feet too. “Attorney Schilling, you know better.” He’s not shouting, exactly, but he’s close. He and Geraldine have a history.

“Move for an instruction, Your Honor.” Harry’s shaking his head at the inadequacy of the remedy even as he asks for it. He’ll get the instruction. But the damage is done. The words can’t be unspoken.

“The jury will disregard the prosecutor’s last comment,” Judge Gould tells the panel, “in its entirety.”

They nod at him, most wearing earnest expressions. They’ll disregard the comment. Or at least they think they will.

The judge sits again, his attention back to Geraldine. “One more remark like that, Counsel, and your opening statement is over.”

“My apologies to the Court, Your Honor.”

Baloney. Her apologies are offered strictly to mollify the jury. Every lawyer in the room knows that, including Judge Gould. “Move on,” he says, frowning at her.

Harry sits as Geraldine walks back toward the panel.

“After Dr. Ramsey testifies,” she says, “you’ll hear from Chatham’s Chief of Police, Thomas Fitzpatrick. He’ll tell you it took a full week to assemble the forensic evidence necessary to file the appropriate charges. Chief Fitzpatrick will tell you this defendant told his tall tale immediately—as soon as the police stormed his apartment. The Chief will also tell you this defendant told no one about the alleged sexual assault until that time. He sought no medical care. He sought no assistance of any kind. An entire week had passed. And he told no one about the trauma he claims to have suffered. Think about that.”

She pauses so they can.

Harry grips the edge of our table, poised to pounce once more. Her job is to give them a road map of the evidence she intends to present, not to argue about what it does or doesn’t mean. Not now, anyway.

“Think about the fact that this defendant”—she points at Holliston yet again, from across the room, and raises her voice for the first time today—“claims he was sexually assaulted by Father McMahon, claims a physical altercation ensued, an altercation so serious he had no choice but to stab the older man in self-defense. Eight times, remember.”

Every juror nods. They remember.

“And then he told no one. For a week.” She plants herself in front of the box and turns to stare at Holliston. He gazes straight ahead, the blank look on his face suggesting 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 the side wall. Even Judge Gould is on his feet, leaning against the bookcase behind his desk. “Mr. Holliston,” he says, his tone grave, “I urge you to reconsider.”

Holliston snorts. The judge’s advice seems to rate right up there with Harry’s. “That’s what I did,” he says. “I reconsidered. I don’t want no lawyer. I want the job done right. So I’m gonna do it myself.”

“The ramifications of this decision will follow you for the rest of your life,” the judge tells him. “Taking this step will dramatically increase the likelihood of conviction. And if you are convicted of first-degree murder, you’ll spend the rest of your earthly days behind bars. I’m sure your lawyers have explained that to you.”

Holliston wags a finger at Judge Gould. “Used-to-be lawyers,” he says. “My used-to-be lawyers explained that to me. And I don’t like the idea of spending the rest of my earthly days behind bars.” He imitates the judge’s inflection when he repeats his words. “I don’t like it one bit. That’s why I’m my lawyer now.”

The judge sighs and turns to Harry.

Harry shrugs and looks up at the ceiling. “He’s a big boy. He’s made his decision. Let him live with it.”

Not exactly what the judge was hoping to hear.

“Mr. Holliston,” I try, “if there are specific issues you’re worried about, particular facts you want brought out during trial, I’m sure Mr. Madigan will accommodate you. You can have all the input you want without giving up the benefit of counsel.”

He snorts again, louder this time. My advice ranks a rung or two below the judge’s, it seems. “Benefit?” he says, pointing at Harry. “Ex-cu-uze me, but I don’t see no benefit with this counsel.”

“Mr. Holliston, you don’t have a clue.” Geraldine pivots in her spiked heels to face him. “You don’t have any idea what you’re in for if you go forward pro se.”

He juts his chin upward and sneers, inviting her to fill him in.

She pauses and glances at the court reporter, who’s perched on his stool beside the judge’s desk, tapping away. No doubt she’s weighing what she wants to say in the heat of the moment against the eventual impact her words will have on appeal.

“I’ll bury you,” she says.

To hell with the appeal.

“Don’t think we’re going to handle you with kid gloves,” she continues. “You’ll be held to the same standards every real lawyer is held to in that courtroom.” She points to the chambers door. “And I’ll shut you down every time you fall short.”

Holliston yawns. He’s unimpressed.

“And you will fall short,” she tells him, her green eyes ablaze. “At every turn. I guarantee it.”

Judge Gould pulls his chair out from the desk and sits. “Look,” he says to Holliston, “we can’t stop you. If you’re determined to represent yourself, you have an absolute right to do it. No one in this room can stop you.”

Our ex-client almost smiles. At last, an acknowledgment of his vast power. He pounds his palms on the armrests and slides to the edge of his chair. “That’s right,” he says, looking pleased that the judge finally figured it out. “So let’s get on with it.”

Judge Gould shakes his head. “Not so fast. We can’t stop you from taking your defense into your own hands. But we can stop you from doing it today.”

Holliston looks confused, then annoyed, his brief moment of omnipotence abruptly ended.

The judge checks his watch. “It’s late,” he says. “I’m going to dismiss the jurors for the day. If you’re still sure of your decision in the morning, sir, you may deliver your opening statement then.”

Holliston looks like he wants to argue, but Judge Gould doesn’t give him a chance. “Mr. Madigan, Ms. Nickerson,” he says as he stands, “I want you in the courtroom throughout trial.”

Holliston stands too, and his escorts inch closer to him. His expression is satisfied now. Overall, he’s pleased with the results of our powwow.

The judge continues talking to Harry and me as he heads for the door. “I want you waiting in the wings,” he says, “ready to advise when necessary, ready to jump back on board if the defendant changes his mind.”

He reaches for the doorknob, then stops. “And Mr. Holliston,” he says, turning to face him.

Holliston stares back at him, signature sneer in place.

“I sincerely hope you will.”

Chapter 12

Harry and I pull into our newly plowed office driveway at five, earlier than either of us expected to be back. Charles Kendrick is already here, though. The Senator’s enormous gray Humvee is parked next to my tired Thunderbird. Harry cuts the Jeep’s engine and jumps out, eager to play GI Joe with our senior senator’s tank.

He strolls around in the falling snow—seemingly oblivious to the biting wind—peering through the Hummer’s windows and whistling. “Damn,” he says, running his gloved hand along the hood. “I could live in this thing.”

“No, you couldn’t,” I correct him as I head for the old farmhouse. “You don’t have enough furniture. And the rent would kill you.”

The Kydd is seated behind the antique pine table in the front office, just hanging up the telephone, two almost empty Cape Wok cartons in front of him. He points to the ceiling with his coffee mug as soon as I close the door and then scrawls on a yellow legal pad: nervous breakdown in progress. Senator Kendrick is upstairs in my office, and apparently he’s not doing well. I hang my damp parka on the coatrack and head for the wrought-iron spiral staircase. Harry hasn’t come inside yet. He’s still hovering around the Hummer, I suppose, mentally moving in.

Senator Kendrick is standing, gazing out the double-hung rear windows, taking in the view behind our farmhouse-turned-office-building: an open field, a small stand of scrub pines, and the salty water of Taylor’s Pond in the distance. He wheels around when I reach the top step and shoves both hands deep into his pants pockets, seemingly embarrassed to have been caught alone with his own thoughts. “Marty,” he says, his tone suggesting he’s been waiting all day, “you’re here.”

Can’t argue with that. I gesture toward the slip-covered couch against the far wall and he takes a seat on one end of it. I slide my briefcase onto a corner of the cluttered desk, drape my suit jacket over the leather chair, and then join him. He leans forward when I sit, elbows on his knees, head lowered, fists clenched. The Kydd’s assessment was accurate. This is a man in crisis.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” he answers too quickly, then stares down at the worn, braided rug.

I don’t believe him. But I don’t say so.

“There are things I haven’t told you,” he continues. “And I should.”

He pauses, seems to grope for words. I wait.

“Things you should know,” he adds at last.

“And you just realized this today?” I’m pretty sure I know what he’s decided to tell me, of course, but I don’t let on. He should do the talking.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry. I should have leveled with you at the outset.”

He pauses again. And again I wait.

“About Michelle Forrester.” He looks pained when he says her name. His eyes meet mine for the first time today, then dart to my empty desk chair. “Look, there’s no delicate way to put this.”

“Don’t worry about delicate,” I tell him. “Just give me the facts.”

“We had an affair,” he says quietly, reexamining the rug.

I nod and wait for him to continue.

“It went on for about a year. And then my wife found out.”

“How?”

He shakes his head and sighs. “She and Abby went to San Francisco to spend a week with my in-laws. Michelle stayed with me in Boston for part of that time.”

“In Boston?” When they’re not in Washington, D.C., or Chatham, the Kendricks live on a frequently photographed hillside estate in Concord. I didn’t know they had a place in Boston as well.

“I keep an apartment there,” he says. “I have for years. I’m in the city a lot for political events and fund-raisers. Sometimes I’m just too damned tired to drive home afterward.”

That makes sense. But taking Michelle Forrester there sure as hell didn’t. I raise my eyebrows at him.

“I know,” he says. “It was stupid. But remember, we couldn’t go to a hotel. Or even a restaurant.”

He’s right, of course. They would have been on the front page of every rag in the nation if they had.

“In any event,” he says, “Honey had a tiff with her mother, cut the visit short by a couple of days. She and Abby flew into Logan late one night and decided to stay at the apartment, drive out to Concord in the morning.” He looks up at me and shakes his head, then closes his eyes. “It was ugly,” he mutters.

“How long ago?”

He leans back against the couch, stretches his long legs, and faces me. “Four months. Just before Abby went back to school.”

And just as rumors of his potential bid for the Democratic nomination were reaching a crescendo. I keep that thought to myself. “What happened?” I ask.

He half laughs. “What didn’t happen? Tears. Threats. Tantrums. And not just Honey. Abby too. I swear, sometimes those two seem more like sisters than mother and daughter. There’s not a dinner plate left in the place.”

“But your wife didn’t leave you.”

“No,” he says. “I begged her not to. I swore I’d end it with Michelle. And I did. That day.”

“Okay.” I stand and cross the room, my back to him, then take the chair behind my desk. “You don’t need me to tell you this is going to come out, Senator. Law enforcement will analyze every detail of Michelle Forrester’s existence with a fine-tooth comb before this is over. Sooner or later, they’ll get to you.”

“Sooner,” he says.

“Pardon?”

It’s his turn to stand now. He walks toward the two upholstered wing chairs facing my desk, leans on the back of one, and stares down at his clasped hands. “Sooner,” he repeats. “They’ll get to me sooner, not later.”

“There’s more.”

He nods. “We were together Thursday night,” he says, “the night before she disappeared.”

Sometimes I think no client can say anything to surprise me anymore. Other times, I know better.

“It wasn’t planned,” he continues, not looking at me. “She stopped by the Old Harbor Road house after she finished at Four Cs.”

“Four Cs” is local parlance for Cape Cod Community College—the last place Michelle Forrester was seen by anyone who’s come forward. Anyone other than the Senator, I realize now.

“Hold it.” I raise my hands to stop him. “She was in Hyannis. She was due in Stamford, Connecticut, the next morning. Are you telling me she drove a half hour in the wrong direction for an impromptu visit?”

He nods again, a faint smile on his face. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. She knew Honey and Abby weren’t coming to the Cape until the next day, knew I’d be at the house alone. She showed up at about seven. She was quite pleased with the way the press conference had gone. I was too; I’d just watched parts of it on the news. Michelle wanted to talk about it. I fixed her a drink.”

He shrugs, as if the rest was inevitable.

“What time did she leave?”

“Before six,” he says, “the next morning.”

“In the dark.”

“That’s right.” He meets my gaze now. “We have a neighbor—in the bungalow behind our place. She’s a year-rounder.”

Let’s hope she’s a blind year-rounder.

“Michelle and I had spent time at the Chatham house before,” he says. “She always parked in the garage, left before daybreak, kept her headlights off until she reached the main road.”

“Give me a minute,” I tell him. I plant my elbows on the desk and knead my temples. I wish I had eaten the damned cranberry muffin at the Piccadilly Deli a few hours ago. My head aches.

Senator Kendrick straightens, walks around the chair he’s been leaning on, and drops into it. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I know I should have told you sooner. But I kept thinking we’d hear from Michelle.”

His eyes meet mine when I look up and the emotion in them is genuine. He’s beyond worried; he’s terrified. “I just didn’t think anything bad had happened to her,” he says. “But now I’m afraid I was wrong.”