False Testimony: A Crime Novel Read online

  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 nec
essary?” 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 alo
ne 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.”