My palm moves to my chest. “I could be accused of tampering with a witness. You can’t be here.”
She grinds her teeth, on the verge of tears, hands shaking—but more than anything she looks utterly terrified. “I married William when I was eighteen years old. I’ve never had a career—my only job was to be his wife, the mother to our children, his prop on the campaign trail.” Her throat contracts as she swallows reflexively. “He’s capable of tying up our divorce for years. He knows all the judges. When this is done, all I will have to rely on is the kindness of affluent friends and the admiration of my children. If you know what I suspect you know, and if that comes out at William’s trial, they will never look at me the same way again. I will have nothing. Please, Mr. Becker, I just need to be prepared for what’s to come.”
I scrape my hand down my face and gesture to the chair in front of my desk. Mrs. Holten sits down but remains stiff as a frightened board. “Would you like a glass of water?”
“Thank you, yes.”
I pour her a glass and set it on my desk within her reach. Then I sit back down and when I speak, I choose my words so very carefully, doing my damnedest to bend the rules without breaking them, and in the process wrecking my entire fucking career.
“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?”