The Liar

by Steve Cavanagh

  Before I’d even asked the judge to exclude the testimony, I knew the judge wouldn’t do it. But the jury saw me call for it and I thought that maybe a few of them were thinking the exact same thing.

  February 2003

  Foley Courthouse, Albany, NY

  With soft, tender strokes, Julie Rosen ran her fingers across the red, raised scar on her scalp. It still hurt. But the little jolts of pain kept her awake, kept her focused. The burns on her arms had healed well. They no longer troubled her and she could cover up the scarring. The wound to her head had muddled her thoughts and she had developed a habit of worrying the wound with her fingertips; prying it open and maybe hoping, on some level, that it would help her memory. She tried to focus on Harry. He believed her. She knew it. She felt it as surely as the ridge of scar tissue beneath her fingers. At times, during the trial, Julie had felt sorry for Harry. She was letting him down. They had been over that day so many times that it made Julie’s head sore. She remembered the man in black. The gasoline and the kiss of the flames on her skin. But the images were fuzzy, and she couldn’t remember the order in which those things happened, or how long the whole thing had taken. Sometimes she didn’t remember the man in black at all.

  When there weren’t gaps in her recollection, and she talked about the intruder, her language let her down. She often said, “I don’t remember, the man in black must’ve hit me … he must’ve started the fire …”

  And that was the problem. During their meetings in preparation for the trial, Harry winced every time Julie said, “he must’ve”, or “I can’t remember, but that’s what must have happened.”

  “Try not to say ‘he must have’, because it sounds like you don’t know. If you’re asked a question in court, then you say ‘he did’, or ‘he didn’t’ because then you’re speaking to what you remember, not what you think might have happened. Do you understand the difference?” said Harry.

  Nodding, Julie understood. But in the witness stand she forgot. Or perhaps, she merely spoke the truth, for she could not remember what had happened that day. Harry had to be careful talking about the case. When he brought up the baby, Julie hugged herself and cried. The crying invariably became a wailing, rocking panic attack. Except on one occasion. Harry asked about Julie’s relationship with baby Emily. Julie stayed silent for a long time, and scratched at the side of her head.

  “I don’t remember her face,” said Julie. When she brought her hand away from her scalp her fingers were red with blood.

  Now, Harry was talking to the jury and Julie was trying to listen. It had been a long time since she’d tried to concentrate so hard. Even with the best of intentions, Julie drifted off. While Harry spoke, she drew pictures of teddy bears, and bouncy balls, and empty cots on a legal pad. The pencil sketches gave the pictures a child-like quality.

  “Members of the jury, the prosecution have no direct eye-witness testimony to challenge Julie Rosen’s account of what occurred on that terrible day. This man who terrified my client, who burned down her house, who murdered her child, he has escaped. My client is not the perpetrator – she is the victim. She lost her baby. She deserves your kindness, and your sympathy, not your judgment.”

  When Harry sat down beside her, she placed a hand on his arm to comfort him. He had done everything that he could. And Julie knew that it would not be enough. In her deepest thoughts, she wanted to be punished. Her little Emily deserved more. She could have had more. A life, a chance to grow up in a nice house, with a nice family and a dog. And Julie knew that she had failed Emily. She’d lost her baby. She deserved judgment, punishment. It would help.

  The jury retired, and as Julie stood to be manacled and taken back to the cells to wait, she turned around to look at the crowd behind her. Scott was not there. Several times during the trial she had felt his presence, but had never caught sight of him. He must hate me, she thought.

  Julie waited in her blue dress in the cells. But not for long. The jury came back very quickly, within half an hour. When the guard broke this news to Harry, Julie saw his face drop. He knew the verdict instantly.

  She followed Harry back to the courtroom, and drew perfect circles, freehand, as the jury read their verdict.

  Guilty. On all counts.

  Poor Harry looked broken by the decision. Julie felt relieved. And this time, when she left the court, she saw him.

  He stood at the back, wearing a black coat. Scott. He was crying. But Julie knew that those tears were not for her. The tears were for Emily. Tears of relief, that her murderer would be punished. And Scott’s tears soon dried up, and his eyes returned hatred to his former lover.

  Julie prayed that, in time, he would forgive her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  There was no re-direct from King. She let Dallas Birch go lick his wounds and flipped over her notes. She was contemplating who she would call next. Her strongest witness would be Lynch, so it was best to leave him until last. We were getting short on time and it was likely that whatever witness she called wouldn’t finish their testimony before the court closed business for the day.

  Before she called her next witness, I tried to get the judge to let Howell back into the courtroom. The judge said he hadn’t served his hour and he would be allowed to return tomorrow: he had to learn that he couldn’t disrupt his own trial and get away with it. I returned to my seat.

  “Your Honor, the People call George Vindico,” said King.

  Calling George was a real risk for King, but one that she couldn’t afford not to take. She called him because he was in the house when it went up in flames. And he’d given a witness statement that confirmed Howell’s finances were going down the toilet. I guessed that George’s physical condition also played a big part in this. The prosecution didn’t have a body – and therefore no focal point to pull on the jury’s emotions. But if King let the jury see George hobbling along, and established that Howell knew George would be in the house when he supposedly triggered the explosive device – it gave the prosecution their next best thing to the real victim.

  He shuffled along the center aisle, opened the small pine gate separating the lawyers and clients from the public and dragged that bad leg into the witness stand, the steel bar of his leg brace at the bottom of his shoe clicked on the tile floor with each painful and awkward step.

  The short, blonde, female clerk handed him a Bible, and asked him if he wished to swear a religious oath or to affirm that he was going to tell the truth.

  I felt for George. He looked like a man about to face a bullet. His back was bent slightly, and twisted because of the leg. His black suit jacket was buttoned at the waist, and his tie looked like it was strangling him. If he tried to stand up straight he wouldn’t be able to stand at all.

  He took the Bible in this left hand, and raised his right hand, as directed by the clerk.

  The clerk said, “Repeat after me, I swear by Almighty God …”

  George stared at the Bible in this hand.

  “I swear by Almighty God …” prompted the clerk, again.

  I looked at King, and saw that she wasn’t paying attention. Her head was bent over her notes.

  The clerk didn’t know what to do. The judge, who’d been flicking back through the case papers, brought her attention to George, drawn by the awkward silence. I got up and approached King.

  “Michelle, he’s got a world-class stutter. Didn’t you notice? I would’ve thought you might have warned the clerk; told her to take her time.”

  The skin on George’s face and neck had turned pale. He was staring at the book in his hand, frozen. The stutter had utterly paralyzed George. It was difficult enough for him to talk one-on-one, but speaking in front of a busy courtroom was clearly beyond him.

  “Sir?” said the judge.

  “Your Honor, Mr Vindico suffers from a stammer. I would ask that we just give him a little time,” said King.

  “Of course. My apologies, Mr Vindico. Just take a moment to settle down. Take your time, w
e’re not going to rush you,” said the judge.

  It was almost as if George didn’t hear the judge. He lowered his right hand. I thought that holding his hand up for too long would make his back become painful. The twisted stance must have been agony – I saw the Bible begin to tremor in his left hand.

  One of the ADAs sitting beside King covered his mouth and turned away from the witness stand. I saw his shoulders rocking with suppressed laughter. Some of the onlookers in the courtroom began to giggle. That stopped when the judge made a point of rising in her seat and peering out into the crowd, searching for the culprit.

  I remained still, patient.

  I watched George. Part of me wanted to cover my head in my jacket. It was painfully embarrassing.

  His eyes were boring into the cover of the Bible that now shook violently in his hand.

  The book stopped shaking.

  His eyes closed.

  He rolled his head on his shoulders, and stretched his back. He seemed to grow about two inches. His spine straightened.

  But his posture didn’t return to its former, crooked state. His back remained straight. He stood tall. Then he raised his right knee and placed that bound and braced leg on the seat in the witness stand. He dragged the leg of his pants over his calf, exposing the leather brace. With ease he unhooked the catch, and swept the brace off his leg, folded the straps carefully and placed it at is feet.

  With his right hand he worked at his ankle, probing the muscles with his fingers. He raised his foot off the seat, swiveled it to get the blood flowing then put his leg down.

  He stood straight and true. The years seemed to fall away from him.

  His face had changed.

  No, not his face. His eyes.

  They were clear and determined.

  He raised the Bible, held out his right hand and when he opened his mouth he spoke clearly, precisely and quickly.

  “I swear by Almighty God that I will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”

  The clerk stumbled back, the judge was wide-eyed. King stood still, her hands up and open – stunned into silence by the transformation.

  “Please state your name for the record,” said the clerk.

  George put the Bible down, unbuttoned his suit jacket and said, “My name is Scott Barker. The lies have to stop.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The crowd had never seen anything like this before. Neither had I. A witness called to the stand and admits to being somebody else entirely. Someone we had no clue about. Every living soul in that room knew that something extraordinary was happening. Something unexpected and very, very wrong.

  Shock buzzed in the air like static.

  King stood, open-mouthed. Completely thrown. All of her preparation gone up in smoke. She didn’t have the first clue what to do next.

  The man who now called himself Scott Barker sat down, and I could see the tension working in his jaw.

  He certainly wasn’t George any more. He looked like a different man entirely.

  Slowly it began to filter through my mind, chipping away at the wall of amazement that was blocking my thoughts.

  George Vindico probably never existed at all.

  Who the hell was this guy?

  The judge’s gaze fell first on King, and when she got nothing she looked to me.

  My guess was that the judge and King shared my own feeling. I didn’t feel like a lawyer any more. My part in this game had changed. So had theirs. We were no longer playing any role in what was happening. Instead we’d all become witnesses.

  The world had tilted. The floors crumbled.

  I put the brakes on.

  “Your Honor, I must insist that my client is here for this witness’s testimony. The integrity of this trial will not survive my client’s absence any further.”

  She nodded. Judge Schultz knew she was pushing it, keeping Howell away. But now she had no choice.

  “I’ll adjourn to allow you some time to consult with your client. Bring him up to speed. We’ll recommence here in half an hour.”

  Judge Schultz swiveled her chair toward the witness stand to address George.

  “You have been sworn in, Mr … Mr Barker. You are now under oath. You will not speak to the prosecutor about this case, or discuss it with anyone until you have completed your testimony. I’m also placing you under subpoena as I expect that the prosecution may wish to treat you as a hostile witness. You will not leave the precincts of this courthouse until your testimony is complete.”

  There was no acknowledgment from the witness. Barker merely stared at the judge with a cold detachment.

  The judge beckoned to a court officer, who went over to her and listened while she gave him instructions. I didn’t need to hear what was said. The judge didn’t like Barker one bit, and she was going to make sure that he didn’t leave. The court officers would watch him closely.

  I left my papers on the defense table and darted for the door that led to the cells as soon as Judge Schultz got up to leave. My hand was on the handle of the door when I heard fast heels approaching from behind.

  “Eddie, is this something to do with you?” said King, an accusatory look on her face.

  I opened the door, and as I went through I said, “I have no idea what’s going on. I’m sorry, I need to see my client.”

  The small corridor had bare concrete walls and at the end was a single steel door painted dark green. I jogged the twenty feet to the door and banged on it with my fist. Nothing. I hit the door again.

  A slot in the door opened and a pair of eyes filled the space.

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “Howell. He came through a little while ago. Judge says he’s free to come back into the courtroom. I need to speak to him right away.”

  The slot slammed shut. An exchange of muffled voices on the other side of the door filled the cold corridor.

  I heard the slot slam open. The eyes said, “Sorry, you’ll have to see him tomorrow.”

  The steel plate slid across and I yelled before it closed, “Wait, I’ve got to see him. Let me talk to him.”

  “You can’t. He’s gone.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Prison van left a minute ago. The jailor thought Howell was done for the day, so we put him on the last transport van.”

  Slam, from steel on steel. I fought the urge to punch the door. It would do no good. I needed to calm the hell down.

  I took a deep breath in and out. Cracked my neck. Smoothed down my tie.

  Something was wrong.

  Instead of my mind and my muscles winding down, I suddenly felt even more afraid, more anxious. My heart was thumping, my guts were turning over and I had the urge to run, to fight, to do something urgently but what the hell that was I couldn’t tell.

  The revelation from Barker had hurled me into a spin, but whatever had happened in the corridor, just then, had fed that unease like gasoline on a campfire. I pulled at my collar to loosen it.

  Then my hand strayed. Something tapping a foot in my subconscious.

  I smoothed down my tie again.

  In a terrifying instant it hit me. I hadn’t realized what it was at first. But in that explosive moment I knew.

  The tie pin was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  My mind went back to Howell grabbing the lapels of my jacket in court before he got sent to his cell.

  Somehow he must’ve swiped the pin. Yet I didn’t feel it, didn’t register it until now. I should never have worn it. I should’ve tried some other way to get Howell into the trial. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  Howell wanted to get sent back to his cell. He wanted to get into the prison van.

  And during that journey from the courthouse to Sing Sing he was going to use the pin to open his veins.

  I hammered on the steel door and this time the guard didn’t open the slot, he threw open the door. He was big and bald and looked about ready to grab me by the throat.<
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  “The van, you’ve got to call them. My client has a weapon. He’s going to harm himself. You need to stop the van and get him out.”

  It took him a few seconds to absorb this.

  He finally said, “We don’t have radio contact. The van’s run by the Department of Corrections, not justice. We don’t have any way of contacting them in transit – you need to call the jail.”

  I turned and sprinted toward the court. The door clanged behind me as I ran back into the courtroom.

  The jury were already gone, King was in conversation with her team and Barker remained in the witness stand, one hand on his chin in deep thought. I hurtled past the defense table into the center aisle and bundled through the crowd that were making their way toward the exit.

  There were plenty of abusive comments, and angry stares as I pushed my way through the slow-moving crowd, scanning the faces as I went. I saw Max Copeland sitting impassively, scribbling in a black notebook. Ignoring him I spoke my apologies to everyone and continued to fight through the masses.

  At the courtroom door I saw who I was looking for.

  She was outside the court, in the oval glass-walled hallway, in hushed conversation with Joe Washington.

  I called out to her, and sent a tall guy in a brown coat stumbling as I put my shoulder to his back to get him out of my way. I stopped, steadied him and when I got to the two FBI agents they were both looking at me quizzically.

  “Harper, it’s Lenny Howell. Somehow he smuggled something sharp into the court. He’s in the van on his way back to Sing Sing. He’s going to kill himself on the way. We need to contact the jail and get somebody to stop that van.”

  Washington reacted immediately, punching numbers into his cell phone as Harper asked, “What does he have?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But he’s serious. You saw him try it at the house when they arrested him for murder. Those vans have single secure booths for prisoners. The guard and the driver won’t know what he’s doing until it’s too late.”