Free False Testimony by Rose Connors

client call the shots. These men and women will determine Derrick Holliston’s fate, after all. Harry shakes his head and leans close to me. “Are we forgetting anyone?” he whispers. “I’d hate like hell to leave a left-handed Latvian in the room.” He stands and perfunctorily bounces Anthony Laurino.
    After meeting the judge’s less-than-happy stare, Harry drops back into his chair, kneading his temples. The newest dismissed juror doesn’t mind a bit, though. He looks relieved, happy even, as he leaves the courtroom. Dottie draws another slip from the few left in her bowl and announces: “Gregory Harmon.” Harry plants his elbows on the table, buries his face in both hands.
    Holliston stares at our final juror, in flannel shirt and work boots, as he walks to the front of the room. When Mr. Harmon settles into the number-one spot in the box, right next to Cora Rowlands, our client clicks his pen and sets it on the table. “There,” he says to no one in particular. “That’s better.”

Chapter 9
    For attorneys in the midst of trials—particularly defense attorneys in the midst of criminal trials—lunch breaks have little to do with food. Unless, of course, the attorney is Harry Madigan. We’re at the Piccadilly Deli, waiting for his mega–meatball sub with extra mozzarella and a gallon of Tabasco. We take seats at our usual spot—near the front windows—and slide today’s Cape Cod Times to one side of the table’s mottled red Formica surface. Harry downs a quart of chocolate milk. I sip my coffee and call the office.
    The Kydd answers on the third ring. “Marty,” he says as soon as he hears my voice, “this is nuts. We need a secretary.”
    He’s right; we do. The three of us have been operating without administrative help for two years now. It’s getting old.
    “Well, why didn’t you say so sooner, Kydd? I’ll hire one today. Della Street, if she hasn’t retired yet.”
    Harry opened our South Chatham office a couple of years ago, after spending two decades as a public defender. I joined him within weeks, having resigned from a ten-year stint with the District Attorney’s office six months earlier. We recruited Kevin Kydd—then in his second year of practice—right out from under Geraldine’s nose. She’s still sore about it—and with good reason. The Kydd’s a keeper.
    “I’m not joking,” he says. “I’ve spent the entire day talking to walk-ins and fielding phone calls. I’m getting zero done here.”
    I know how frustrated he is; I’ve been there. But between the substandard hourly rates paid on court appointments and the fee forfeitures we face in drug cases, the office isn’t exactly a cash cow these days. “Hang in there,” I tell him. “We’re hoping to bring an administrative person on board in the new year—part-time, at least.”
    A deli worker delivers Harry’s sub to our table—a perk reserved for the regulars—and Harry grabs a second quart of chocolate milk from the cooler. He also takes a cranberry muffin from the basket on top and puts it in front of me, even though he knows better. I don’t eat lunch during trials; my stomach doesn’t allow it. He takes an enormous bite of his foot-long feast and then leans over to read while I jot down a list of the phone calls we’ve missed so far today: eight for him; a half dozen for me.
    “And the Senator,” the Kydd says. “He called just before you did.”
    “Kendrick?” The question isn’t necessary, of course. There aren’t many senators on my Rolodex.
    “How did you know?” The Kydd oozes sincerity. I don’t get away with much in our circle.
    “Lucky guess,” I tell him. “What did the good Senator want?”
    “He needs to see you. He’s coming in this afternoon.”
    “I won’t get back until after five. Probably closer to six.”
    “I told him that,” the Kydd answers, “but he insisted. Says it’s important that he see you today.”
    “Did he say why?”
    “Nope. Once he found out