The Liar

by Steve Cavanagh

  A look from the judge sufficed.

  “What do you remember of those first days when Caroline was missing?” said King, lowering her voice and slowing her delivery in an attempt to inject some emotion into her witness.

  “I tried to stay strong, for Lenny. It was tough. The house was constantly filled with policemen, federal agents and all of Lenny’s people. And the reporters just wouldn’t leave us alone. That was the worst of it, the press attention. I just couldn’t abide it.”

  I wrote down her answer in full. Underlined it. This was my way in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Before Mrs Howell did herself any more damage, King moved things along.

  “During the nineteen days when Caroline Howell had allegedly disappeared, did you ever go into the basement of your property?”

  “No. I think I’ve only ever been in there once, shortly after I moved in. I was looking for something. I don’t like cellars, they freak me out so I never went back down.”

  “To the best of your knowledge, during those days when Caroline was supposedly missing, did you ever see your husband go into the basement?”

  “Yes,” said Susan, confidently.

  I couldn’t help myself. My head swiveled and Howell’s eyes met mine.

  “When did you see your husband go into the basement?”

  “On the night of the fire.”

  “Tell us what you saw.”

  “It was sometime after midnight. I was in the kitchen, fixing a drink. A lot of people were leaving the house. Ahhm, I think it must’ve been like a shift change-over thing. Most of the cops left, and the FBI agents, or most of them, went outside too. I took my drink and headed back down the corridor, I was going to go upstairs and watch TV. Take my mind off things. Just before the stairs is a hallway to the left of the main corridor. I saw Lenny open the basement door at the far end of the corridor and walk down the stairs.”

  Her answer sounded good. It had been practiced, no doubt, many times. King would’ve asked her this question over and over, and made her put in as much detail as possible. Details artificially inflate credibility and King knew it.

  She lowered her voice, almost to a whisper, and asked Susan, “Are you sure it was him?”

  “I’m positive. I saw him from behind, he was wearing his black suit, and he walked down the stairs. He was carrying a large can of something.”

  “Could it have been someone else you saw?”

  “No. I didn’t think anything of it, at the time. I remember when I walked past and I got into the main hallway, I saw Peter McAuley and Marlon talking. There was no one else in the house that it could have been. The FBI wouldn’t just wander into someone’s basement, and our driver, George, he was a … well … he can’t walk straight. So it wasn’t him. It could only have been Lenny.”

  The Silk Hammer was cutting off as many escape routes as possible, nailing her evidence down.

  “You mentioned he was carrying a can. Could it have been a can of gasoline?”

  “I didn’t see the can clearly, I suppose it could have been.”

  As much as some of the jury disliked Susan Howell, they sat forward for that last answer. Some made notes. Others swung their attention back to Howell. They were making that judgment – could this man have killed his own daughter?

  “What happened after that?” said King.

  “The house filled again, with the police and the FBI. I remember that the insurance guy came with the ransom. Then mostly everyone left. There was one FBI agent around, and George was downstairs. Around three a.m. the whole house shook. I’d managed to fall asleep and the noise woke me up. Then I saw that all the windows in the house had blown out, and George burst into the room. I don’t remember too much after that, it’s all a bit hazy. I tried to get out, but I fell and I must’ve hit my head. I knew though, on some level, that the whole house was on fire, but I couldn’t get up. Maybe George tried to lift me, maybe. Then I blanked out. Next thing I remember was waking up in hospital.”

  A juddering breath escaped from Susan Howell, and she wiped her eyes with the tissue.

  “When you were told that Caroline’s blood was found in the basement, what was your reaction?”

  “At first, I … I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t get my head around it. Perhaps it was shock, or something still lingering after my head injury, but for a long time I just couldn’t process it. Then I learned about the fake ransom drop in the train station, and that Lenny had gotten ten million dollars from the insurers, not two, like he’d told the FBI – and all of our financial problems over that year … It didn’t take me too long to realize just what had been staring me in the face all along – Lenny lied to everyone so he could steal …”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” I said. I couldn’t let the comment come out. Even so, the jury would be finishing her sentence in their thoughts.

  Judge Schultz leaned over and addressed the witness directly. “Mrs Howell, you are here to give evidence to this jury regarding your factual recollection of events. You are not here to speculate.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and then burst into tears with perfect timing – almost as if she’d been prepped to cry when the judge gave her a talking-to about stepping over the line.

  “Mrs Howell, please take a moment,” said King.

  We waited while Susan apologized, dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. Then King came forward and handed her a fresh handkerchief. It quickly became smeared with mascara. The prosecutor slowly moved back behind her desk, letting the jury watch the crying witness. The longer she sobbed, the greater the sympathy from the jury.

  I sat back and looked at King. She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Mrs Howell, I know how difficult this is for you, but I have one last question. Did your husband ask you to take part in his scheme to defraud his insurance company out of ten million dollars?”

  “Yes. He asked me to distract agent Lynch when he came into our home with the insurance agent. I refused.”

  “Thank you,” said King.

  I thought back to my conversation with Howell in the cells three months before; no way was he expecting this from Susan. I turned to my client and saw he was deflated, but not yet defeated. His chin hung low over the table, and he couldn’t look Susan in the eye.

  I thought about what King had achieved with this witness. She wasn’t likeable, but she painted Howell as a debt-ridden, angry, liar. The testimony that she’d seen Howell go down the stairs and into the basement with a can of gasoline was the main point, but I couldn’t just jump into that – I had to go softly at first.

  Before I stood to begin the cross, I felt a hand on my forearm. It was Howell.

  “Go easy on her,” he said.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw someone stretch an arm over the rails that separated the gallery from the lawyers. I turned and saw it was Agent Harper. She was dressed casually – leather jacket, jeans, and her hair looked exactly the same as the last day I saw her – tied back in a ponytail. In her hand she held a small piece of paper and she was offering it to me. I hadn’t seen Harper since Howell’s arrest. She greeted me with a half-smile, but that disappeared as soon as she’d handed over the note.

  I took it, unfolded the paper and read.

  “Don’t ask Susan Howell about the phone calls to Hawaii.”

  The paper held my attention for longer than it should. Was Harper playing me? Or trying to save me from a car crash that I hadn’t seen coming? She sat back down, and I saw her scan the crowd. Agent Lynch folded his arms and gave Harper a look that said he wanted to strangle her.

  I tore up the note, put it in my pocket.

  Right then, I wasn’t sure if this was a play; an act between Harper and Lynch to prevent me pulling at the sensitive threads of the prosecution case. From our limited time together that night of the fire, I knew Harper was skeptical about Howell’s involvement. She’d worked out the drop at the train station was fake, and now Howell was testifying to that. Mayb
e she bought it? Maybe not. Either she was still unconvinced of his guilt and she was helping me, or she was setting me up. I made up my mind to ignore the warning. The phone calls weren’t that relevant. I just needed to question her impression of her husband from that call. If there were any surprises coming out of that testimony I would’ve known by now. It was a risk, but a low one. And if it blew up in my face, at least I’d know whose side Harper was on.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Mrs Howell, the prosecutor asked you about those initial days after Caroline went missing. Do you remember what you just said in response to that?” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” she said.

  “Let me remind you, I took a note of it. You said, ‘The reporters just wouldn’t leave us alone. That was the worst of it, the press attention. I just couldn’t abide it.’ Correct?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said. That was how I felt.”

  “So, the thought that your stepdaughter might have been kidnapped, raped or murdered wasn’t your main concern at that time?”

  Before I’d finished the question I saw the twitch. A small, fast movement of the head, a blink, a downturn of the mouth; all of it there and gone in an instant as she registered her mistake and sought to correct it.

  “Of course she was my main concern. I was out of my mind with worry about Caroline. The added pressure from the media made it so much worse.”

  A flick of the hair – she thought she was back on track – panic over.

  “You and your husband are estranged, isn’t that right?” I said.

  She didn’t answer. Susan Howell merely knitted her eyebrows together and stared at me open-mouthed. I figured she didn’t understand the question.

  “Mrs Howell, you and your husband are no longer together. The relationship is over?”

  “I can’t see how it can continue,” she said.

  “So you’ll be filing for divorce?”

  “When this is all over, yes,” she said, tugging a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

  “Who is your divorce lawyer?”

  Her eyes popped open.

  “Well … I … is that relevant?”

  “Just answer the questions, Mrs Howell. I decide if something is relevant,” said Judge Schultz.

  Susan nodded, held her hands up and then crossed her legs.

  “Jeffrey Penning, of Gore & Penning,” she said, without further hesitation.

  “Mr Penning handles celebrity divorces, doesn’t he, Mrs Howell?”

  “I believe so, yes. He’s very successful.”

  “I’m sure Mr Penning explained to you that if your husband is convicted of murder, and spends the rest of his life in prison, that you would come out a lot better in the divorce?”

  The same twitch of the head. It was almost like she was reeling from a jab. She said nothing.

  King stood to object, but Judge Schultz was already shaking her head at the prosecutor before she’d opened her mouth. The jury needed to know if the witness was being impartial, or was motivated by a potentially large divorce settlement.

  “Mrs Howell?”

  “He might have said something like that.”

  “You mean he did say precisely that?”

  She glanced at her shoes, stroked her thighs, and raised her head.

  “Yes. Yes, he did.”

  “If your husband is convicted of murder, the state will look after him for the rest of his life. He won’t need any assets, or income to live. He has no surviving dependents. You would get, what? Ninety, maybe ninety-five per cent of the marriage assets?”

  “Perhaps, I really don’t know.”

  “You told the jury you and your husband are approximately ten million dollars in debt. Seven million of that is the outstanding mortgage, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is the latest valuation of the family property?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  I looked at the jury. Ignored the witness. A couple of the female jurors, and at least one of the male jurors, were nodding. They had probably been through divorce themselves. They knew that Mrs Howell had prepared for this divorce like she was getting ready for war – that’s what happens when there’s money to be split.

  “Mrs Howell, your divorce lawyer asked you to prepare a complete portfolio of marriage assets, did he not?”

  “Ahm, yes.”

  “So you had your property, stocks, shares, cars, spoons, everything valued, isn’t that right?”

  “Oh, sorry, yes, I remember. The real estate broker thought we could get twelve million for the house. We won’t get that now. The house is in ruins.”

  I’d already asked Leonard Howell my next question and he was sure of the answer.

  “Mrs Howell, the insurance on the house is for fifteen million dollars, isn’t that right?”

  “Ahm, I think so.”

  “You think so. The house is in joint names. Haven’t the insurance company paid you the compensation check already?”

  Silence. She considered it for all of five seconds before deciding she couldn’t lie about this at all.

  “Yes, they have.”

  I paused for effect, then said, “The fact that you received a fifteen-million-dollar check almost slipped your mind for a second there, didn’t it?”

  She shook her head.

  “And the other assets come to just over four million dollars.”

  No reply. I kept going, she was on the ropes.

  “And your debt, which you know to the penny, is ten million. So there’s fifteen million dollars in your account and another four on the table for you in the divorce, Mrs Howell?”

  She took some time to compose herself and think of a way out of this; sipping water from a plastic cup, setting the cup back down on the edge of the witness stand, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms before she delivered her answer.

  “To be honest, this is the last thing on my mind. I want justice for Caroline. I’ve lost my stepdaughter, Mr Flynn,” she said.

  “You still haven’t answered my question. Apart from the insurance money, if Leonard Howell is convicted of murder, you stand to make almost four million dollars. If he is acquitted, you’ll likely get around two million?”

  “Yes,” she said, loudly. “I still don’t see what my divorce has to do with this?”

  I had to move fast on that one. Judge Schultz was sliding forward in her seat, ready to explain to the witness that their job is to answer questions, not ask questions. I saved the judge the trouble, and handed the witness a document.

  “Do you recognize this, Mrs Howell?”

  A glance at the page and she nodded her head.

  “It’s my statement to the police.”

  “You gave this statement to the police after the fire at your property?”

  “I did.”

  “At the bottom of page three is a signature, confirming the statement is both truthful and accurate. Is that your signature, Mrs Howell?”

  The pages turned quickly, she found her signature on the copy and said, “Yes.”

  “And did you read this statement before you signed it?”

  “I did.”

  “Mrs Howell, the jury will want to know why you lied in your earlier testimony. I want to ask you, is it because you think you’ll do better in the divorce or is there some other reason?”

  Open-mouthed, Susan Howell looked at the prosecutor and then the judge.

  “I have told the truth,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Mrs Howell, in your earlier testimony you told this jury that you saw the defendant go into the basement carrying a can of gasoline on the night of the fire. You didn’t mention this in your statement to the police?”

  “No, I didn’t think it was important at the time.”

  “Mrs Howell, you spoke to the police just after your house burned to the ground. You didn’t think to mention to them that your husband went down into the bas
ement just a few hours before the fire with a can of gasoline?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. I didn’t press for an answer – I was about to supply one.

  “And you didn’t mention to the police that the defendant tried to involve you in some kind of plot to defraud his insurance company. You didn’t mention that either?”

  There was no answer, only more tears.

  “Mrs Howell, when did you decide to invent this story?”

  “I did not invent this.”

  “You did not mention any of this to the police, three days after the fire. Did your memory suddenly improve when you were sitting in your lawyer’s office discussing your divorce?”

  “This has nothing to do with my divorce. I saw someone go down into that basement.”

  “Someone? So you’re not sure who you saw?”

  “I’ve already explained, it could only have been Lenny.”

  I paused. Checked my notes. It had gone as well as it could have. The jury doubted her – and that was all that I had to do – instill doubt.

  One of the toughest parts of cross-examination is knowing when to shut the hell up and sit your ass down. Before you finish, there is always that nagging doubt. Did I ask the right questions? Was there some part of her evidence that’s important which I didn’t cover? Have I done enough?

  Only with experience do you begin to get a feeling when the moment is right to stop. Leonard Howell’s life was on the line – it was in my hands. That brought additional pressure, made me doubt myself more than I normally did.

  One more.

  “Mrs Howell, you described a voicemail message and a telephone conversation with your husband while you were in Hawaii, and around the same time as Caroline Howell’s disappearance. You said your husband was angry, agitated. He denies this.”

  “He was angry.”

  “Mrs Howell, the defendant will testify that he was not angry, as you say. Is it possible you misjudged it and it was concern over his daughter’s safety?”

  I knew, as soon as I’d finished the question, I’d made a huge mistake. The witness wasn’t looking at me – she was looking at King. I glanced at the prosecutor – saw that knowing smile.