False Testimony: A Crime Novel

by Rose Connors

  I pass our copy of the lab report to the Kydd so he can check her facts. I’m virtually certain she’s calling it like it is, though. Geraldine Schilling usually does.

  The judge studies his copy of the report, then peers over the rims of his half-glasses. “That’s to be expected,” he says to Geraldine. “It was her car.”

  “True,” she says. “That is to be expected.” She turns and walks slowly toward us, her eyes holding the Senator’s. “But not in the trunk.”

  A single sob fills the room, then ends abruptly. Catherine Forrester sits in the front row behind the prosecutors’ table, across the aisle from Monsignor Davis and the Kendricks, with both hands pressed over her mouth. Her eyes are squeezed shut and two rivers course down her cheeks. She’s flanked by Warren and Meredith, both trying in vain to comfort her, both fighting losing battles with their own floodgates.

  Geraldine waits, longer than necessary, still staring at the Senator. “Counselor,” Judge Long says quietly, “continue.”

  “Blood,” she says, looking up at him. “We also found a solitary—but sizable—patch of blood on the upholstery in the trunk. It, too, matches that of the deceased.”

  The judge nods and looks down at the lab report again. Geraldine goes back to her table, retrieves an evidence bag, and hands it up to him. “And this,” she says. “A rope, approximately eighteen inches in length.”

  Judge Long scrutinizes the bag, then looks back at Geraldine. “Ordinary clothesline,” he says.

  “Exactly,” she agrees as she pivots and walks toward us again. “What we didn’t find,” she says, “is the spare. The BMW roadster’s spare tire is ordinarily stored in the trunk. Michelle Forrester’s was missing.” She slaps a hand on our table and the Senator jumps a little beside me. “Until this morning,” she says, glaring at him.

  Senator Kendrick stares back at her, then at me, and shakes his head. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

  “As we all know,” she says, turning away from him and facing the bench again, “Chatham’s harbormaster found Ms. Forrester’s body yesterday, floating in the shallows of Pleasant Bay.”

  Catherine breaks down again. Geraldine pauses, allowing the mother’s sobs to take center stage. There’s no other sound in the crowded courtroom.

  “Our Medical Examiner performed the autopsy yesterday,” she says at last. She retrieves another set of documents from Clarence and again delivers copies to us and to the judge. “This is his report.”

  I check the signature line, then pass it over to the Kydd. Calvin Ramsey had a long day yesterday.

  “Cause of death,” she says, holding up her copy of the autopsy report, “cerebral hemorrhage.”

  Catherine’s sobs had softened, but they escalate again. Geraldine turns to look at her. “Induced by blunt trauma to the cranium,” she says quietly, “a single heavy blow to the skull. The absence of water in the lungs indicates she was dead before her body was dumped into the ocean.”

  All three Forresters are audibly crying now. Everyone else in the room is silent. The Senator is rigid beside me; he doesn’t seem to be breathing.

  “My office secured a search warrant this morning,” Geraldine continues as she marches toward us yet again, “for the Kendrick property on Old Harbor Road in North Chatham.” She pounds our table this time, her fist landing squarely in front of our now paralyzed client. “Lo and behold,” she says, “we found Michelle Forrester’s spare. In this man’s garage.”

  A surge of commentary erupts in the gallery. The judge pounds his gavel, hard. Geraldine is on the move; she’s got more.

  “We also found a coil of clothesline hanging on a nail,” she says, pointing at the evidence bag on the bench. “That clothesline.”

  Judge Long looks down at the rope, but doesn’t react.

  “We found blood on the garage floor,” she says. “Traces, but enough.”

  The judge picks up the lab report again.

  “That’s right,” Geraldine says as she watches him read. “It’s a match.”

  She returns to her table. Clarence kneels beside it, retrieves a long, narrow, plastic-wrapped package, and hands it to her. It’s almost as long as she is.

  “And finally,” she says, “we found this.”

  She lays it on the bench and returns to our table. “A shovel,” she says, addressing the gallery. “The shovel that was used to murder Michelle Andrea Forrester.”

  The onlookers grow noisy again but Judge Long doesn’t bother to hush them. Instead, he goes back to the lab report and the Kydd pushes a page from our copy across the table to me. He’s highlighted the portion that details the evidence found on the underside of the shovel’s heavy metal base: hair, blood, skin fragments. All Michelle’s, along with a small slice of her scalp.

  I lean toward my client, hoping he’ll have something to say, some theory about what the hell happened here. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t even seem to know I’m looking at him. He’s turned completely around in his chair, his eyes locked with Honey’s. She’s staring back at him, dry-eyed, open-mouthed. She looks horrified. So does he. I’m willing to bet everyone else in the courtroom does too.

  Judge Long sets the lab report on the bench, removes his glasses, and leans on his forearms. He’s quiet for a moment—as is everyone else in the room now—staring down at the damning report. When he turns his attention our way, his somber expression says it all. Geraldine Schilling has done her job; she’s assembled a case against the Senator, a real one. She’s convinced the judge of that much, to say the least. “Counsel,” he says to me, “how does your client plead?”

  “Guilty.” The voice is loud, definite, and it takes a split second for me to realize it came from the seat next to mine. The Senator is on his feet in a flash. I jump up and grab his arm. “Shut up,” I tell him. “Now.”

  He shakes my hand away. “I’m ready for sentencing,” he says to the startled judge. “I’m guilty.”

  The room goes nuts. Judge Long bangs his gavel a half dozen times. “Senator Kendrick,” he says, “you’re represented by counsel, sir. Your attorney will enter your plea. Please be seated.”

  It’s obvious the Senator has no intention of doing any such thing. He moves out from behind our table, shaking his head at the judge. “My attorney doesn’t know anything about it,” he says. “I lied to her.”

  The noise in the gallery goes up another decibel.

  “Look,” he says to Judge Long, “Michelle Forrester and I had an affair.”

  Pandemonium erupts behind us.

  “I broke it off,” the Senator continues, “four months ago. But last Thursday…” He turns to Honey and grimaces. “I lapsed.”

  “Senator Kendrick,” Judge Long says, almost shouting to be heard above the ruckus, “I strongly advise you to sit down now, sir. Your attorney is here to speak for you.”

  It’s pretty clear the Senator isn’t going to take the judge’s advice. He’s talking to everybody now. Everybody but the Kydd and me, that is. The spectators. The reporters. The District Attorney. “Michelle and I spent last Thursday night together,” he says. “It was a terrible mistake.”

  “Senator!” The judge is on his feet now. He bangs his gavel once more, hard. “Please, sir, be seated.”

  Not a chance. “Michelle read more into that night than I ever intended,” the Senator says. “She thought we’d reestablished our prior relationship. She thought we’d go forward as—well—as a couple.” He pauses and stares at his wife for a few seconds. “Michelle wanted more from me than I was free to give.”

  Honey buries her face in her hands, sobbing. Abby wraps her arms around her mother, then she breaks down too.

  “When I explained that to her,” the Senator continues, “she got angry. She threatened to go to my wife, to tell her everything. And then…”

  He pauses for a breath, and I realize for the first time that he’s trembling.

  “And then I lost my temper.” He shrugs, exactly the way he did in my
office when he described Michelle’s impromptu visit to Old Harbor Road. The rest was inevitable, he’s telling us.

  I don’t buy it.

  “Your Honor,” I shout above the ruckus, “we ask the court to enter a not guilty plea at this time.”

  “That’s out of the question.” Geraldine is shouting now too. It’s the only way to be heard in here. “The man already entered a plea. He can’t change it now.”

  Judge Gould bangs his gavel repeatedly until the crowd quiets. He doesn’t speak until the silence is complete. “You forget, Ms. Schilling, that this man’s plea is not entered until I accept it.” His words are quiet, measured. “And I don’t.” He looks from Geraldine to me to the Senator. “I don’t accept any plea at this time.”

  “But Your Honor—” Geraldine says.

  He silences her with one hand, packs up his file, and stands. The confused bailiff tells the spectators to rise. “We’ll reconvene on Monday morning,” the judge says as he leaves the bench, “first thing. The defendant will enter his plea at that time.”

  Geraldine shakes her head; she’s frustrated. A guilty plea today would have been far more tidy.

  Judge Long pauses at the chambers door and turns to the defense table. The Senator is still on his feet, in front of it, the Kydd now at his side. “Senator Kendrick,” the judge says, “I suspect your lawyer plans to spend some time with you this weekend.”

  I sure as hell do. They both look at me and I nod to confirm it.

  Judge Long turns his attention back to the still-trembling Senator. “I strongly suggest you listen to her, sir, take her advice.” He takes another quick glance at me, then heads for chambers.

  The room erupts again as soon as the judge exits. The guards head for their prisoner at once, but I step in front of them. “Give us a minute?” I ask. They nod and resume their posts against the side wall.

  “What the hell was that?” I bark at my client.

  “It was a confession,” he says.

  “It was not. It was an act. You were lying.”

  He shakes his head, his eyes angry. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “I was owning up to my crime.”

  “You were owning up to someone else’s crime.”

  He takes a deep breath before he answers. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, his voice even. “But I understand. You’re a criminal defense attorney. You’re not used to people coming clean.”

  I get as close to him as I can without stepping on his feet. “What I’m not used to,” I tell him, “is standing by while my client pleads guilty to a crime he didn’t commit. And I don’t intend to get used to it anytime soon.”

  He looks into the distance, grits his teeth, and says nothing.

  “Listen to me,” I tell him, “we’re talking about first-degree murder here, life behind bars. Life. Whatever it is you’re hiding can’t be worse.”

  His gaze returns to me; it’s steady. “You don’t know that, Counselor,” he says.

  And he’s right. I don’t.

  Chapter 26

  Harry doesn’t pull into our office driveway when we reach it; he cruises on by. We’re eastbound on Main Street, destination undisclosed. “What?” I ask. “The day hasn’t been long enough? We’re taking a joyride now?”

  “Just a short one,” he says.

  He’s out of his mind. It’s seven-thirty. He hung around the Superior Courthouse until six, when the Holliston jurors retired to their hotel for the evening, then he crossed the parking lot and caught the final moments of chaos in the District Court. It was pushing seven by the time we extricated ourselves from the reporters and spectators and made our way through the snowdrifts to his Jeep.

  The Kydd pulled out of the county complex just moments before we did, late for a hot date. The story of my life, he always says. If he’s going to keep this job, he’s fond of telling Harry and me, he may as well enter a Roman Catholic seminary. Harry always tells him to forget it. Rectors don’t cotton to Southern Baptists, he says.

  “Are stores open?” Harry asks now.

  He really isn’t of this planet. “It’s eight days before Christmas,” I tell him. “Of course they are.”

  “How about flower stores?” he asks.

  I stare at him.

  “Florists?” he says.

  “I know what they’re called, Harry. I’m trying to figure out why the hell you want to go flower shopping at this particular moment.” My feet hurt, my head aches, and my stomach’s growling. I want to sit someplace warm and quiet and eat dinner, not go shopping—for flowers or anything else.

  He narrows his eyes, the way he always does when he’s about to hand me a line. “Thought I’d pick up a little something for my special someone,” he says.

  That’s a bald-faced lie; he thought nothing of the sort. He knows me well enough to know that at this point in the workweek, I’d rather have a back rub than a bouquet of roses. “Who is she?” I ask.

  He laughs, then reaches for my hand and kisses it, a habit of his that always melts my heart. “You know who she is,” he says.

  “Well, she’s out of luck,” I tell him. “I don’t think you’ll find any florists open at this hour.” I lean over and kiss his cheek. “But I bet she’d settle for a filet mignon and a good Cabernet.”

  “You read my mind,” he says. “How about Pete’s?”

  Pete’s is a celebrated steak house on Main Street in Chatham. The entire menu is top-notch, but it’s the baked stuffed potatoes that bring Harry to his knees. “Sounds good,” I tell him. “There’s just one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve already passed it.”

  “I know,” he says, nodding. “We’ll come back. I want to make a couple of stops first. Quick ones.” He pulls into the parking lot of the Chatham Village Market, a first-class, employee-owned grocery store, and stops in front of the Christmas trees.

  I’m surprised. Harry and I normally decorate a tree together, in my Windmill Lane cottage, on Christmas Eve. We’ve never bought one this early before. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I need a wreath,” he says. He hops out, leaves the Jeep running, and heads for the small shanty that serves as a temporary shop. His sudden concern with holiday decor leaves me mystified, to put it mildly. I watch while he chats with the tree merchant, a burly man in a fisherman’s knit sweater, denim overalls, and a striped stocking cap. In no time at all, Harry’s headed back, his purchase complete. He gestures for me to roll down my window, then hands me a fragrant circle of pine.

  It’s understated, lovely. Small, dark red berries are clustered in random spots around it and a single matching ribbon is tied in a simple bow on one side. “Where are you going to hang it?” I ask as Harry puts the Jeep back in gear.

  “I’m not,” he says. He turns right out of the driveway, heading eastbound again.

  “Pete’s is the other way,” I remind him.

  “One more stop,” he says, covering my hand with his. “It’ll just take a few minutes. Promise.”

  We ride in silence for a short while. Harry takes a left on Old Harbor Road, then a right on Highland Avenue. I was mystified before, but I’m downright stunned now. “We’re going to church?” I ask. “The Catholic church?”

  He shakes his head as he parks on the street, just past the main entrance. “Hell, no,” he says. “The steeple would implode if we did. I wouldn’t do that to the good Catholics so close to Christmas.”

  Harry takes the wreath from my lap and gets out of the Jeep, so I follow. A few dozen cars are already parked in the church’s large lot and more are pulling in. A lighted sign near the front steps explains. The children’s Christmas pageant begins at eight, fifteen minutes from now. The organist has already begun, though. “O Come, All Ye Faithful” wafts through the air, growing louder each time a churchgoer opens the front doors . Harry sings along as we walk around the side of the church into complete darkness. “Adeste, fideles, laeti triumphantes; Venite, ve
nite in Bethlehem.”

  He’s full of surprises tonight. “You know the Latin version?” I ask.

  “Natum videte Regem angelorum.”

  “All of it?”

  “Venite adoremus, venite adoremus, venite adoremus, Dominum.”

  I stare at him, astonished. He shrugs and drapes his arm around my shoulders. “High school,” he says. “The Jesuits gave me no choice.”

  Harry stops when we reach the back of the church and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the total darkness. When they do, I realize we’re in a small cemetery, the one Monsignor Davis described on the witness stand. Now I understand Harry’s need for a wreath. There are about a dozen graves back here, situated randomly around a stone image of a woman clutching her heart. A crown of thorns is pressed onto her head, which I’m guessing goes a long way toward explaining her chest pain.

  We locate Father McMahon’s burial site easily; its headstone looks much newer than the others, even after a year in the elements. Harry sets the wreath at its base and the two of us stand in silence, staring at the grave of a man neither one of us ever met. His simple stone is inscribed with his full Christian name, his dates of birth and death, and a passage from scripture:

  Come to Me, all you who labor and are burdened,

  and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon

  you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly

  in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.

  For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.

  Matthew 11:28–30.

  “It’s a damned shame,” Harry says. “Derrick Holliston murdered a good man. And then I murdered his memory.”

  “You were doing your job,” I tell him. “You didn’t have any other option.”

  Harry shakes his head. “Option or no option,” he says, “my words maligned a man who didn’t deserve it. I’m responsible for them.”

  “You don’t know what happened here a year ago.”

  “Yes, I do,” he says quietly.

  Here we go again. “You don’t, Harry. You have your suspicions, but you don’t know anything about it. Maybe it went down just as Holliston said.”