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Bearing False Witness
Nov. 22nd, 2009 04:43 pmI lean back against a wall and look around, scanning the faces of the passers-by. My contact had told me to look for a tall, lanky man with a blue power tie and fedora — a ridiculous outfit, completely counter to his claims that he wanted to avoid notice or trouble.
"Trust me," he said, "No one will notice."
After a few more minutes of waiting, I start to doubt that he'll show up at all and turn to look up at the flashing electronic billboards and tickers of Times Square. Why he had chose such a garish place was obvious — with so many tourists, it would be almost impossible to attempt to catch someone that didn't want to be caught.
"Timothy! Good to see you!"
He's leaning against the wall, lighting a cigarette and offering an easy smile before I even notice someone breaking out of the steady stream of pedestrians. He's good, really good, and I try my best not to jump in surprise. Recovering a bit, I smile weakly back, wondering how the hell I missed him in the crowd. Tall, about 6'1", and with that perky fedora perched on his head, blue eyes, black hair, slight scarring on his right cheek — I attempt to memorize what he looks like, knowing that the boss will ask me for a complete physical description later.
"Nice to meet you, Mister..." I trail off, waiting for an introduction that we both know is fake. But it's the nature of the game; he'll pretend to trust me and I'll pretend to accept what he says as true, and we both hope the other will slip first.
"Stephenson's the name, but I don't mind being called by my handle, Intrepid. Can't be too careful, you know. Now, I think we should get some food — how about the Hard Rock Cafe?" I nod and he gestures for me to follow before disappearing into the crowd, just like that.
Even knowing what he looks like, I still have a hell of a time following, losing him multiple times before he pops into view again, leaning against a traffic light or lamppost or wall, waiting for me to catch up. I know that he could lose me at any time, or worse yet, plant evidence on me and then disappear. It becomes obvious he's showing off or attempting to intimidate me.
It works.
-
The first meeting goes well and he seems satisfied with my answers - undergraduate in psychology, graduate from NYU Law, knowledgeable about technology, special interest in personal injury cases. I give him a story about an assault on my cousin with just the right amount of hesitation and he accepts it — as far as I can tell, at least.
He asks how I found him, and I hesitate a bit more, picking at my food for a few seconds before answering. I tell him about how I hadn't always agreed with the letter of the law and watch his eyes light up, nodding at every one of my details on how the system is often corrupt and doesn't serve justice to those that most deserve it. From there, it's easy to claim that a friend of mine sent me the link to a forum he frequents. Technically, my fellow investigator was my friend, so I wasn’t really lying.
At the end of the meal, I've shared almost everything I had prepared, but he hasn't given me anything real yet. I order coffee to prolong the meeting, and then he suddenly asks me the question I've been waiting for.
"Do you know what I do, Timothy?"
I'm not sure how I should play this. Hesitant uncertainty? Passionate interest? In the end, I settle for the middle-of-the-road forthrightness.
"You have a network that manages to get convictions for those that have a lot of evidence against them but generally get away because they have amazing defense attorneys. You specialize in personal injury cases - domestic violence, assault and battery, sexual assault. Even when most analysts believe that the defense has bought the judge and prosecution, your network has managed to secure convictions, somehow, landing a lot of powerful people in jail."
He raises an eyebrow, and I start to wonder whether or not I've given too much away. It was almost a word-for-word recitation from the internal agency dispatch on him, a dispatch that I have studied entirely too many times.
"And?" he finally asks, waiting for the other side of the story.
"And the government suspects that you've been recruiting people to testify with whatever story you feed them, and somehow your training or stories are so good that attorneys, detectives, and even the FBI can't crack them. If they could prove you have people lying under oath, they would lock you up."
He smiles, then, and sets a card down on the table before leaving. I reach under my jacket, but then I realize that I have nothing on him; the smooth bastard hasn’t admitted to a damn thing.
So instead, I take the card. And, of course, pay the bill.
-
Three weeks later, I'm sitting in third row from the back of a small county courthouse, watching as the defendant gets brought in. White male, well-dressed, looks like the Wall Street type; he sports a Rolex on his wrist and the way he walks tells me that he has a lot of money. He smiles smugly as he sits, almost looking bored.
Sarah is the one testifying against him today, and I've heard the 9-1-1 tapes; she won't testify against her boyfriend. He's made a few cruel promises that no one can prove and it's effectively put a muzzle on her. Without her side, the case is entirely too weak too stand; the two prostitutes who claimed he abused them were quickly and effectively destroyed by the defense attorneys - Williams and Sons, the best money can buy. Though I applaud the district attorney in trying to bring forth this case, I don't know why Intrepid wanted me to see it.
She takes the stand, swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then sits. The district attorney does his job well - he starts with an apology for bringing painful memories up, and then starts asking her about the abuse.
For the next half an hour, she gives the details, shows the jury the scars that she still has, and recounts the endless accounts of the pain that she suffered at his hands. The defendant, Brian, starts to look more and more nervous and his attorneys start conferring in whispers, tension growing in their faces. They still think they can beat her, but most of the women in the jury are sobbing and any looks directed at the defendant's table are full of hatred and anger.
When the district attorney finishes, the defense attorney starts the cross-examination, and it becomes evident that he's skilled. He wanders through her narrative, cherry-picking the parts where Brian shows good character. After he salvages some of the man’s reputation, the attorney attempts to undermine Sarah’s testimony — casting doubt on her beliefs and motives, offering more ‘rational’ reasons for the beatings, and suggesting that she was exaggerating what happened. He tries to paint a picture of a normal boyfriend and girlfriend, only slightly more troubled than usual. He never claims outright that she just deserved it, but he implies it nonetheless.
But her testimony stands strong as she answers his questions, falling into none of his many traps. When he has no more questions, he walks back to the defense table with shoulders slumped, understanding as I do that the battle was lost, no matter what the closing statements are. Brian sits stunned, unable to do anything but look at someone he thought he had squarely under his thumb, someone who had just ensured he’d be found guilty.
I wait until a recess is called and leave, not needing to see any more.
-
The two of us are watching the TV in a local diner; the anchor reports that Brian Minwirth has been sentenced to fifteen years in prison and that the civil case is expected to be settled very quickly and to Sarah's benefit. Sarah is briefly interviewed, and she looks strong and well and alive. I wonder who it really is up there, and ask him.
“That’s Sarah, Timothy. The real Sarah.” It’s another easy smile, a maddening one. I’ve been trying to get the secrets from him for weeks – how no one has caught his witnesses impersonating other people, how the fingerprints match, when he does the switch between the real person and his agent.
“This is what you do?” I ask, trying to draw him out. He nods, and I look at the TV again. “Were you personally responsible for that operation, Mister Stephenson?" The tape recorder runs under my jacket, hopefully picking up on more than my pounding heart.
He looks at me for a second, and then shrugs, nodding.
"I was. I recruited 'Sarah' over three years ago; it's important to have a very strong physical resemblance, among other things, for this sort of work. Now the real Sarah will have a chance to start over, without the shadow of that man hovering over her, making her less than what she was. And he won't be harming others, either, for at least the next twenty years. And before you ask, since I know you're dying to know, there are many, many more out there that will step up and give testimony to make someone else's life better.”
“In fact, you could be one of them."
The confession and offer is enough to bring him in, even if we don’t get him for any of his other operations. It means a promotion and a long vacation, and I slide my hand into my jacket — but he was always a step ahead of me.
"Timothy, think about what you're about to do," he says slowly, as I bring out the tape recorder, laying it on the table as he talks. "If you do this, you’ll be letting criminals like Brian go free. You’ll condemn Sarah to a life where she will constantly have to worry about being beaten, living a life that will never be her own.”
“Think about the lives that we have saved, the dreams that we can let flourish, the chances to start over that we can give others. Think of the law, agent," he says, and I wonder if he has known all this time who I am."
"And think of how justice will best be served.”
I think for a moment, weighing his words and actions against what the law says, and then I make my decision.
"Trust me," he said, "No one will notice."
After a few more minutes of waiting, I start to doubt that he'll show up at all and turn to look up at the flashing electronic billboards and tickers of Times Square. Why he had chose such a garish place was obvious — with so many tourists, it would be almost impossible to attempt to catch someone that didn't want to be caught.
"Timothy! Good to see you!"
He's leaning against the wall, lighting a cigarette and offering an easy smile before I even notice someone breaking out of the steady stream of pedestrians. He's good, really good, and I try my best not to jump in surprise. Recovering a bit, I smile weakly back, wondering how the hell I missed him in the crowd. Tall, about 6'1", and with that perky fedora perched on his head, blue eyes, black hair, slight scarring on his right cheek — I attempt to memorize what he looks like, knowing that the boss will ask me for a complete physical description later.
"Nice to meet you, Mister..." I trail off, waiting for an introduction that we both know is fake. But it's the nature of the game; he'll pretend to trust me and I'll pretend to accept what he says as true, and we both hope the other will slip first.
"Stephenson's the name, but I don't mind being called by my handle, Intrepid. Can't be too careful, you know. Now, I think we should get some food — how about the Hard Rock Cafe?" I nod and he gestures for me to follow before disappearing into the crowd, just like that.
Even knowing what he looks like, I still have a hell of a time following, losing him multiple times before he pops into view again, leaning against a traffic light or lamppost or wall, waiting for me to catch up. I know that he could lose me at any time, or worse yet, plant evidence on me and then disappear. It becomes obvious he's showing off or attempting to intimidate me.
It works.
-
The first meeting goes well and he seems satisfied with my answers - undergraduate in psychology, graduate from NYU Law, knowledgeable about technology, special interest in personal injury cases. I give him a story about an assault on my cousin with just the right amount of hesitation and he accepts it — as far as I can tell, at least.
He asks how I found him, and I hesitate a bit more, picking at my food for a few seconds before answering. I tell him about how I hadn't always agreed with the letter of the law and watch his eyes light up, nodding at every one of my details on how the system is often corrupt and doesn't serve justice to those that most deserve it. From there, it's easy to claim that a friend of mine sent me the link to a forum he frequents. Technically, my fellow investigator was my friend, so I wasn’t really lying.
At the end of the meal, I've shared almost everything I had prepared, but he hasn't given me anything real yet. I order coffee to prolong the meeting, and then he suddenly asks me the question I've been waiting for.
"Do you know what I do, Timothy?"
I'm not sure how I should play this. Hesitant uncertainty? Passionate interest? In the end, I settle for the middle-of-the-road forthrightness.
"You have a network that manages to get convictions for those that have a lot of evidence against them but generally get away because they have amazing defense attorneys. You specialize in personal injury cases - domestic violence, assault and battery, sexual assault. Even when most analysts believe that the defense has bought the judge and prosecution, your network has managed to secure convictions, somehow, landing a lot of powerful people in jail."
He raises an eyebrow, and I start to wonder whether or not I've given too much away. It was almost a word-for-word recitation from the internal agency dispatch on him, a dispatch that I have studied entirely too many times.
"And?" he finally asks, waiting for the other side of the story.
"And the government suspects that you've been recruiting people to testify with whatever story you feed them, and somehow your training or stories are so good that attorneys, detectives, and even the FBI can't crack them. If they could prove you have people lying under oath, they would lock you up."
He smiles, then, and sets a card down on the table before leaving. I reach under my jacket, but then I realize that I have nothing on him; the smooth bastard hasn’t admitted to a damn thing.
So instead, I take the card. And, of course, pay the bill.
-
Three weeks later, I'm sitting in third row from the back of a small county courthouse, watching as the defendant gets brought in. White male, well-dressed, looks like the Wall Street type; he sports a Rolex on his wrist and the way he walks tells me that he has a lot of money. He smiles smugly as he sits, almost looking bored.
Sarah is the one testifying against him today, and I've heard the 9-1-1 tapes; she won't testify against her boyfriend. He's made a few cruel promises that no one can prove and it's effectively put a muzzle on her. Without her side, the case is entirely too weak too stand; the two prostitutes who claimed he abused them were quickly and effectively destroyed by the defense attorneys - Williams and Sons, the best money can buy. Though I applaud the district attorney in trying to bring forth this case, I don't know why Intrepid wanted me to see it.
She takes the stand, swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then sits. The district attorney does his job well - he starts with an apology for bringing painful memories up, and then starts asking her about the abuse.
For the next half an hour, she gives the details, shows the jury the scars that she still has, and recounts the endless accounts of the pain that she suffered at his hands. The defendant, Brian, starts to look more and more nervous and his attorneys start conferring in whispers, tension growing in their faces. They still think they can beat her, but most of the women in the jury are sobbing and any looks directed at the defendant's table are full of hatred and anger.
When the district attorney finishes, the defense attorney starts the cross-examination, and it becomes evident that he's skilled. He wanders through her narrative, cherry-picking the parts where Brian shows good character. After he salvages some of the man’s reputation, the attorney attempts to undermine Sarah’s testimony — casting doubt on her beliefs and motives, offering more ‘rational’ reasons for the beatings, and suggesting that she was exaggerating what happened. He tries to paint a picture of a normal boyfriend and girlfriend, only slightly more troubled than usual. He never claims outright that she just deserved it, but he implies it nonetheless.
But her testimony stands strong as she answers his questions, falling into none of his many traps. When he has no more questions, he walks back to the defense table with shoulders slumped, understanding as I do that the battle was lost, no matter what the closing statements are. Brian sits stunned, unable to do anything but look at someone he thought he had squarely under his thumb, someone who had just ensured he’d be found guilty.
I wait until a recess is called and leave, not needing to see any more.
-
The two of us are watching the TV in a local diner; the anchor reports that Brian Minwirth has been sentenced to fifteen years in prison and that the civil case is expected to be settled very quickly and to Sarah's benefit. Sarah is briefly interviewed, and she looks strong and well and alive. I wonder who it really is up there, and ask him.
“That’s Sarah, Timothy. The real Sarah.” It’s another easy smile, a maddening one. I’ve been trying to get the secrets from him for weeks – how no one has caught his witnesses impersonating other people, how the fingerprints match, when he does the switch between the real person and his agent.
“This is what you do?” I ask, trying to draw him out. He nods, and I look at the TV again. “Were you personally responsible for that operation, Mister Stephenson?" The tape recorder runs under my jacket, hopefully picking up on more than my pounding heart.
He looks at me for a second, and then shrugs, nodding.
"I was. I recruited 'Sarah' over three years ago; it's important to have a very strong physical resemblance, among other things, for this sort of work. Now the real Sarah will have a chance to start over, without the shadow of that man hovering over her, making her less than what she was. And he won't be harming others, either, for at least the next twenty years. And before you ask, since I know you're dying to know, there are many, many more out there that will step up and give testimony to make someone else's life better.”
“In fact, you could be one of them."
The confession and offer is enough to bring him in, even if we don’t get him for any of his other operations. It means a promotion and a long vacation, and I slide my hand into my jacket — but he was always a step ahead of me.
"Timothy, think about what you're about to do," he says slowly, as I bring out the tape recorder, laying it on the table as he talks. "If you do this, you’ll be letting criminals like Brian go free. You’ll condemn Sarah to a life where she will constantly have to worry about being beaten, living a life that will never be her own.”
“Think about the lives that we have saved, the dreams that we can let flourish, the chances to start over that we can give others. Think of the law, agent," he says, and I wonder if he has known all this time who I am."
"And think of how justice will best be served.”
I think for a moment, weighing his words and actions against what the law says, and then I make my decision.
