“Speaking purely hypothetically and not referring to this particular case at all, it is standard practice for this firm and myself personally to employ private investigators who vet potential witnesses. They look into their backgrounds and recent histories for information which could possibly be used to impeach their credibility.”
“ ‘Impeach their credibility’?” she repeats. “So, once a liar, always a liar—is that right?”
I look into her eyes—they’re gentle brown, like a doe’s. “Depending on the circumstances . . . yes.”
Mrs. Holten sips her water and asks, “So if a potential witness had an affair and lied to her husband, her children, her friends about it? If she developed a reliance on pain medication and had to attend a live-in rehabilitation center? Would you use those facts to impeach a witness’s credibility, Mr. Becker?”
She’s asking because according to the report in my desk drawer, Mrs. Holten has done all those things.
My stomach twists, angry and sick. But I won’t lie to her. “As much as a judge would allow, yes, I would absolutely bring those facts up at trial.”
“That’s blackmail!”
“That’s the law.”
She starts to pant, hand to her throat—almost hyperventilating. Stanton approaches her from across the room. “Is there anything you need, ma’am?”
She closes her eyes and forces her breaths back to even. “No, I’ll be fine. I’m just . . . I was a fool to ever think . . .” She pats her perfect hair and turns back to me. “Tell William I’ll fix this. And I’ll come home. Tell him—”
“I can’t do that. I can’t pass messages. I—”
“It’s important that he knows I’m willing to come home!” she says, pushing. “And that I will clean up this mess I have made.” She stands abruptly. “I can show myself out, gentlemen. Thank you, Mr. Becker, for your . . . honesty.”
And her eyes go flat. Like a death row inmate, just waiting for someone to come along and flip the switch.
Then she sweeps out of my office, closing the door softly behind her. I stare at the closed door for a few minutes . . . remembering.
Until Stanton calls my name. “You all right, Jake?”
I blink and shake my head clear. Then I move closer to my desk and refocus.
“Yeah, I’m good.” And my voice is as lifeless as Mrs. Holten’s eyes. “Just part of the job.”
• • •
A few hours later, after pitch black fills my office window, another commotion stirs outside the door. It opens and the young prosecutor Tom Caldwell stands there, fuming.
His noble steed is probably parked outside.
I tell Stanton dryly, “Must be dramatic entrance day. Lucky me.”
I wave Mrs. Higgens away as Tom practically charges my desk. “What did you say to her?”
I lean back in my chair. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Tom.”
His finger stabs the air. “You know exactly what I’m talking about! Sabrina Holten came to my office—to recant her allegations against her husband. Said she couldn’t risk her indiscretions coming to light.”
I shrug. “Flip-flopping witnesses are always a pain in the ass.”
“I know she was here!” he rails, eyes burning into me.
“She stopped in, yeah. Seemed pretty distraught.”
He leans on my desk. “Did you discuss the case with her?”
I still don’t bother to get out of my chair. “Of course I didn’t—except to say that I couldn’t discuss the case with her. Otherwise we spoke of hypotheticals. And then she left. Stanton was in the room the entire time.”
“ ‘Hypotheticals’ . . . ,” he spits, like it’s a dirty word. “I bet.”
From across the room, Stanton asks, “Are you accusing my colleague of something, Caldwell?”
Caldwell addresses his answer to me. “Yes, I’m accusing him of being a scumbag.”
I stare him down. “I really don’t like your fucking attitude, Tom. It’s been a rough day—you don’t want to push me.”
He backs down, but only a little. His hands are still balled into fists, his gaze still throwing knives. “I told her I could proceed without her testimony—I would submit her statement as evidence.”
“Which I would never let you do,” I say, interrupting him. “I can’t cross-examine a statement.”
“She was scared out of her mind, Becker! Doesn’t that bother you at all?”
I don’t answer. Because sometimes, there’s just nothing you can say.
“She went so far as to tell me that she would testify on her husband’s behalf if I went forward,” Caldwell goes on. “That she would claim she was confused and it was all a political witch hunt against him. I said I could charge her with perjury.”
Stanton laughs. “Wow, prosecuting your victims? That’s gonna make you real popular with advocacy groups.”
“I wasn’t going to actually do it,” Tom tells him. “I just wanted to see if she’d change her mind. She didn’t.” He glowers at me for a few seconds, then he asks, “Have you looked at her medical history? She’s not his wife—she’s his punching bag!”
I rub my eyes. Suddenly . . . so fucking tired. Of all of it. “What are you looking for here, Caldwell? I don’t get it—what do you want me to do for you?”
“ ‘Impeach their credibility’?” she repeats. “So, once a liar, always a liar—is that right?”
I look into her eyes—they’re gentle brown, like a doe’s. “Depending on the circumstances . . . yes.”
Mrs. Holten sips her water and asks, “So if a potential witness had an affair and lied to her husband, her children, her friends about it? If she developed a reliance on pain medication and had to attend a live-in rehabilitation center? Would you use those facts to impeach a witness’s credibility, Mr. Becker?”
She’s asking because according to the report in my desk drawer, Mrs. Holten has done all those things.
My stomach twists, angry and sick. But I won’t lie to her. “As much as a judge would allow, yes, I would absolutely bring those facts up at trial.”
“That’s blackmail!”
“That’s the law.”
She starts to pant, hand to her throat—almost hyperventilating. Stanton approaches her from across the room. “Is there anything you need, ma’am?”
She closes her eyes and forces her breaths back to even. “No, I’ll be fine. I’m just . . . I was a fool to ever think . . .” She pats her perfect hair and turns back to me. “Tell William I’ll fix this. And I’ll come home. Tell him—”
“I can’t do that. I can’t pass messages. I—”
“It’s important that he knows I’m willing to come home!” she says, pushing. “And that I will clean up this mess I have made.” She stands abruptly. “I can show myself out, gentlemen. Thank you, Mr. Becker, for your . . . honesty.”
And her eyes go flat. Like a death row inmate, just waiting for someone to come along and flip the switch.
Then she sweeps out of my office, closing the door softly behind her. I stare at the closed door for a few minutes . . . remembering.
Until Stanton calls my name. “You all right, Jake?”
I blink and shake my head clear. Then I move closer to my desk and refocus.
“Yeah, I’m good.” And my voice is as lifeless as Mrs. Holten’s eyes. “Just part of the job.”
• • •
A few hours later, after pitch black fills my office window, another commotion stirs outside the door. It opens and the young prosecutor Tom Caldwell stands there, fuming.
His noble steed is probably parked outside.
I tell Stanton dryly, “Must be dramatic entrance day. Lucky me.”
I wave Mrs. Higgens away as Tom practically charges my desk. “What did you say to her?”
I lean back in my chair. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Tom.”
His finger stabs the air. “You know exactly what I’m talking about! Sabrina Holten came to my office—to recant her allegations against her husband. Said she couldn’t risk her indiscretions coming to light.”
I shrug. “Flip-flopping witnesses are always a pain in the ass.”
“I know she was here!” he rails, eyes burning into me.
“She stopped in, yeah. Seemed pretty distraught.”
He leans on my desk. “Did you discuss the case with her?”
I still don’t bother to get out of my chair. “Of course I didn’t—except to say that I couldn’t discuss the case with her. Otherwise we spoke of hypotheticals. And then she left. Stanton was in the room the entire time.”
“ ‘Hypotheticals’ . . . ,” he spits, like it’s a dirty word. “I bet.”
From across the room, Stanton asks, “Are you accusing my colleague of something, Caldwell?”
Caldwell addresses his answer to me. “Yes, I’m accusing him of being a scumbag.”
I stare him down. “I really don’t like your fucking attitude, Tom. It’s been a rough day—you don’t want to push me.”
He backs down, but only a little. His hands are still balled into fists, his gaze still throwing knives. “I told her I could proceed without her testimony—I would submit her statement as evidence.”
“Which I would never let you do,” I say, interrupting him. “I can’t cross-examine a statement.”
“She was scared out of her mind, Becker! Doesn’t that bother you at all?”
I don’t answer. Because sometimes, there’s just nothing you can say.
“She went so far as to tell me that she would testify on her husband’s behalf if I went forward,” Caldwell goes on. “That she would claim she was confused and it was all a political witch hunt against him. I said I could charge her with perjury.”
Stanton laughs. “Wow, prosecuting your victims? That’s gonna make you real popular with advocacy groups.”
“I wasn’t going to actually do it,” Tom tells him. “I just wanted to see if she’d change her mind. She didn’t.” He glowers at me for a few seconds, then he asks, “Have you looked at her medical history? She’s not his wife—she’s his punching bag!”
I rub my eyes. Suddenly . . . so fucking tired. Of all of it. “What are you looking for here, Caldwell? I don’t get it—what do you want me to do for you?”
