False Testimony (17 page)

“Outrage,” Geraldine says as she stands. “I find it surprising, baffling even, that the defense would speak of outrage.”

She sorts through the stack of glossies on her table, the exhibits introduced during Tommy Fitzpatrick’s testimony, and selects one. Everybody in the courtroom knows which one she’s chosen. She covers the distance to the jury box slowly, in silence, then holds the photograph up in front of the panel. “We, as a civilized society, are the ones who should be outraged.”

The jurors split evenly. Half revisit the scene of the dead priest sprawled on the slate floor of the sacristy, his blood-soaked cassock twisted, his shattered glasses nearby. Half don’t. Cora Rowlands squeezes her eyes shut tight, the set of her jaw telling us she doesn’t even want to be in the same
room
with that photo any longer. Gregory Harmon glances over at her and then pats her hand on their shared armrest; he looks concerned.

“That man,” Geraldine continues, still displaying the glossy as she turns to point at our table, “did this. He admits it. But he wants you to excuse him; he wants you to say he’s not responsible for what he did. Why? Because he wants you to buy into his cockamamie self-defense claim. He wants you to believe that this fifty-seven-year-old man attacked him, that the attack was so threatening, so brutal, he had no choice but to do
this
to protect himself
.
”

She turns away from them abruptly and barrels toward us. Geraldine Schilling has raised steamrolling in spiked heels to a performance art. “This man,” she says, pointing at Holliston, “wants you to believe he had to stab Father McMahon eight times to protect himself, eight times before he could get away from the middle-aged priest.”

Geraldine raises a fist in the air and slams it downward, stopping just inches from Holliston’s shoulder. He doesn’t react. “One,” she says. Again, she raises her fist and then thrusts it down at him. “Two.”

She continues the count, in no hurry to finish, each imaginary stab more forceful than the last, each number called out a little louder. Holliston doesn’t even flinch.

The blanket of silence that covers this courtroom is complete, pierced only by Geraldine’s recitation, but she’s shouting anyhow by the time she reaches
seven.
She stays planted in front of our table, turns away from Holliston, and delivers the final blow toward the jurors. “Eight,” she bellows.

No one moves. Not a single juror. Not Holliston. Not Geraldine. Her fist remains suspended in midair. “How many puncture wounds did it take before Father McMahon staggered backward?” she says at last. “How many times did Derrick John Holliston stab Francis Patrick McMahon before the priest dropped to the floor?”

She lowers her still-clenched fist to her side, finally, and walks back toward the jury box. “Did Father McMahon reel after the second puncture? After the third? Did he fall after the fourth? The fifth?” She stops in front of the jury box and slaps her open palms on its railing. A few of the jurors jump. “Did it take
eight
?”

She turns and glares at Holliston, then faces the panel again. “I think not,” she whispers. “That man,” she says, pointing at us once more, “is a murderer. And like the vast majority of murderers, he’s also a liar.”

Calling the defendant a liar is a controversial topic among prosecutors. They all argue routinely that various defendants’ claims are untrue, of course. But the use of the word
liar
is thought by some to be inappropriate, to demean the system. Not by Geraldine Schilling, though. She used to lecture me about it frequently when I worked for the District Attorney’s office. “If you’re going to ask a dozen people to go into the jury room and decide the defendant’s a liar,” she always said, “you damn well better have the guts to call him one in open court. But don’t bother,” she often added, “unless you can say it like you mean it.”

Geraldine can. “A liar,” she repeats. “His defense is a fabrication. It’s a story he told no one until he was arrested for the priest’s murder. It’s a story he told no one until he was confronted with indisputable evidence of his own guilt. It’s a story he told no one until he was caught, until he was trapped like a rat.”

The jurors are attentive, focused. Their faces reveal nothing.

“An entire week elapsed between Father McMahon’s murder and this defendant’s arrest,” Geraldine continues, “and he told no one of this brutal attack he claims to have suffered at the priest’s hands.”

She half laughs. “This defendant—this murderer, this liar—is trying to sell you a bill of goods, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t let him. One man—and one man only—was attacked in St. Veronica’s sacristy last Christmas Eve.” She holds up the glossy again; she’s had it in her hand throughout her argument. “This one.”

Even fewer members of the panel choose to look at the grisly crime scene this time. Geraldine doesn’t try to force the issue. She lowers the photo to her side after just a few seconds—a wise decision, I think. These jurors have about had it.

“Mr. Madigan spoke with you at great length about reasonable doubt,” Geraldine says. “I don’t plan to do so. On the subject of reasonable doubt, I tell you only one thing: the operative word is
reasonable
.”

A few jurors nod at her. A few others jot quick reminders in their notepads.

“Mr. Madigan also spoke with you at length about the monstrance,” she says, “about my failure to disclose its disappearance. Again, I don’t plan to say much about it. On the matter of my failure to disclose the missing monstrance to the defense, I tell you two things. First, it was a mistake, my mistake. And second, it doesn’t have anything to do with the defendant’s guilt or innocence; it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.”

Geraldine folds her arms, pressing the glossy to her side, its blank, white back facing outward. “The defendant would have you believe that a man with no history of violence, a Catholic priest who led a life of prayer, a life of service to others, suddenly—at the age of fifty-seven—revealed his never-before-seen diabolical side. And he did it on one of the holiest nights of the year.”

She half laughs again. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is the theory of this case that doesn’t hold water. Men who are violent tend to mellow in middle age,” she says. “It doesn’t work the other way around.”

She paces the length of the jury box, her arms still folded, her head tilted toward the panel. “Common sense, ladies and gentlemen. This case isn’t about unwanted sexual advances. It isn’t about fending off forced attentions. And it certainly isn’t about self-defense.”

They stare at her, rapt, all fourteen of them. Still, their faces reveal nothing.

“We all know what happened here,” she says as she comes to a stop near the middle of the box. She raises her favorite glossy again, says nothing.

Three-quarters of the jurors avert their eyes this time around; Cora Rowlands isn’t the only one who’s reached the saturation point. But Geraldine
does
intend to force the issue now. She waits, her silence suggesting she’ll stand there for the rest of the month if that’s what it takes to get them to view the bloody scene one last time. And one by one, they do. All but Cora.

“This is what happened,” our District Attorney says at last. “A holy place. A holy man. An unholy crime.”

“Relax,” Harry says as he drops into the chair across from mine. “It’s Friday. Maybe he went out for a beer.”

I stare across the table at him, drumming my fingers on the red Formica. “When was the last time you saw him go out for a beer at two in the afternoon?”

The Kydd isn’t answering the phones again. And we’ve already learned what that means: nothing good.

“Well, then maybe he’s doing a little Christmas shopping. ’Tis the season, you know.” Harry leans closer and lowers his voice. “Tell the truth,” he says. “What do you think he’ll get for me?”

I frown. Even he doesn’t believe the Kydd is shopping. We’re back at the Piccadilly, where today’s special is a fried clam roll, with fries and slaw on the side. Harry ordered two. He needs to keep his strength up, he said, while the jury deliberates. He also ordered a cranberry muffin for me—grilled and buttered—and I’ve all but finished it. Trial is over, after all. There’s nothing to do now but wait.

“I just wish he’d return my messages, tell us what the hell is going on.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry says, squeezing open the spout of his second chocolate milk. “We’ve only been out of the courthouse twenty minutes. And besides, bad news keeps, remember?”

He’s right. That’s precisely why I’m on edge.

“Oh, look,” he says, sounding delighted, “it’s the God Squad.” He waves toward the door, as if he’s hailing a cab, so I turn to find out who’s here. It’s Geraldine, with Monsignor Davis in tow.

The Piccadilly doesn’t often host a monsignor, of course, but it’s even more surprising to see Geraldine Schilling in here. The deli doesn’t allow smoking. And everyone in the Barnstable County Complex knows our District Attorney doesn’t eat, ever. Caffeine and nicotine sustain her.

“Over here,” Harry calls, still waving at them. “Join us, Your Émigré. And by all means, bring your friend.”

Oddly enough, he does. They cross the room and stand beside our table, coats buttoned up tight. The Monsignor smiles at us. Geraldine doesn’t. “What a surprise,” she says to Harry, running her leather gloves across her palm as she takes in the twin platters. “You’re snacking.”

He grins up at both of them and points to his second meal, as yet untouched. “Help yourselves,” he says. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

Geraldine scowls; she’d sooner swallow arsenic. The Monsignor laughs and takes a few fries.

“What keeps you in our midst, Padre?” Harry sticks a thumb out at Geraldine. “You’re not trying to save her wretched soul, are you?”

Monsignor Davis laughs again, then grows serious. “The Kendricks are part-time parishioners,” he says. “I thought I might be of some assistance to them, offer some spiritual support.”

Harry sets his half-eaten clam roll on the cardboard platter.

My stomach knots. “The Kendricks? What about them? Why do they need support, spiritual or otherwise?”

The Monsignor looks suddenly worried. He doesn’t answer; he turns to Geraldine instead, giving her the floor. She has news, apparently, and before she says a word, I know exactly what it is. “Charles Kendrick is in custody,” she tells me, pointing toward the courthouse. “I thought you’d want to know. He’s in lockup now; Chatham’s finest ran him in at my direction. Your associate is with him.”

So much for the Kydd’s shopping spree.

“Arraignment is scheduled for five,” she says. “I expect you’ll want to hang around for it.”

“Five? All the players are here now. What are we waiting for?” Not that I’m in any big hurry. Harry was right. Bad news keeps.

“To accommodate the family,” she says. “They want to attend. And they can’t get here before then.”

I shake my head. “They’re in Chatham. They could be here in forty minutes.” I realize my mistake before I finish the sentence.

“Not that family,” she says. “The Forresters. They asked that we give them enough time to make the drive from Stamford.”

Of course they did. Warren, Catherine, and Meredith want to hear Geraldine’s evidence against the Senator firsthand. They want to look him in the eye, if they can get close enough. They want to ask the question all murder victims’ families ask, the one that burns in their hearts, the one that’s never adequately answered.
Why?

Geraldine turns and heads for the door, her mission apparently accomplished. Monsignor Davis starts to follow, but he pauses and rests a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll say a prayer,” he says.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “I’d ask for a word or two of your Divine Office, but that’s only for priests. And I’m not even a Catholic.” I’d never heard of the Divine Office until he testified this morning, but I don’t tell him that part.

He smiles again, and it’s genuine. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Prayer helps us all.”

With that, he leaves, and for a split second I wish I
were
Catholic, a notion I’ve never stumbled upon before. It’s a fleeting fancy, of course, but at the moment I’m not certain of anything. Faith might help. I wish mine weren’t so riddled with doubt.

I also wish I hadn’t eaten the damned muffin.

We’re in lockup. We’ve been here for the better part of three hours now: Charles Kendrick, the Kydd, and I. Our client’s mantra hasn’t wavered. “I don’t have any idea,” he tells us again and again. “I don’t know anything about it. I swear.”

“Our District Attorney has been wrong in the past,” I tell him, “but she’s never been sloppy. She had you hauled in here; that means she’s got evidence. If you know what the evidence is—or even what it might be—it would behoove you to give us a heads-up. I’m tired of running this race a lap behind Geraldine Schilling.”

“I don’t,” he says, looking from me to the Kydd, as if the Kydd might back him up. “I swear to God I don’t know what evidence she could have. I would never lift a hand to Michelle. I had nothing to do with her death.”

Maybe politicians are particularly persuasive by nature. Or maybe I’m going soft in my middle age. Whatever the reason, I believe him. Part of me wishes I didn’t.
Someone
murdered Michelle Forrester. I hate to think of that someone still roaming the Cape.

A series of knocks quiets us and then the door opens. “It’s time,” a uniformed guard says as he and his partner crowd into the small room. Senator Kendrick’s wrists are already cuffed behind his back, as they have been all afternoon, but the second guard through the door approaches him now with ankle shackles. “Is that necessary?” I ask.

The guard looks from me to the Senator, who’s sitting quietly at a small table, his shoulders stooped, his eyes lowered to the floor. Not exactly the portrait of a combative prisoner; not the profile of a flight risk, either. The uniform consults silently with his partner and then shrugs. “I guess not,” he says, dropping the heavy hardware on the table and beckoning his charge with one hand. “Let’s go, Senator,” he says, his tone neutral. “It’s time.”

Charles Kendrick and his escorts enter the main courtroom of the District Courthouse first, the Kydd and I bringing up the rear. The noise in the enormous room escalates as soon as the first trio clears the doorway, before I can even see inside. No doubt the crowd is reacting to the sight of our senior senator in cuffs. I’m startled by the volume, and one look at the Kydd tells me he is too. The place must be packed.

It is. The spectators assembled in Superior Court for the conclusion of the Holliston trial earlier today have moved here en masse, it seems, and they’ve got plenty of new companions. Half the year-round residents of North Chatham are here, Helene Wilson among them, about a half dozen rows back. Her gaze moves from the Senator to me and she shakes her head. Her eyes are worried.

Members of the press corps jockey for the front spots in the side aisles, forced by court officers to stay pressed against the windowless walls in single file. The officers are trying to keep some semblance of an aisle open on each side of the room, but I’m pretty sure a fire in this building now would kill us all.

Most of the reporters call out urgent questions—to Senator Kendrick, to the Kydd, to me—as we approach our table. We ignore them, but they continue shouting at us anyway. They’re wired. The Senator’s arrest isn’t just a scoop; it’s a scandal.

Honey Kendrick is already here, seated in the front row, directly behind our table. Abby sits on one side of her, holding her mother’s hand. Monsignor Davis is on the other, seated sideways and talking quietly with both of them. Mother and daughter are in tears; the Monsignor is undoubtedly doing his best to console them. His job is going to get harder as we proceed. Geraldine Schilling has news to share, a story to tell. None of us wants to hear it, Honey and Abby least of all.

The counsel tables in District Court are normally surrounded by too many olive green, imitation leather, high-backed chairs. Today, when we could use a few, only two are pulled up to the defense table. The Kydd points to the empty seats at the bar, telling me he’ll sit back there.

“Not on your life,” I tell him. “You’re not going anywhere, Kydd. Find another chair and sit right here. You’ve been on this case longer than I have today.”
Misery loves company
is my real rationale. I’m pretty sure the Kydd knows that, but he retrieves another chair from against the side wall without argument. No sooner does he sit than the room falls abruptly silent. And silence—in this arena, anyhow—is the ultimate attention-getter.

The sudden quiet prompts those of us seated up front to shift in our chairs. Geraldine and Clarence turn to the gallery and the Kydd, the Senator, and I do likewise. The explanation stares back at us. The Forresters—Mom, Dad, and big sister—are just inside the back doors, looking straight ahead at our table, at the Senator, at the man they’ve been told murdered Michelle. Not one of us moves. Even at this distance, their expressions shut us down. They’re stricken. In pain. And it’s physical.

The chambers door opens and the bailiff tells us to rise. I’m surprised when the judge emerges—pleasantly so. All arraignments are held in District Court and most are presided over by District Court judges. The chief judge apparently made a special request on behalf of our senior senator, though. Leon Long is here for this one, and he ordinarily presides in Superior Court.

Judge Long is the only black judge ever to sit in Barnstable County. And no matter which bench he’s on, he’s a welcome sight to members of the defense bar. In his courtroom, the presumption of innocence is real and the prosecution’s burden is steep. He bangs his gavel before he sits—a habit engrained over the course of more than two decades on the bench—but it’s not necessary. The Forrester family has already called this room to order.

The courtroom clerk stands, recites the docket number, and then announces, “The Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Charles Johnson Kendrick.” She looks over at us—not unkindly—and then reclaims her seat.

Geraldine is up instantly. “Your Honor,” she says, “Mr. Kendrick is charged with the first-degree murder of Michelle Andrea Forrester, a murder committed with extreme atrocity or cruelty.”

Some prosecutors might address the Senator as
Mister
by mistake. Not Geraldine. From this moment until she secures his conviction and sentence, Geraldine Schilling will seize every opportunity she can to diminish Charles Kendrick. Stripping him of his title is just the beginning. It’s nothing personal; she does it to all murder defendants. In her mind, at least, it’s part of the job.

Judge Long looks at me and shakes his head, ever so slightly. The signal is almost imperceptible, but it’s there. And I’ve tried enough cases before him to know what he’s telling me. He doesn’t want to hear the Senator’s plea yet. He wants the District Attorney to put her cards on the table first. “Ms. Schilling,” he says, “let’s hear the facts.”

Most Barnstable County judges will take a simple plea from the defendant—guilty or not—before they call for a recitation of the facts. Not Leon Long. In his courtroom, the defendant need not say a word until the government demonstrates it’s got something real against him. Geraldine doesn’t need to prove her case at this point, of course. But she does need to convince the judge she has one.

She seems ready to do just that. “As you are undoubtedly aware, Your Honor, Ms. Forrester went missing last Thursday, eight days ago. She was last seen at Cape Cod Community College, wrapping up a press conference for her employer.” Geraldine stops and points at the Senator. “Counselor,” Judge Long says, “there’s no need to point. I’m well aware of the defendant’s seat assignment.”

Judge Long has given her this admonition before—many times in many cases. Pointing is part of the drama prosecutors put on for jurors; it has no place in an arraignment. Geraldine won’t stop, though. She can’t help herself. She looks up at the judge now, her expression suggesting he just paid her a hefty compliment. “The facts,” he reminds her.

“Of course, Your Honor,” she says. “Charles Kendrick was one of the first witnesses we interviewed. I spoke with him personally, Monday morning and again Monday afternoon. On both occasions, he claimed he had no contact with the deceased after the Four Cs press conference.”

Geraldine looks over at us and almost smiles before she continues. “The deceased’s automobile, a BMW roadster, was found on Tuesday, parked deep in the woods near the intersection of Old Queen Anne and Training Field roads in Chatham.”

I turn to check in with the Kydd, then with the Senator. They’re as surprised as I am. The area Geraldine is referring to is known as the Golden Triangle, eighteen acres of pristine wooded conservation land. This is the first any of us has heard of Michelle’s car being found there.

“That’s right,” Geraldine says, speaking in our direction now. “We withheld that fact from the public, pending the results of forensic testing.”

Geraldine returns to her table and Clarence hands her three documents, no doubt the results to which she just referred. She delivers one copy to us, passes another up to the judge, and holds on to the third. “Hair follicles and skin fragments,” she says, tapping the top page. “Multiple samples.
All
match those of the deceased.”

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.”