False Witness

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  “My Lucy-look-at-the-sunny-side.”

  “Well, why not? Let’s say that Bobby has come up with another suspect. A David Cohen lookalike. And now Sanderalee says, absolutely, positively, without an iota of a doubt: yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. That’s the man I picked up; took home; had all kinds of slightly kinky sex with. And then he turned vicious and beat me up and hacked off my hand. So, you go back to the Grand Jury and get a dismissal of all charges against Dr. David Cohen. I’m making an educated guess, based on everything we know so far, that this second man is a David Cohen lookalike. You acted in good faith, Lynne: your plaintiff said this was the man. You literally had no choice. Not too much corroborating evidence, but one or two little peculiar things, like the wounded cheek, blood type, missing running shoes. You’re in the clear as far as I can see.

  “And so is Bobby Jones.” Lucy held her hand up to keep me from interrupting. “We’re looking at the sunny side, Lynne. Not on the personal motive side, all right? Let me finish. So, okay, David Cohen is cleared. Second man—McDonald, you said—okay, he’s charged not with any sex crimes because ugh!—damn and double damn!—‘She asked for it.’ ”

  We both made faces and ugly noises but Lucy continued. The longer she spoke, the better I felt. Maybe this whole thing could still be salvaged.

  “So, all right, you then ask the Grand Jury for indictments for atrocious assault, attempted murder, dismemberment, and any et ceteras you can throw in.”

  “And publicly, Lucy? I have the distinct feeling that the crucifiers will be lined up and waiting. Led by one particularly vivacious and successful young woman who’s gotten more than she bargained for—or maybe exactly what she hoped for—by selecting me for her fucking documentary. Sorry, Lucy. Her darn-old documentary.”

  Lucy ignored my slip; we are all generally careful around her, with that twelve-year-old face and those round dark eyes.

  “Okay, Lynne. So what do we have to offer to the public? Well, sir, we show them that the prosecutor’s office, the District Attorney’s office, is dedicated to the truth, to justice, to clearing and protecting the innocent as well as prosecuting the guilty.”

  She ended with a huge, triumphant grin. She had me totally convinced. What a marvelous organization we represented. What dedication to the tradition of justice. Oh, Lucy, you go in front of the cameras. You face the world and tell them what you just told me.

  “Lucy, you make it all sound so nice and clean and marvelous and noble. But my God. David Cohen’s father dropped dead in court from the stress of seeing his son under arrest and facing arraignment. His brother was apparently a pretty well controlled epileptic and now he’s publicly disgraced. His mother—oh boy, Lucy, she’s put a curse on me forever and ever and you know what? It’s beginning to work full force.”

  She ignored that. “First, Lynne: the father’s heart attack was inevitable. From what I’ve read about him, he was on borrowed time. Unfortunate, but there it is. The brother: he lied on his job application. It’s too bad the way it all came out, but let’s face it, the man had no right at all to a job like that with the kind of responsibility his job entailed.”

  “So, in effect, you might say that I was instrumental in saving possibly thousands of lives that might have been lost should he have had an attack at a crucial moment and let all that nuclear stuff escape. Right?”

  “There you go, Lynne. That’s the line to take. Now, the mother’s curse.” Lucy’s face closed up for a moment as though she were searching for something—anything—to say.

  “You saw it on the news? Was it as awful as I think it was?”

  “It was as awful as you think it was.”

  You ask Lucy a question and you will get a totally honest answer.

  “You know it yourself, Lynne. So okay, you learned something. Be very careful of what you say and who you say it to. Never—ever—trust a media person; keep your guard up. They can do whatever they want to with whatever you say so be careful what the heck you say, about anything at all times. Lynne, one more thing. Aside from ‘showing you,’ paying you back for your lack of confidence in his ability, where do you think Bobby Jones is heading with all of this? What does he want?”

  I had never even considered. Never thought about it. “Going out in a burst of glory?” I started to laugh; a very gagging sound. “Glory-Glori Nichols. Is he setting me up for her documentary? All my shortcomings to be featured in a one-hour news special? And in gratitude, she’ll bring him into the wonderful world of entertainment? He’s gotten some damn good training in double-dealing if that’s what’s behind all this. I’ll find out tonight, at seven o’clock.”

  Lucy pulled herself up a little, hunched closer to me, bit her lower lip. That meant she was making a big decision: ask this next question or not.

  “Lynne. Just between the two of us. No matter what happens later, no matter what turns up, no matter how this whole case is resolved. As of right now, your gut feeling. Forget everything else and give me your best intuitive gut feeling: Dr. David Cohen?”

  I answered without a second’s hesitation.

  “I think the son of a bitch is guilty.”

  “I think so too,” Lucy said.

  CHAPTER 41

  WE DID NOT KNOW how to behave toward each other. We had been so intimate and free and honest and loving and knowledgeable with each other. I knew that he had spent a certain amount of time deciding to wear his midnight blue suit. Then he had thoughtfully chosen the sky blue shirt, which intensified the color of his eyes, and then he purposely chose the exactly-right tie that I had bought for him at Saks specifically for that suit and that shirt. He was clean and fresh-smelling down to his skin: the soapy quality of a hot shower somehow lingers on Bobby Jones. He had shaved within the hour: faint hint of recently applied, very fight aftershave lotion. I could visualize the motions he had used as he brushed his hair, the way he ran his left palm lightly over each careful stroke.

  He had dressed to please me.

  I had dressed to please him.

  Unfortunately, one look at his blue eyes and smug face was enough to make my choice of clothing a matter of no interest to either of us.

  “Bobby. How the hell could you have done this to me?” I asked.

  There was a careful, tight narrowing of his eyes. He studied me as though calculating, deciding, selecting the proper words. “Actually,” he said, after a pause, “as of right now, as of this exact minute, Lynne, I haven’t done anything to you.”

  “All right. Let’s start with this. What have you been doing since you spoke to Alan Greco, last Monday night? When he told you about his conversation with Sanderalee. When he gave you copies of the report he prepared immediately after his conversation with Sanderalee.”

  Bobby focused steadily on me. “Go further back, Lynne. About two weeks back. I’ve been conducting my own investigation in another direction altogether. Away from Dr. David Cohen. I told you right at the beginning that I doubted he was the perpetrator. But first, I gave you the background report on Cohen that you asked for, I supervised all the Squad members. I coordinated all their findings and kept you up to date. In all areas but one. Because you more or less weren’t interested in my tangential investigation.”

  “Tangential investigation? What the hell does that mean? Before you spoke to Alan Greco, before he told you what Sanderalee told him, what investigation were you involved in?”

  Bobby held up his hand. “Wait, Lynne. I’ll show you what I’ve been doing. Before the conversation with Alan.” He retrieved his attaché case from the entrance hall. He placed it on my dining table, leaned over, arranging things. “Come on over here, Lynne. I’ve got a lot of things to show you.”

  As I stared at the photographs, Bobby stared at me. I looked up, puzzled; pointed to one slightly familiar face.

  “Henry. Angel. Henry Angelowitz, our pal from the Jog-gon-Inn. Photogenic devil, isn’t he.” Bobby moved in closer to me; his hand resting lightly, naturally, on my shoulder, no longer shy of touch
ing. His square fingers searched the small faces on the photograph, then stopped at an indistinct bearded man sitting at a table.

  As though he were performing a magic act, Bobby produced another picture from the folder he had taken from his attaché case. It was an enlargement of the indistinct man with the beard. Vaguely familiar. And then, he showed me an artist’s drawing of the face in the photograph; then, the artist’s rendition of the same face without a beard: it was David Cohen’s face.

  “This is what you’re showing me? A guy with a beard who looks like David Cohen underneath his beard? Who was photographed at the Jog-gon-Inn?”

  Bobby wordlessly handed me his next item: a yellow sheet. The official record of arrests in the name of one Jim McDonald, also known as Donald McGuire a.k.a. Don Finn a.k.a. Donald Tomkins a.k.a. Jim Finn. Not known, at any time, as David Cohen. There was a list of arrests going back to the early sixties: rape; assault; attempted rape; attempted murder; assault; assault; weapons charge (unspecified); rape; assault with a deadly weapon. There were two convictions, bargained-for doubtlessly, for misdemeanors; two convictions for felonies. He had served a total of some six and a half years for his long list of crimes. He was currently on parole, for the last five months, for his latest major felony conviction. Underlined on the yellow sheet was the information that there was an arrest warrant out for him as a parole violator. He apparently hadn’t been keeping his required appointments with his parole officer. He could be picked up at any time under the warrant.

  Next: mug shots. As Bobby showed them to me one at a time I could see the changes from callow youth to smug tough to streetwise punk. The photographs were dated from 1963 to the last one taken of him in 1977. The last few photographs could have been of David Cohen: alike as twins.

  “Now,” Bobby cleared the table, glanced up at me as he arranged a series of photographs, one beside the other. “Bear with me, Lynne, for just a minute. Now, look. Eight photographs; four with beards, four without beards. I had an artist do the drawings, which were then photographed uniformly. Pick out who is who. Which are David Cohen, which are Jim McDonald?”

  It was impossible. They were too much alike. I turned the photos over again and again, checking the name against the image.

  “My God. What’s that word, German word ... doppelgänger? A double—an old folktale about each person having a reverse image or a ghostly twin somewhere on earth. Jesus.”

  Bobby had other information for me: prison records; employment records; residence records; psychiatrists’ reports from prison; statements from all the various officials at all the various institutions through which a Jim McDonald eventually passes.

  “Right at the very beginning, Lynne, when Sanderalee said she thought she knew the guy—that she thought she recognized him from the Jog-gon-Inn, I slipped a picture of David Cohen to Angel. Henry Angelowitz. He hadn’t seen this guy McDonald around for a while. When he showed up with the beard, a little more than a week ago, Angel called me. And ...” Bobby gestured to the stack of photographs. “And I’ve also got a videotape.” He set it up on my Betamax. There, indeed, was David Cohen’s bearded doppelgänger, sitting in the Jog-gon-Inn, drinking beer and eating a hamburger; all in living color.

  “Who did the videotape and the artwork and the photos, Bobby? This wasn’t done by our people. They were done by an outside agency.”

  Bobby shrugged. “It was all done on my own time. The rest of this stuff, the yellow sheet, the background, was done as a general information-gathering investigation. We’ve come up with the information that McDonald is wanted as a parole violator. We haven’t approached his parole supervisor yet. McDonald is just sitting around. Under surveillance; very close, total surveillance. We can put hands on him with one phone call. For parole violation. And then for face-to-face identification by Sanderalee.”

  “You haven’t answered my question, Bobby. Who did these photographs? Who made the videotape?”

  He didn’t answer; he just smiled and shrugged.

  “They’re media people, for God’s sake, Bobby. Media people. Do you realize what could happen if this material is used in the wrong way? Have you any idea ...”

  “It won’t be used in the wrong way. That’s what this is all about, Lynne. This is what I’ve come to set up with you.”

  “To set up with me?”

  That dazzling smile: football hero, class practical joker, gleeful “gotcha” grin.

  “Bobby, I’m going to tell you that as of this moment, I can charge you with obstruction of justice. And if you’re about to ask me to join with you in some sort of scheme involving this case, I’ll further charge you with attempted collusion. At the very worst, you’ll face a trial and possibly jail. At the very least, you’ll be disbarred.”

  “Lynne, come on and sit down and listen to me. This isn’t as terrible as it looks. This can be worked out.”

  “Worked out? You deliberately withheld information from me, you let me go before the Grand Jury and get indictments against David Cohen when you knew Sanderalee had withdrawn her identification, when you had all this information about this ... this ...”

  “Okay, Lynne. Here are some facts. Facts: not speculation. Jameson Whitney Hale is going to announce for the Senate on April sixth. That’s next week. He’s going to appoint you as his replacement and recommend you as the incumbent candidate and will back you totally for election.”

  “Not when this gets out he won’t. I’ll be lucky if ...”

  Bobby held his hand up. “Lynne, wait. Just let me continue. Now, I’ve given my own career a great deal of careful thought since you last informed me of my lack of ability, et cetera, et cetera. My inability to go for the jugular, something like that, wasn’t it? And I wasn’t as good an investigator as Lucy Capella. Or as good a prosecutor as you.” He smiled. “Well, I’ve got the real culprit tied up and waiting to be delivered. How he gets delivered, under what circumstances and conditions and with what public information—that’s what you and I are going to work out.”

  “Bobby. Don’t say anything more. Not another word. Didn’t your pretty little Miss America media-lady tell you what happens to violators of the public trust? Or doesn’t she know anything about law?”

  “She knows the law of survival, Lynne. She’s been giving me a few lessons.” His feet came off the table, flat on the floor. He leaned forward and stared hard at me. “Our careers are linked together, Lynne. You and I are going to work together, right at the top of the heap.”

  “I told you before, Bobby, my career has nothing whatever to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with me, Lynne. We’re tied together because of this case. It can work for you or against you. It’s all up to you. It depends on what you decide here, tonight, between just the two of us.”

  “Where does Glori Nichols fit into all of this, Bobby? First, explain that to me. Before you explain anything else, because I don’t know from point one what the hell you have in mind.”

  “Lynne, Glori Nichols means as much to me as ... as Jameson Whitney Hale ever meant to you. You don’t have to worry about her any more than I’ve ever worried about him. We’d still be together, you and I. We’ll both get what we want.”

  That stunned me; it really took me a few seconds to absorb the shock. It had been a long time since anyone had considered me as a bedroom achiever. It was not only grotesque, it was pretty funny, coming from Bobby Jones.

  “My God, Nebraska. I’m not sure I can quite see this. You’d be using ... both of us. Glori Nichols and me. In exactly the same way you think that Jameson and I ... and oh my God, this is too much. Too bizarre. Glori and Jameson; and Glori and you; and me and Jameson. You’ve come a long way from the rolling waves of grain in Nebraska.”

  He had the calculated smug grin of a clever child. “You and I would be the team, Lynne. It’s not as complicated, really, as it sounds.” He shrugged. “I guess you could say I’m a real New Yorker now.”

  “An unemployed New Yorker! I want
your resignation on my desk by nine o’clock Monday morning. You can spend Sunday with your TV lady preparing a nice believable story for your resignation.” He watched me, expressionless, as I moved around the room; had to keep moving; moving, because what I really wanted to do was something violent. To him.

  “As of Monday morning, 9 A.M., we are adversaries, Bobby. I should fire you as of right now, this minute, right now, but I’m giving you the grace period. That’s because I really cared about you. I didn’t mind your career-building in my bed just as long as your ambition didn’t exceed your ability. Tonight, you’ve crossed the line by a ... by a country mile. Either you’ve overestimated yourself or underestimated me.”

  “You haven’t heard what I have to say, Lynne. You haven’t even asked about ...”

  I took a deep breath, felt it stick in the back of my throat, felt a sense of suffocation. “Don’t tell me anything, not a word. Whatever scheme, plan, whatever you’ve come to suggest to me ...”

  “You’d better listen to me, Lynne, and go along with me, or you’ll be throwing away your career. And I don’t believe you want to do that. You’ve worked and planned too long and too hard.”

  He had perfect control of his face except for one quick little twitch in the left corner of his lip; he knew I’d seen it. He covered his mouth with his hand for a moment; stood up, moved his shoulders around, loosening up; turned to me. Courtroom voice, courtroom presentation: a summing-up whether I wanted to hear it or not.

  “It’s really very simple, Lynne. You’ll stand to lose nothing. We both stand to gain what we want. We sit on this information for one more week, until Jameson announces. You’re appointed as interim D.A. You appoint me as Bureau Chief. Then, I make a quick call to Jim McDonald’s parole officer. Sanderalee has seen all these photographs. Yes, she’s identified McDonald. And yes, she’s sure it was him. She remembers him now from having been with him before. She hasn’t made a face-to-face ID yet. That will come after I’m Bureau Chief; you’re D.A. It will move very quickly, very smoothly. Grand Jury drops the indictments against David Cohen. I give the presentation against McDonald for assault, for attempted murder, for what he did to her. Then, we”—he opened his arms to include me, part of the team—“make a public announcement. Let the public know the District Attorney’s office is just as interested in the innocence of a person as in the guilt of a person.”