False Testimony (12 page)

The Kydd isn’t answering the phones—not the office line and not his cell. I’ve gotten our automated message service three times, talked to it twice. Now I’m listening to the Kydd’s personal recording, telling me in Southern-speak to wait for the beep before leaving my message on his cell phone. I obey, ask him to call me as soon as he can, and then give up and join Harry at our usual table near the front windows. They’re fogged, trapped between the steamy sauna of the deli and the arctic temperatures outside.

“Where the hell is he?” I don’t expect Harry to know; I’m just thinking out loud.

“Maybe he’s doing what we’re doing,” Harry suggests after he swallows. “Or what one of us is doing.” He toasts me with his chocolate milk. “Lunch.”

I sip my coffee and shake my head; that explanation doesn’t fit. Much as he hates his “secretarial duties,” as he calls them, the Kydd takes his office obligations seriously. He wouldn’t leave the place unmanned for the sake of food; he’d order in. If he’s not there—and it’s pretty clear he’s not—something important has called him away. My stomach churns as my brain replays yesterday’s confession from Senator Kendrick.
They’ll get to me sooner, not later…. We were together Thursday night, the night before she disappeared…. But I kept thinking we’d hear from Michelle…. I just didn’t think anything bad had happened to her. But now I’m afraid I was wrong.

“Besides,” Harry continues, finishing off the first half of his foot-long sub, “the Kydd’s about had it with telephones. And who the hell can blame him? If I were in his shoes, I’d hurl them all into Nantucket Sound.”

Today my partner’s luncheon selection is a Philly-style steak and cheese, smothered with sautéed onions and dripping jalapeño sauce—a little something easy on the stomach. “I don’t think so,” I tell him. “I don’t think the Kydd would leave the office and shut down his cell just because he’s sick of taking calls. Something’s up.”

Harry shrugs, lobs his empty chocolate milk carton into the trash bin, and opens a second quart. “If so, the Kydd will handle it. And if he can’t, he’ll call. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

That’s true. Still, I find the Kydd’s absence unsettling. He always covers the office when we’re in court. He’s never gone AWOL before.

“You’re worried about Chuck, aren’t you?” Harry asks. I filled him in on Charles Kendrick’s most recent revelations on the way to the courthouse this morning.

“You bet I am,” I answer. “
Chuck
needs serious damage control. Even the best-case scenario leaves him in a world of hurt.”

Harry stares across the table at me, his expression somber. We both know where the worst-case scenario leaves the senior senator.

We’re quiet while Harry polishes off the second half of his midday meal, and I’m relieved when the last of it disappears. I’m anxious to get back. It’s not that I’m ill prepared for this afternoon’s tasks. I’m as ready as any defense lawyer can be. Even so, I want to go over my notes once more in the relative quiet of the courtroom. I want to review Tommy Fitzpatrick’s report for the hundredth time. And I want to collect my thoughts before I face Chatham’s Chief of Police, a credible witness if ever there was one.

I drain my cardboard coffee cup and reach for my coat, but the look on Harry’s face stops me short. His hazel eyes focus on something over my shoulder, then light up as he crumples his napkins and balls up his butcher paper. He nods emphatically, does it again five seconds later. Pie, no doubt. With ice cream. We’re not going anywhere any time soon.

“Pecan,” he explains. His expression says we both understand the gravity of the situation now. He has no choice; he’s powerless in the face of the mighty pecan.

I check my watch and head to the coffee station for another half cup, telling myself to chill. We have plenty of time, really; it’s two-ten, and the deli is just a stone’s throw from the courthouse. My cell phone sings as I reach for the pot—Luke constantly replaces its standard ring with electronic renditions of the most unlikely musical scores. Last week it was the theme from
Gilligan’s Island.
The current selection is the William Tell Overture. Neither is a piece I would have chosen, but I don’t get a vote.

I pour quickly, then pull the phone from my jacket pocket and breathe a sigh of relief when the incoming number lights up. “Kydd,” I answer, “you had us worried.”

The Kydd knows Harry and me well enough to know
I
was the only one worried. “Marty,” he says, “where are you?”

I laugh as I head back to the table with my refill. “Funny, I was about to ask you the same question.”

Harry’s digging in, creamy vanilla ice cream already melting over his dark brown pie. The rapture on his face tells me it’s Häagen-Dazs.

“Seriously,” the Kydd says. “Where?”

“At the Piccadilly. Where else would we be in the middle of a trial day? And where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for almost an hour.”

“Listen,” he says. “I need to make this quick. The reception here is iffy. I’m too close to the water.”

“Where the hell are you?” I repeat. “It’s fifteen degrees outside, for God’s sake. Hell of a day to take a stroll on the beach.”

“I’m not
strolling,
” he says through a flurry of static. “Trust me on that.” He takes a deep breath and I wait. “I came here to meet a team from the ME’s office,” he says. “Smithy Stewart gave me a heads-up.”

I set my cup down and then freeze beside our table, unable to sit. Smithy Stewart has been Chatham’s harbormaster for decades. He doesn’t ordinarily deal with the folks from the ME’s office.

The Kydd stays quiet until the line clears. “I called as soon as I could,” he says. “They just left.”

Not only am I able to sit now; I need to. “With a corpse,” I say as I drop into the chair across from Harry. My comment makes him set his fork down. It makes the elderly couple at the next table nervous. They gape at each other, then at me, then at each other again.

“That’s right,” the Kydd says. “Smithy spotted it during routine patrol this morning. In Pleasant Bay, floating toward shore with the incoming tide.”

“Incoming tide,” I repeat. Smithy doesn’t ordinarily deal with floating bodies, either. Harry leans toward me. The elderly man and woman collect their belongings and move to a different table.

“Kydd,” I ask for the third time, “where the hell are you?”

“Smithy brought the body to the nearest town landing,” he says. “We all met him here. At Cow Yard.”

Cow Yard.
Off Old Harbor Road. A quarter mile from the Kendrick estate.

I force myself to breathe. “And?” I ask the Kydd. I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming, though.

“On the record,” he says, “nothing. Not a single comment for the press yet.”

Our line is noisy again, but I can still understand him. “And off the record?” I ask.

The Kydd takes a deep breath. “Caucasian female,” he says as he exhales. “Between twenty and thirty. Shoulder-length hair. Black.”

I press against the high-backed chair and close my eyes, my mind unwillingly traveling to the Forresters’ wraparound porch in Stamford. I try hard not to imagine the knock on the front door that will rouse first Catherine, and then Warren, from their well-worn family-room chairs. I try even harder not to picture their faces as they struggle to comprehend the hushed words delivered by some unlucky Connecticut cop. And I battle against the image of Catherine picking up the kitchen telephone, dialing Meredith’s number, and telling her that the world—the one that’s been spinning wildly for the past six days—has just come to an abrupt end.

The line is suddenly clear. “Marty,” the Kydd says.

“I’m here,” I tell him.

“Smithy recognized her from the news,” he says. “It’s Michelle.”

Tommy Fitzpatrick is a cop’s cop. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a full head of strawberry blond hair going pale—but not gray—as he ages, he’s a commanding presence in any room. The courtroom is no exception. He’s in full dress blues, entirely at ease in the witness box, his hat resting on the railing, his written report in his lap. He speaks directly to the jurors as he answers Geraldine’s questions, as if he’s known each member of the panel all his life. He’s been Chatham’s Chief for one decade, he tells them, on the force just shy of three. He’ll mark his thirtieth anniversary in June, and he’ll retire at the end of that month. He plans to work on his less-than-stellar golf game, explore Ireland with his wife of twenty-eight years, and spend a lot more time sport-fishing with their four grandchildren.

Harry turns to me, his eyebrows arched. Neither of us saw the gold watch on the horizon. And from where we sit, it’s not a welcome prospect. Tommy Fitzpatrick plays by the rules, runs a clean department. Not all of them do.

Geraldine half sits on the edge of her table, digging a spiked heel into its leg, while the Chief chats comfortably with the jurors. She’s trying to be patient, doing her best not to rush the preliminaries. She wants these jurors to like Tommy Fitzpatrick, after all, to trust him. He’s a critical prosecution witness. Even so, patience doesn’t come easily to Geraldine Schilling. She’s fidgeting, dying to get to the good stuff.

The Chief pauses for a sip of water and Geraldine bolts from her table as if fired from a cannon. She carries two small stacks of eight-by-ten glossies to the witness box and sets them on the railing. Harry pulls our copies—a half dozen in all—from his schoolbag. They’re shots taken by the crime scene photographer in St. Veronica’s sacristy last Christmas Eve. Unlike the autopsy photos introduced this morning, these are in vivid color. And they’re coming into evidence. Every last one of them.

During pretrial motions, Geraldine pushed hard for a jury “view”: a field trip, of sorts, to the crime scene. While Judge Gould deemed a view unnecessary, he allowed Geraldine substantial leeway to introduce photographs of the scene instead. Of the dozen she proffered, half are coming in. And they’re not pretty.

Harry spreads our copies across the table so we can follow along as Geraldine recites the necessary litany for each.
Were you present when this photograph was taken?
she asks the Chief.
Was it taken pursuant to your order and under your supervision? Does it accurately depict St. Veronica’s sacristy as it appeared on the night in question?

The Chief delivers the requisite number of affirmatives for each glossy and Geraldine moves the Court for permission to “publish” the first—yet another archaic term our bar association clings to. She wants to give it to the jurors, tell them to pass it around. Judge Gould nods his assent and Geraldine hands the first glossy to Gregory Harmon. He doesn’t flinch when he takes it, but Cora Rowlands does. She looks sideways over his shoulder, erect in her chair, both hands pressed to her mouth.

Crime-scene photographs tell the part of the story no witness can convey. Even when the victim of a violent crime survives and testifies, and even when that testimony is so powerful it brings the room to a standstill, its impact often pales when compared with that of the crime scene photos. Words are essential, of course. And so is forensic evidence. But pictures like this one change jurors’ lives, shatter the foundations of their views of humanity.

Cora Rowlands’s eyes fill immediately. She doesn’t take the glossy when Gregory Harmon offers it, instead signals for him to pass it to the juror on her left. She doesn’t touch it, doesn’t even look down when Harmon reaches across to hand it to her neighbor. She gazes up at the ceiling for a moment, then takes her glasses off and cleans them with a lace handkerchief. No doubt she hopes to erase the unwanted image from her mind’s eye while she’s at it. She can’t, of course, not now and not any time soon. I feel a twinge of sympathy for her. At times, our system demands extraordinary efforts from ordinary citizens. This is one of them.

Geraldine takes a glossy from the second stack—a duplicate of the one being circulated in the jury box—and hands it to the Chief, asks him to identify it.

“This is the sacristy as we found it,” he says, “when we first arrived on the scene, before anything was touched.”

Harry pulls our copy to the edge of the table. Francis Patrick McMahon is sprawled on the gray slate floor, his black cassock twisted and soaked in a sea of blood. His head is pointed toward a corner of the room and his eyes are open, his frameless glasses a few feet away on the floor, one lens shattered. His face, though uncut, bears half a dozen maroon blood blotches. And the white plaster walls on both sides of him are blood-spattered too. The body of an average-size adult holds about ten pints of blood; this photo makes it seem more like ten gallons.

Geraldine asks Tommy Fitzpatrick to walk the jurors through each of the remaining photos and she publishes each one to the panel as he does. The next four are close-ups of Father McMahon’s wounds, most notably the fatal puncture to the aorta, the one we viewed in black and white with Dr. Ramsey. These photos aren’t pleasant for the jurors to absorb, but they’re not nearly as difficult as the first one was. These are anonymous body parts. The first was a whole human being.

Harry pulls each of our copies forward on the table as the Chief explains it, making a neat stack near the edge. He and I have examined all of these photographs many times, but we study each one again as the Chief testifies, then scan the members of the panel for their reactions. Holliston folds his arms and turns away from us, toward the side door, looking like he doesn’t want to stick around for much more of this.

The last shot, number six, is different from the others. It’s a photograph of an empty wicker basket, sitting on the sacristy’s tidy counter. The jurors’ relief is palpable as they pass it around. They’ve all seen enough gore for one day. Cora Rowlands has seen enough for a lifetime.

“And finally,” Geraldine says to the Chief, “would you explain to the jurors the significance of this shot.”

He nods and takes another sip of water. “We went back for that one,” he says, “after we interviewed the pastor.”

“Why was that?” Geraldine says. The question isn’t necessary, though. The Chief’s a seasoned witness; he doesn’t need the minor prompts.

“The pastor was the first person on the scene,” he says. “Monsignor Davis found the body. After he called us, he noticed the basket. He told us it shouldn’t have been empty; it should have held the Christmas Vigil collection.”

Holliston leans uncomfortably close to me. “Ain’t you supposed to jump up right about now?” he says. “You ever hearda hearsay?”

He’s getting in touch with his inner lawyer again. I shake my head at him, wishing he’d shut up and let me do my job.

“You even watch TV?” he says. “Christ, anybody who watches TV knows hearsay ain’t allowed.”

“Be quiet,” I tell him. “Now.”

He’s wrong. Hearsay is only hearsay if the person being quoted is unavailable to testify, unavailable to be cross-examined. St. Veronica’s pastor, Monsignor Dominic Davis, isn’t; he’s sitting in the hallway. He’s Geraldine’s next witness and, like all witnesses in serious cases, he’s sequestered—excluded from the courtroom—until he testifies. I’ve neither the time nor the interest to explain any of this to Holliston, though. Besides, he’s busy contorting his face and sighing over my gross incompetence.

“So the collection money was stolen?” Geraldine continues.

“Well, it was missing.” Tommy Fitzpatrick is a careful witness; he avoids assumptions at all costs.

“Has it ever been recovered?” she asks.

“Not yet,” he says. “So far we haven’t found anything that was taken that night.”

Something about that answer bothers me. I’m on my feet before my brain knows why. “Hold it,” I say.

“Hold it?” Judge Gould echoes, and I can’t blame him. That’s not my usual mode of objecting—or anyone else’s, for that matter.

My pulse is racing, but my mind is way ahead now. “Move to voir dire the witness, Your Honor.”

“What?” Geraldine pivots to face me, plants her hands on her hips. “My Sister Counsel can’t voir dire this witness. She can wait her turn, ask whatever burning questions she has on cross.”

“These questions need to be asked now,” I say, “while we’re discussing these photographs.” I’m in front of the bench, speaking directly to the judge.

“Ms. Nickerson,” he says, his eyebrows knitting, “this is highly unusual.”

A flurry of activity makes me turn. Geraldine is back at her table, exchanging hurried whispers with Clarence, rummaging through her file, confirming my hunch. Harry sees it too; it’s plain on his face.

“I know it’s unusual, Judge.” I turn back to face him but he’s not looking at me. He’s watching the pair of panicked prosecutors instead. A quick scan of the room tells me everyone else is too.

“Your Honor,” Geraldine says, “it seems my office may be guilty of a minor oversight. Perhaps we should take a short recess so we can rectify the matter.”

“No recess,” I say.

Judge Gould’s eyes widen. Again, I can’t blame him.

“Move to voir dire the witness,” I repeat. “The motion’s pending.”

The judge is quiet for a moment, his eyes moving from me back to Geraldine. “I’ll allow it,” he says at last.

I pounce before the District Attorney can argue further. “ ‘So far we haven’t found anything that was taken that night.’ That was your answer to the prior question, was it not, Chief?”

He looks surprised, but not worried. Tommy Fitzpatrick is a straight shooter. He doesn’t know what the hell’s going on here—I’m not entirely sure I do, either—but he’ll answer the questions put to him. And he’ll answer them honestly, no matter who is asking. “Yes,” he says. “That was my answer.”

“Tell us specifically, Chief, what it is you haven’t found.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, we haven’t found anything. Everything that was taken from the church that night is still missing.”

“We’re not just talking about money, are we?”

He looks over at Geraldine and a glimmer of understanding comes to his eyes. I don’t have to turn around to know she looks sick. “No,” he says. “We’re not.”

“What else was taken from St. Veronica’s Chapel that night, Chief?”

He takes his glasses from an inside pocket and puts them on, then opens his written report and skims through it. “A monstrance,” he says, tapping the page. “I have a devil of a time remembering that word.”

“Tell the jurors what a monstrance
is,
will you, Chief?” He’ll be broadening my vocabulary as well, but I try not to let on.

“I had to ask the pastor the same question,” he says, as if reading my mind. “And I was raised Catholic.”

A few of the jurors chuckle.

“It’s a solid-gold stand,” he says, “used to hold the host when it’s exposed on the altar for any length of time. The host is inserted into a small window at the top, so it can be viewed by the visiting faithful, but not touched. Until fairly recently, only an ordained priest was permitted to touch the host.”

“Is the monstrance valuable?” I ask.

He shrugs again. “It’s gold,” he says. “The thief would find a taker if he melted it down, I suppose.”

“And you’re certain it was taken from the chapel the night Francis McMahon was killed?”

“The pastor is,” the Chief says. “Monsignor Davis said the monstrance was to be on display from the end of the Vigil Mass until midnight, the chapel unlocked so parishioners could enjoy private visitation.”

I turn to the defense table, where our client has both arms flung outward, his eyes raised to the heavens. He’s apparently disgusted once again with my failure to invoke the TV version of the hearsay rule. He has no idea what a lucky break he’s about to get. It should happen to a nicer guy.

I check in with Harry and he gives me the go-ahead nod; we’re on the same page. I wait, though, until the room falls silent. I want to say it quietly, calmly. “We move for a mistrial, Your Honor, on the grounds of prosecutorial misconduct.”

The place erupts.

Reporters head for the double doors, many of them running backward so as not to miss anything on the way out. Judge Gould bangs his gavel repeatedly, then signals Big Red to get the jurors the hell out of here. He jumps up and descends from the bench as they file through the side door, his steps heavy, his robe billowing as he strides. “Counsel,” he says, heading for chambers, “inside. Now.”

Our client gets to his feet at once and Judge Gould wheels around to face him. “I called for counsel, Mr. Holliston,” the judge says. He’s winded, obviously exasperated. “Believe it or not, sir, that does
not
include you.”

The defendant drops back into his chair, shaking his head. His expression says he’s certain this situation is far beyond anything Harry and I can handle.

We follow the judge into chambers, Geraldine and Clarence behind us. Geraldine’s on the defensive even before her sidekick shuts the door. “It was an oversight,” she says, “nothing more than that.”

Harry actually laughs. “I hope our District Attorney won’t take offense,” he says to the judge, “but we see it differently.”

Judge Gould eases into the chair at his desk and reaches under his robe to loosen his tie. “Ms. Schilling,” he says, “this is not a matter the court takes lightly.”