False Witness

by Karin Slaughter

  It was her fault. It was all her fault.

  “Honey,” Walter said. “Your sister is an incredibly kind and unique person, but she’s got a lot of problems. Some of them you can fix, and some you can’t. All you can do is love her.”

  Leigh dried her eyes again. She’d heard the stutter on Walter’s line. “Is someone trying to call you?”

  He sighed. “Marci. I can call her back.”

  Marci was Walter’s current side piece. Unfortunately, he hadn’t opted to spend the four years since their split pining for Leigh’s return.

  She felt the need to tell him, “It would take ten minutes to file a no-fault divorce online.”

  “Sweetheart,” Walter said. “I’ll be your side dick as long as you’ll be my side boob.”

  Leigh didn’t laugh. “You know you’re always front and center with me.”

  He said, “That seems like a good note to end on.”

  Leigh kept the phone to her ear even after he’d hung up. She let the self-recriminations come to a boil before resting the receiver back in the cradle.

  There was a knock on her door. Liz popped in and out quickly, saying, “You’ve got five minutes to get upstairs.”

  Leigh went to the closet to find her heels. She freshened up her make-up at the mirror on the inside of the door. BC&M didn’t just spend money on jury consultants for defendants. They wanted to know what jurors thought about their lawyers. Leigh was still haunted by a case she’d lost where her client had gone to prison for eighteen years perhaps because, according to one of the male jurors who’d been polled, Leigh’s pulled-back hair, J. Crew pantsuit and low heels couldn’t hide that she was “obviously a knock-out but needed to make more of an effort to look like a woman.”

  “Crap,” she said. She’d put on lipstick when the mask would cover her mouth. She used a Kleenex to wipe it off. She looped on her mask, then stacked together her legal pads and grabbed her phones.

  The low din of the cubicle farm enveloped her in white noise as she walked toward the elevators. Leigh looked at her personal phone. Still no text or call from Callie. She tried not to read too much into the silence. It was coming up on four in the afternoon. Callie could be sleeping or stoned or selling drugs on Stewart Avenue or doing whatever it was she did with her endless amounts of time. An absence of communication didn’t necessarily mean that she was in trouble. It just meant she was Callie.

  At the elevator, Leigh used her elbow to summon the car. Since her phone was out, she dashed off a text to Maddy—I am a future employer. I check your TikTok. What do I think?

  Maddy wrote back immediately—I assume you are a Broadway director and you think, “Wow that woman knows her shit!”

  Leigh smiled. The punctuation was a small victory. Her sixteen-year-old baby calling herself a woman who knows her shit was a triumph.

  And then her smile dropped, because Maddy’s TikTok was exactly the kind of evidence that Leigh would show a jury if she were trying to impugn her daughter’s character.

  The elevator doors slid open. There was another person in the car, a baby lawyer she recognized from one of the lower cubicle farms. Leigh stood on one of the four stickers in each corner that were meant to remind people to keep their distance. A sign above the panel advised no speaking or coughing. Another sign advertised some kind of high-tech coating on the buttons that was supposed to stop viral transmission. Leigh kept her back to baby lawyer, though she heard a gasp when she used her elbow to hit the penthouse button.

  The doors rolled closed. Leigh started composing a text to Maddy about college admissions, respect from your co-workers, and the importance of a good reputation. She was trying to think of a way to bring the beauty of sex into the mix without mortifying them both when her phone buzzed with another text.

  Nick Wexler was asking—DTF?

  Down to fuck.

  Leigh sighed. She regretted circling back into Nick’s life again, but she didn’t want to come off as a bitch after asking him for a favor.

  She kicked it down the road, writing—raincheck?

  A thumbs up and an eggplant rewarded her response.

  Leigh contained the urge to sigh again. She returned to Maddy’s text, deciding she would have to climb back onto her high horse at a later date. She replaced the lecture with—Looking forward to talking tonight!

  The baby lawyer exited on the tenth floor, but he couldn’t stop himself from glancing back at Leigh, trying to figure out who she was and how she had gained access to the partners’ floor. She waited for the doors to close, then let her mask hang from one ear. She took a deep breath, using the moment alone to recalibrate herself.

  This would be Leigh’s first meeting with Andrew after he’d shown his real nature. A duplicitous client was nothing new but, no matter how sadistic their alleged crimes, they were generally docile by the time they made it to Leigh’s doorstep. Suffering the humiliation of arrest, enduring inhumane confinement, being threatened by hardened cons, knowing they could be sent back to jail or prison if Leigh didn’t help them, gave her the upper hand.

  That was the warning siren that Leigh had talked herself out of listening to yesterday morning. Andrew Tenant had maintained the upper hand the entire time, and only in retrospect did Leigh realize how it had happened. Defense lawyers always joked that their worst nightmare was an innocent client. Leigh’s worst nightmare was a client who wasn’t scared.

  The bell dinged. PH flashed above the doors. Leigh put her mask back in place. A trim older woman wearing a black pantsuit and red mask stood waiting for her. It was like The Handmaid’s Tale, UGA version.

  The woman said, “Ms. Collier, Mr. Bradley wants to speak with you privately in his office.”

  Leigh felt a sudden jolt of dread. “Is the client here?”

  “Mr. Tenant is in the conference room, but Mr. Bradley wanted a word with you first.”

  Leigh’s gut twisted into a knot, but she had no choice but to follow the woman across the giant, open space. She stared at the closed conference room door. Her mind started racing through tortuous plots. Andrew had gotten Leigh fired. Andrew had gone to the police. Andrew had kidnapped Callie and was holding her hostage.

  The ridiculousness of the last scenario helped spool her paranoia back inside its box. Andrew was a sadistic rapist, but he was no Svengali. Leigh reminded herself of her Andrew Hypothesis. All that he had were stray childhood memories and guesses about why his father had disappeared. The stupidest thing she could do right now was behave in a way that confirmed his suspicions.

  “Through here.” Bradley’s assistant opened an office door.

  Despite her return to logic, Leigh’s mouth had gone completely dry by the time she entered the office. No detectives or cops with handcuffs were waiting. Just the predictable red and black décor. Cole Bradley sat behind a giant marble desk. Files and papers were stacked around him. His light gray suit jacket hung on a rack. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. His face was bare.

  She asked, “Will Andrew be joining us?”

  Instead of answering, he indicated a red leather chair across from his desk. “Take me through it.”

  Leigh wanted to kick herself for missing the obvious. Bradley wanted her to prep him so that he looked like he knew what he was talking about in front of the client.

  She sat down. She took off her mask, opened her notepad, and dove straight in. “The victim’s audio ID of Andrew’s voice is confident during her initial interview. After his arrest, she chose him out of an audio line-up. She’s shaky on some things, but they used a forensic interviewer who took her into the story. His name is Sean Burke.”

  “Never heard of him,” Bradley said.

  “Me, either. I’ll find out what I can, but he’s a home run on the stand. I don’t know how Tammy Karlsen, the victim, will play out. She’s very sympathetic in the recorded interview. On the night of the attack, she wasn’t dressed provocatively. She didn’t drink that much. She doesn’t have a criminal record. No DUIs. No speedi
ng tickets. Credit record is solid. Student loans are almost paid off. I’ll dig into her social media, but she’s got a master’s in software engineering from Tech. She’s probably scrubbed anything that’s bad.”

  “Tech,” he said. UGA’s long-running rival. “How sympathetic is she?”

  “There’s no question about lack of consent. She got the absolute hell beaten out of her. She gave a firm no during the attack. The pictures alone buy her a massive amount of compassion.”

  Bradley nodded. “Evidence?”

  “There’s a muddy shoe print consistent with a Nike size nine found in Andrew’s closet. I can argue that consistent isn’t exact. There are several deep bite marks, but there was no DNA found when they swabbed the wounds, and the prosecutor wouldn’t dare try to put up an odontologist when he knows I can easily debunk the junk science.” Leigh paused to take a breath. “The Coke bottle is more difficult. Andrew’s print was found on the bottom of the glass. Right pinky finger, but it’s a solid, peer-reviewed match from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. There’s nothing else on the base of the bottle but fecal matter and the victim’s DNA. The attacker probably used gloves, and the pinky tore, or it’s a bottle that Andrew touched before the assault. He’s been to that park before.”

  Bradley took a moment to process that last piece of information. “Problem areas?”

  “On their side, Rohypnol is suspected, so I can argue temporary amnesia. Karlsen suffered a concussion, so traumatic amnesia is a given. I’ve already put two specialists on standby who are very good with a jury.” Leigh paused to look down at her notes. “On our side, the crime scene photos are horrific. I can keep some out, but even the okay ones are bad for Andrew. I can try to shake the audio identification of Andrew’s voice, but, like I said, it comes off as very confident both times. I’ve seen the prosecutor’s list of possible witnesses and they’ve got a forensic audio expert I would’ve used if they hadn’t snagged him first.”

  “And?”

  “Karlsen is hazy on almost everything else. The hazy might cancel out the confident, but if it sounds like I’m at fifty/fifty on a not guilty, that’s because I am.”

  “Ms. Collier,” Bradley said. “Get to the problem.”

  Leigh should’ve been impressed by his insight, but she was furious because Bradley had seen in five minutes what it had taken her all morning to strategize around. “Sidney Winslow is Andrew’s alibi for the night of the attack. The jury will want to hear from her.”

  Bradley sat back in his chair, steepling together his fingers. “Ms. Winslow will have to waive spousal privilege in order to testify, which means that Dante will be able to take a crack at her. Do you foresee a problem with that?”

  Leigh felt her teeth start to grit. She had intended to use Sidney as a Trojan horse, letting her burn down Andrew’s life while Leigh held herself blameless. “Dante’s no Perry Mason, but it won’t take much. Either Sidney’s going to get pissed off and say something stupid or she’ll try to help Andrew and say something stupid.”

  “In my day, saying something stupid under oath was called perjury.”

  Leigh wondered if Bradley was encouraging her or warning her. Lawyers were not allowed to put witnesses on the stand if they believed they were going to lie. Suborning perjury was a criminal offense that carried a sentence of one to ten years and a hefty fine.

  Bradley was waiting for her response. Her boss had made a legal observation, so Leigh gave him a legal rebuttal. “I’ll advise Sidney exactly as I always advise witnesses. Stick to the truth, don’t try to be helpful, only answer the questions you’re asked, and never embellish.”

  Bradley’s nod indicated that was good enough for him. “Any other issues I should be made aware of?”

  “Andrew’s ankle monitor has gone off several times. False alarms, but someone could say that he’s testing the response times.”

  “Let’s make sure no one says that,” Bradley told her, as if Leigh had any control. “Your second on the case—”

  “Jacob Gaddy,” Leigh provided. “I’ve tried a few cases with him before. He knows his way around the forensics. He’s good with witnesses.”

  Bradley nodded, because it was accepted strategy to balance out a woman with a man. “Who’s the judge?”

  “It was Alvarez, but—”

  “Covid.” Bradley sounded grave. Alvarez had been his contemporary. “When will you know who you’re getting?”

  “They’re still figuring out the new rotations. Everything’s upside down at the courthouse. We’ve got jury selection on Thursday and probably Friday, then the trial starts Monday, but who knows whether they’ll move it up or postpone it. It depends on the infection rates, whether or not the jail gets locked down again. No matter what, I’ll be ready to go.”

  “Is he guilty?”

  Leigh was taken aback by the question. “I can see a path to a not guilty, sir.”

  “It’s a simple yes or no.”

  Leigh wasn’t going to give him a simple answer. She was in the process of trying to throw a case for her own personal gain. The biggest mistake criminals made was to appear overconfident. She said, “Probably.”

  “And the other possible cases?”

  “There are similarities between the three other victims and the Tammy Karlsen attack.” Leigh knew she was circling around the point. She had to keep Bradley convinced that she was doing everything possible to get Andrew to a not guilty. “If you’re asking me did he rape the three other women? Probably. Can Dante Carmichael prove it? I’m on the fence, but if they nail Andrew on Tammy Karlsen, my probably slides over to an absolutely. At that point, it’s just a matter of whether his sentencing will be concurrent or consecutive.”

  Bradley kept his fingers steepled as he took another moment to think. Leigh was expecting a question, but he told her, “I worked the Stocking Strangler case back in the seventies. Well before you were born. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”

  Leigh knew the case because Gary Carlton had been one of Georgia’s most notorious serial killers. He’d been sentenced to death for raping and strangling three elderly women, but it was believed that he’d attacked countless others.

  “Carlton didn’t start out killing. That’s where he ended up, but there were many, many other cases where the victim survived.” Bradley paused to make sure she was following. “One of those FBI profilers looked at the case. This happened years later when that kind of thing was in vogue. He said there was a pattern of escalation with most killers. They start off with the fantasy, then the fantasy takes over. Peeping Tom turns into rapist. Rapist turns into murderer.”

  Leigh didn’t tell him he was relaying knowledge that anyone with a Netflix account could access. She had thought the same thing when she’d seen the photos from Tammy Karlsen’s rape kit. Andrew’s attack had been savage, just short of killing the woman. It wasn’t a leap to say that sometime, maybe next time, the knife would cut open the artery and the victim would bleed out in a pool of her own blood.

  She told Bradley, “The three other cases. Someone went to a lot of trouble to connect them to Andrew. I wonder if there’s more going on behind the scenes.”

  “Such as?”

  “Some officer or a detective who worked one of the earlier attacks. Maybe she wanted to charge Andrew, but the DA or her boss told her to drop it.”

  “She?” he asked.

  “You ever tell a woman to drop something?” Leigh watched Bradley’s ears twitch in his version of a smile. “There’s no way any boss approved all the man hours it must’ve taken to tie together these three other cases. The department can barely keep gas in their squad cars right now.”

  Bradley was listening intently. “Extrapolate.”

  “Somehow, maybe from credit card receipts or video footage or something we haven’t thought of yet, the police already had Andrew’s name on their list. They didn’t have enough probable cause to bring him in. Considering his financial resources, they knew they would only get one c
hance to question him.”

  Bradley leapt to the obvious conclusion. “There might be even more attacks that we have yet to learn of, which means that everything rests on winning the Karlsen case.”

  Leigh kept up her rah-rah attitude. “I only need to persuade one juror to break the case. Dante has to persuade twelve.”

  Bradley leaned farther back in his chair. He folded his hands behind his head. “I met Andrew’s father once. Gregory Senior tried to pay him off, but of course Waleski reneged. Terrible human being. Linda was little more than a child when she married him. The best thing that ever happened to her was his disappearance.”

  Leigh could’ve told him that Buddy Waleski’s disappearance had been good for a lot of people.

  He asked, “Would you put Andrew on the stand?”

  “I could shoot him in the chest and save the jury a verdict.” Leigh reminded herself that she was speaking to her boss, and that she needed to provide herself a framework of legitimacy. “I can’t stop Andrew if he wants to testify, but I’ll tell him he’ll lose the case if he does.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” Bradley said, as if he hadn’t been doing just that. “Assuming Andrew is guilty of the assaults, how are you going to feel if you get him off scot-free and he does it again? Or he does something even worse the next time?”

  Leigh knew the answer he was looking for. It was the answer that made people hate defense attorneys—until they needed one. “If Andrew walks, I’m going to feel like Dante Carmichael didn’t do his job. The burden is on the state to prove guilt.”

  “Good.” Bradley nodded. “Reginald Paltz. What do you think about him?”

  Leigh hesitated. After the conversation with Liz, she had wiped Reggie from her mind. “He’s good. I think his background work on Andrew is excellent. We won’t be surprised at trial by anything the prosecution digs up. I’m putting him on one of my divorce cases.”

  “Delay that,” Bradley ordered. “Mr. Paltz is on exclusive retainer for the duration of the trial. He’s waiting in the conference room with Andrew. I won’t be joining you, but I think you’ll find he has some interesting things to say.”