False Testimony (4 page)

Derrick Holliston has had a change of heart, it seems. I’m only about twenty minutes late for our jailhouse meeting, but apparently he and Harry have already covered a lot of ground. “Maybe I won’t, then,” he says as the young guard with the crew cut pulls the meeting room door shut behind me. “Maybe I won’t.”

“Won’t what?” I already know the answer, I think—his tone tells me more than his words—but I want to be sure.

“Testify,” Holliston says as I join him and Harry at the rickety table. “Maybe I’ll just keep my mouth shut.”

I’m a little concerned about what led to this switch. I’m no fan of Holliston’s—Harry’s instincts about him are dead-on, I’m certain—but like it or not, he
is
our client. If he wants to take the witness stand—and he sure as hell did yesterday—it’s not our job to talk him out of it. “Hold on,” I tell him as I turn toward Harry. “Fill me in.”

“We were just going over the police report,” Harry says, tossing his pen on top of a dog-eared copy of it. “It’s in there. The whole
story
.” His emphasis on the last word says it all. It’s a fairy tale, as far as he’s concerned. A grim one.

“So?” I ask. I’m pretty sure I know where this is going, though.

“So Tommy Fitzpatrick will say it for us,” Harry answers. “The Chief questioned Holliston personally, as soon as he was picked up, and recorded his version of events. My bet is Fitzpatrick will be the Commonwealth’s first witness. He prepared the primary report and he’ll testify to its content. All of it.”

Holliston not only waived his right to remain silent on the morning of his arrest, he spilled his guts to anyone—and everyone—who’d listen. While that’s generally not a good idea, it just might work to his advantage now. His story has been memorialized at least a half dozen times, once in painstaking detail by Tommy Fitzpatrick, Chatham’s Chief of Police.

“So the jurors will hear what happened,” Holliston explains, as though he’s my lawyer, “but they don’t hear nothin’ about my priors.”

His priors aren’t pretty. If the prosecutor were to line them up side by side, in chronological order, the jury would see the perfect evolution of a sociopath, each crime more violent than its predecessor. The jury won’t see anything of the sort, though, because the prosecutor can’t do that—Holliston committed all but one of his crimes when he was under eighteen.

“Most of your priors won’t come in anyhow,” I remind him. “Your juvenile record is sealed.”

“Yeah, but I got that assault.” He sighs. “That’ll come in. And it don’t make me look good.” He shakes his head slowly, his lips tight, his eyes saying it’s a damned shame the world dealt him that blow.

Holliston has only one conviction on his adult tab, an accomplishment made possible by the fact that he’s spent all but five weeks of his over-eighteen life in jail. If he takes the stand in this trial, that conviction will come in. It’s a given. And it’s a problem.

Four years ago, the manager of one of Chatham’s premier restaurants was assaulted and robbed. Bobby “the Butcher” Frazier, longtime caretaker of Kristen’s Pub, was closing the place that February night, the off-season regulars and a handful of employees out the door just minutes ahead of him. As he stood on the snowy brick walkway inserting his key to flip the back door’s deadlock, a young white male wearing a ski mask emerged from the darkness of the parking lot. He demanded the night deposit sack Bobby had stashed under one arm.

The Butcher isn’t a guy who takes kindly to bullies. He told the masked man to take a hike. A fistfight ensued and Bobby was stabbed during the course of it, the knife penetrating just below his right shoulder. Down but not out, he grabbed his attacker’s hand—along with the knife inside it—and continued to fight. Eventually, though, the masked man kicked Bobby to the ground and fled with the cash.

The Butcher was lucky; his injuries weren’t all that serious. He was treated at Cape Cod Hospital that night and released the next day, but because of his assailant’s mask he was unable to give the police a description beyond approximate height and weight. The Chatham cops suspected Derrick Holliston from the start—he’d been released from a juvenile detention facility just a few days earlier, on his eighteenth birthday—but they had precious little in the way of evidence to back up their suspicions. Until they got the results from the Commonwealth’s crime lab.

DNA evidence pegged him. Holliston must have sustained a substantial cut during his struggle with the Butcher. Blood evidence tied him to the scene, to the victim, and eventually, to the empty cash sack retrieved from a town-owned Dumpster a block from the pub. The knife was never found, but the ski mask was, and hair follicles hammered yet another nail into his coffin. On top of all that, the unemployed Holliston had more than two grand in cash when he was arrested at the Monomoy Moorings Motel. Even so, Holliston and the unfortunate lawyer appointed to defend him relied upon what Harry calls the SODDI defense: Some Other Dude Did It.

The jury didn’t think so. The judge sentenced Holliston to five-to-seven and with time off for good behavior—he was a model prisoner, according to his discharge papers—he served just over four. He’d been out little more than a month when Father McMahon was murdered—stabbed and left bleeding on the sacristy floor—and St. Veronica’s Christmas Eve collection disappeared.

“Yeah,” Holliston says, pointing at Harry, “for once you’re right. We’ll let Fitzpatrick do it. I kinda like the idea of the Police Chief tellin’ them what happened. Gives it a little…what’s the word?”

“Credibility?” I ask.

He snaps his fingers. “That’s it. Credibility. I like that.”

Harry closes his eyes, shakes his head.

“You have the cop tell it,” Holliston says.

“Not me,” Harry answers, pointing in my direction. “Marty’s taking the Chief. And don’t worry, she’ll get the whole story from him.”

Holliston looks at me and half laughs. “Even better,” he says. “So it’s settled. I ain’t takin’ the stand.”

“Hold on,” I tell him for the second time in ten minutes. “This is an important decision. Don’t rush it.”

He shrugs. “The top cop tells the jurors what I told him and as far as they know, I’m an altar boy. What do I got to lose?”

He
does
have something to lose—something important. And his defense attorneys need to tell him so.

I look across the table and Harry arches his eyebrows. It’s my turn, I guess. “Look,” I tell Holliston, “don’t get me wrong. All things considered, I think you’re making the right decision. But don’t underestimate the impact your silence will have on the panel. Jurors like to hear from defendants.”

“But if I take the stand”—he tugs at his stubbled chin—“they hear about that other guy, too, the Butcher.”

He’s right about that. If he testifies that he stabbed the priest only to save his own life, the prosecutor will be entitled to introduce his prior conviction—for stabbing a man in order to rob him. “Like I said,” I tell him, “on balance I think keeping your mouth shut makes sense. I just want to be sure you’re aware of the downside.”

“Okay,” he says. “I get it. I still ain’t takin’ the stand.”

Harry shuts his file and starts repacking his battered schoolbag. “Well,” he says, not looking at Holliston, “then we’ll see you in the morning. If you’re not taking the stand, there’s no need to prepare you for cross.”

Holliston smiles at Harry, then at me. “Right again,” he says to Harry. “You’re on a roll.”

Harry ignores him, bangs on the door for the guard.

Holliston’s still smiling as he leaves. “Go ahead,” he says over his shoulder. “Take the rest of the day off. Both of you.”

Taking the rest of the day off isn’t an option for either of us. Harry went straight back to the office when we left the county complex, to spend the rest of the day—and probably most of the evening—preparing for trial. I took the Mid-Cape Highway in the opposite direction, destination Stamford. For reasons I can’t articulate—not even to myself—I want to meet the Forresters. Maybe I want to get some sense of Michelle through her family, to find out if she might have chosen to disappear for a while, to glean some idea of where she might have gone if the worst hasn’t happened. Whatever the reason, my gut tells me to do it now, not later.

Michelle’s mother was hesitant when I called from the road. No doubt Geraldine Schilling advised the family to speak only with representatives of law enforcement, whether from the Commonwealth or the State of Connecticut. After a few minutes of conversation, though, Mrs. Forrester relented. She muffled her telephone’s mouthpiece, consulted with her husband in hushed tones, and then agreed they’d meet with me at their home this afternoon. I was pretty confident they would. Generally speaking, parents of missing people will talk with just about anyone.

Traffic is light—no surprise in the middle of a snow-blown weekday—and I find myself pulling into the Forresters’ gravel driveway a little past three, less than four hours after leaving Barnstable. I park my tired Thunderbird next to a blue Jaguar, shiny beneath a thin coat of fresh snow, in front of a buttoned-up, two-car garage. I’m not the only visitor, it seems. I grab my briefcase and walk back toward the Forresters’ front entrance, wondering what in the world I’ll have to say when I get there.

Their colonial is large, though not as imposing as other houses I passed on this block, with cream-colored clapboards and hunter green shutters. Dormant rosebushes ramble along the sides of the house and into the spacious backyard, tented with multiple layers of straw-colored burlap. A full-size, in-ground swimming pool is sealed for the season, dead leaves scattered across its blue vinyl surface. And a screened deck above the pool, off the back of the house, is elegantly furnished for al fresco dining.

The front door is already open when I reach the short flight of wooden steps leading to the porch. “Attorney Nickerson?” A woman in jeans and a black turtleneck hurries outside, not stopping for a coat.

“Marty,” I tell her, extending my hand. She’s about thirty, obviously not Michelle Forrester’s mother. The sister, I realize after a moment; she’s the older sister who spoke briefly with TV reporters last night. She’s not pretty, exactly, certainly not the way Michelle is. But she’s striking in a more subtle, maybe even more interesting way.

“Meredith Forrester,” she says as she shakes my hand. “Michelle’s sister.”

Her shoulder-length hair is jet black like mine, but thicker, more lustrous, like Michelle’s. Her complexion is flawless and her pale blue eyes don’t quite match; one’s a little lighter than the other. “My mother called me at work after she spoke with you,” she says. “She asked me to leave a little early and come over; both my parents wanted me to be here for your visit. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not a bit,” I assure her.

“I want to mention something to you,” she says, folding her arms at her waist, “before we go inside.”

“Meredith, you’ll catch your death of pneumonia! Why in the world won’t you girls wear coats?” It’s Michelle—thirty-five years from now. She’s in the doorway, frantically waving at both of us, telling us to come in from the cold.

“This is my mother,” Meredith says as we enter. “Catherine.”

I shake Catherine’s hand, then look back at her elder daughter. I want her to hold on to that
before we go inside
thought she wanted to mention. She nods at me; she will. She takes my parka when we enter the foyer and motions for me to follow her mother, who’s already into the next room. “Warren,” Catherine says, “Mrs. Nickerson is here. The lawyer who called earlier.”

Warren is on his feet when I enter the living room, in front of a brown leather recliner, his cardigan unbuttoned and his pipe unlit. He turns my way and I realize he’s the source of Meredith’s slightly mismatched eyes. He looks older than his sixty years; no doubt he’s aged a decade in the past few days. His handshake is firm, his lined face exhausted. I’ve seen this haunted look before—more than a few times—but I’ll never get used to it.

“Call me Marty,” I tell him.

“Marty it is,” he says. His words are flat, without inflection. He points the stem of his pipe at a small sofa. “Please,” he says, “have a seat.”

“Can I get you anything?” Catherine asks. “A cup of tea, maybe?”

I shake my head as I settle on one end of the sofa, next to the welcome warmth of a crackling fire. The last thing Catherine Forrester needs foisted on her now is hostess duty. “Thank you, but no,” I tell her. “I’ll only stay a few minutes; I won’t take too much of your time.”

Warren lets out a halfhearted laugh. “Time,” he says, still cradling the bowl of his pipe. “We’ve got plenty of that.”

Meredith crosses the room and sits beside me while her mother claims the chair next to Warren’s, a smaller, upholstered version of his. Their side-by-side recliners haven’t been new in a long time, but they’ve aged gracefully.

“Catherine tried to explain,” Warren says, his brow knitting, “but I’m still not clear. What is your role in this…situation?” He looks down at his pipe, as if the answer might be tamped inside its bowl.

“I represent Senator Kendrick,” I tell him.

“Why?” he says.

Fair question. “Because the authorities have been talking with him. And that’s entirely appropriate; they should. But anyone being interrogated in a serious investigation is well advised to be represented by counsel.”

He nods, but the furrows in his forehead deepen. My explanation doesn’t make sense to him, but he’s too polite to say so. “We watched the Senator’s press conference yesterday,” he says instead. “We appreciate everything he’s doing. Tell him that for us, will you?”

A guilt spasm seizes my stomach. Just a few hours ago, I put the kibosh on any future press conferences; I don’t mention that, though. “I will,” I assure the weary Warren Forrester. “I’ll tell him.”

“That number,” Catherine says, “that eight-hundred number Senator Kendrick gave out, I think that’s going to help; I think it will make a real difference. Someone is bound to call in, someone who’s seen Michelle.”

Catherine’s voice cracks when she says her younger daughter’s name, but she nods emphatically at each of us, dry-eyed. She means what she just said; she believes it. Hope is a relentless emotion.

“Is it possible,” I ask, “that Michelle simply needed some time away? Felt overwhelmed by the pressures of her high-profile job and decided to escape for a while?”

No doubt they’ve been asked this question—or some version of it—a hundred times. But I have to ask it too; there’s no other way I’ll hear their answer. The cops aren’t in the habit of sharing their files with me. Our District Attorney isn’t, either.

“No,” Warren says. “That’s not possible.” Catherine shakes her head. Meredith does too.

“What about college friends?” I ask. “Might she have gone to stay with an old UVA buddy?”

All three shake their heads now. “My parents are sick with worry,” Meredith says quietly. “Michelle would never do that to them. Never.”

“She wouldn’t,” Catherine concurs. “That’s why we’re thinking she may have had an accident. That fancy car of hers is so tiny. And she’s always had a lead foot. She could be in a hospital—unidentified—anywhere between here and Hyannis.”

She’s not, of course. The Massachusetts and Connecticut authorities would have covered that base on day one. I don’t say so, though. I don’t intend to yank that straw, or any other, from the Forresters’ collective grasp. I change the subject instead. “Is there a boyfriend?”

Catherine shakes her head yet again and actually smiles a little. “Boys,” she says. “Michelle always has plenty of boys around.”

Warren nods in agreement, leans back in his chair, and closes his eyes.

Catherine points toward the kitchen. “Most days that phone rarely rings,” she says. “But when Michelle’s home—whether for a weekend or a week—it doesn’t stop.”

“But no one in particular?” I ask. “No one steady?”

“No,” Catherine says. “Not that we know of.”

Warren nods again, his eyes still closed, and it occurs to me that I’m wearing out my welcome; these people were spent long before I showed up. And besides, I’m hoping Meredith will walk out with me; I’m eager to hear whatever it was she wanted to say earlier.

I stand, take two business cards from my jacket pocket, and hand one to Meredith, the other to her mother. “I won’t keep you any longer. But please call if you think of anything—anything at all—we might have overlooked. Senator Kendrick will do everything he can to help.”

Warren’s eyes open at the mention of the Senator’s name. “Don’t forget to thank him for us,” he says as he stands.

“I won’t,” I assure him.

Meredith gets to her feet as I say my good-byes to her parents. “I’ll see you out,” she says as she walks toward the kitchen ahead of me.

“Wear a coat,” Catherine calls after us.

Meredith is quiet as she hands me my parka and then dutifully dons her heavy black overcoat. We exit into the late afternoon cold and she pauses on the porch, at the top of the steps. “There is something else,” she says. “It’s what I wanted to tell you when you first got here. I don’t think it matters, really, but since you’re the Senator’s attorney, I guess it’s okay to mention it to you. Maybe you already know.”

I stop one step below her and shrug, hoping to give the impression that I probably
do
already know. But I’m pretty sure I don’t.

“My sister is in love with Charles Kendrick,” she says, fingering her top button. “And I believe he loves her, too.”

This news isn’t exactly a shock. Honey’s performance this morning gave me a pretty good push in that direction. Still, I’m grateful to have my hunch confirmed. Maybe that’s why I came here in the first place.

“They had an affair,” Meredith continues. “They started seeing each other—secretly—after she’d worked for him a couple of years. He ended it four months ago, when his wife found out.”

I nod.

“Michelle was distraught,” she says. “I went to D.C. and spent a few days with her right after it all fell apart. She was devastated, couldn’t even go into the office that week.”

I nod again, thinking I need to have yet another heart-to-heart with my not-so-candid client.

“I know it sounds tawdry,” Meredith says as she starts down the steps, “but it wasn’t. I only saw them together a few times, but there was no denying they had genuine feelings for each other. The air between them was electric.”

I study Meredith for a moment, wondering if she’s angry with the Senator for hurting her little sister. If she is, it doesn’t show. I decide not to ask. “Do your parents know?” I say instead.

She takes a deep breath. “At some level they do,” she says, “but they’d never admit it. They wouldn’t approve.”

“Meredith.” I stand still in the middle of the snowy driveway and she does too. “You’re under no obligation to tell me anything. But I’d really like to know if you’ve mentioned this to anyone else.”

She looks down at her boots. “The District Attorney,” she says. “Ms. Schilling.”

“Geraldine.”

She nods. “Honestly, I wasn’t trying to cause trouble for him—politically or personally. That’s the last thing Michelle would want me to do. But I couldn’t
not
mention it. What if it turned out to matter somehow and I had kept quiet?”

She’s not crying, but her eyes are filled to the brim. “You did the right thing,” I tell her. “And I appreciate your answering my question.”

She shakes my hand, then turns and heads back to her parents’ house.

It’s barely four o’clock when I pull out of the Forresters’ driveway, but the cold December sky is near dark already. I toy with the idea of calling Senator Kendrick from the car, to ask why he insists on keeping his own lawyer in the dark, to ask why he repeatedly enables the District Attorney to stay two steps ahead of me, to ask what other secrets he’s keeping. I decide against that call, though. Some conversations should be had face-to-face.