False Witness Page 5

  She waited for a question.

  “Your choices strike me as somewhat iconoclastic.” He paused, giving her ample opportunity to chime in. “I assume you had the luxury of scholarships, so finances didn’t dictate your career options.”

  She kept waiting.

  “And yet here you are at my firm.” Another pause. Another ignored opportunity. “Would it be impolite to note that you’re closer to forty than most of our first-year hires?”

  She let her gaze find his. “It would be accurate.”

  He openly studied her. “How do you know Andrew Tenant?”

  “I don’t, and I have no idea how he knows me.”

  Bradley took a deep breath before saying, “Andrew is the scion of Gregory Tenant, one of my very first clients. We met so long ago that Jesus Christ himself introduced us. He was waitlisted at UGA, too.”

  “Jesus or Gregory?”

  His ears twitched up slightly, which she understood was his way of smiling.

  Bradley said, “Tenant Automotive Group started out with a single Ford dealership back in the seventies. You’ll be too young to remember the commercials, but they had a very memorable jingle. Gregory Tenant, Sr., was a fraternity brother of mine. When he died, Greg Jr. inherited the business and turned it into a network of thirty-eight dealerships across the southeast. Greg passed away from a particularly aggressive form of cancer last year. His sister took over the day-to-day operations. Andrew is her son.”

  Leigh was still marveling at anyone using the word scion.

  The elevator bell tinkled. The doors slid open. They had reached the top floor. She could feel cold air fighting against the umbrella of heat outside. The space was as cavernous as an aircraft hangar. The overhead fixtures were off. The only lights came from the lamps on the steel and glass desks standing sentry outside closed office doors.

  Bradley walked to the middle of the room and stopped. “It never fails to take my breath away.”

  Leigh knew he meant the view. They were in the trough of the giant wave at the top of the building. Massive pieces of glass reached at least forty feet to the crest. The floor was high enough above the light pollution for them to see tiny pinpoints of stars punching through the night sky. Far below, the cars traveling along Peachtree Street paved a red and white trail toward the glowing mass of downtown.

  “It looks like a snow globe,” she said.

  Bradley turned to face her. He had taken off his mask. “How do you feel about rape?”

  “Definitely against it.”

  His expression told Leigh that the time for her to have a personality was over.

  She said, “I’ve handled dozens of assault cases over the years. The nature of the charge is irrelevant. The majority of my clients are factually guilty. The prosecutor has to prove those facts beyond a reasonable doubt. You pay me a hell of a lot of money to find that doubt.”

  He nodded, approving of her response. “You’ve got jury selection on Thursday, with the trial commencing one week from tomorrow. No judge will grant you a continuance based on substituting counsel. I can offer you two full-time associates. Will the truncated timeline be a problem?”

  “It’s a challenge,” Leigh said. “But not a problem.”

  “Andrew was offered a reduced charge in exchange for one year of monitored probation.”

  Leigh pulled down her mask. “No sex offender registry?”

  “No. And the charges roll off if Andrew stays out of trouble for three years.”

  Even this far into the game, Leigh was always surprised by how fantastic it was to be a white, wealthy man. “That’s a sweetheart deal. What are you not telling me?”

  The skin around Bradley’s cheeks rippled in a wince. “The previous firm had a private investigator do some digging around. Apparently, a guilty admission on this particular reduced charge could lead to further exposure.”

  Octavia hadn’t mentioned that detail. Maybe she hadn’t been updated before she was fired, or maybe she had seen the potential ratfuck and was glad to be out of it. If the PI was right, the prosecutor was trying to lure Andrew Tenant into pleading guilty to one rape so they could show a pattern of behavior that linked him to other assaults.

  Leigh asked, “How much exposure?”

  “Two, possibly three.”

  Women, she thought. Two or three more women who had been raped.

  “No DNA on any of the possible cases,” Bradley said. “I’ve gathered there’s some circumstantial evidence, but nothing insurmountable.”

  “Alibi?”

  “His fiancée, but—” Bradley shrugged it off the same as a jury would. “Thoughts?”

  Leigh had two: either Tenant was a serial rapist or the district attorney was trying to get him to self-incriminate into being labeled one. Leigh had seen this kind of prosecutorial fuckery when she worked on her own, but Andrew Tenant wasn’t a busboy who copped a guilty plea because he didn’t have the money to fight it.

  She knew in her gut that Bradley was holding something else back. She chose her words carefully. “Andrew is the scion of a wealthy family. The district attorney knows you don’t take a shot at the king if you think you’ll miss.”

  Bradley didn’t respond, but his demeanor became more guarded. Leigh heard Walter’s earlier question zinging around her head. Had she poked the wrong bear with the wrong stick? Cole Bradley had asked her how she felt about rape cases. He hadn’t asked her how she felt about innocent clients. By his own admission, he had known the Tenant family since he was in short pants. For all she knew, he could be Andrew Tenant’s godparent.

  Bradley clearly wasn’t going to share his thinking. He extended his arm, indicating the last closed door on the right. “Andrew is in my conference room with his mother as well as his fiancée.”

  Leigh pulled up her mask as she walked past her boss. She recalibrated herself away from being Walter’s wife and Maddy’s mother and the plucky gal who’d joked with a human skeleton inside a private elevator. Andrew Tenant had asked for Leigh specifically, probably because she was still coasting on her pre-BC&M reputation, which fell somewhere between a hummingbird and a hyena. Leigh had to be that person now or she’d not only lose the client, but possibly her job.

  Bradley reached ahead of her to open the door.

  The downstairs conference rooms were smaller than a Holiday Inn toilet and operated on a first-come, first-serve basis. Leigh had been expecting a slightly larger version of the same, but Cole Bradley’s personal meeting space was more like a suite at the Waldorf, down to the fireplace and a wet bar. There was a heavy glass vase of flowers on a pedestal. Photographs of various Uga bulldogs across the years lined the back wall. A painting of Vince Dooley hung above the fireplace. Stacks of legal pads and pens were on the black marble credenza. Trophies for various legal prizes crowded out rows of water bottles. The conference table, which was approximately twelve feet long and six feet wide, was made from redwood. The chairs were black leather.

  Three people sat at the far end of the table, faces uncovered. She recognized Andrew Tenant from his photo in the news story, though he was better looking in person. The woman clutching his right arm was late-twenties with a tattoo sleeve and an eat shit snarl that any mother would want for her son.

  The mother in question sat stiff in her chair, arms crossed low on her chest. Her short blonde hair was streaked with white. A slim gold choker ringed her tanned neck. She was wearing a pale yellow, honest-to-God, down to the little alligator, Izod shirt. The popped collar gave the impression of someone who’d just come off the golf course to sip a Bloody Mary by the pool.

  In other words, the type of woman Leigh only knew about from binging Gossip Girl reruns with her daughter.

  “I’m sorry we kept you waiting.” Bradley moved a thick stack of files to the far side of the table, indicating where Leigh should sit. “This is Sidney Winslow, Andrew’s fiancée.”

  “Sid,” the girl said.

  Leigh had known she’d be called something lik
e Sid or Punkie or Katniss the moment she’d laid eyes on the multiple piercings, clumpy mascara, and jet-black shag cut.

  Still, Leigh made nice with her client’s other half. “I’m sorry to be meeting you under these circumstances.”

  “This entire ordeal has been a nightmare.” Sidney’s voice was as husky as expected. She pushed back her hair, flashing dark blue fingernail polish and a leather bracelet that had pointy-looking metal studs. “Andy nearly got murdered in jail, and he was only there two nights. He’s totally innocent. Obviously. No one is safe anymore. Some crazy bitch can just point a finger and—”

  “Sidney, let the woman get her bearings.” The tightly controlled rage in the mother’s tone reminded Leigh of the voice she used when she was reprimanding Maddy in the presence of other people. “Leigh, please take your time.”

  Leigh held the older woman’s smile for a few seconds before she put her game face on.

  “I’ll just need a moment.” She opened the file, hoping a detail would jog her memory as to who the hell these people were. The top page showed the intake form from Andrew Tenant’s arrest. Thirty-three years old. Car salesman. High-dollar address. Charged with kidnap and sexual assault March 13, 2020, just as the first wave of the pandemic was taking off.

  Leigh didn’t read deeply into the details because it was hard to unring a bell. She needed to hear Andrew’s version of events first. All that she knew for certain was that Andrew Trevor Tenant had picked a bad time to ask for his day in court. Because of the virus, prospective jurors over sixty-five were generally excused. Only someone under the age of sixty-five would accept that this clean-cut, nice-looking young man could be a serial rapist.

  She looked up from the file. She silently debated how to proceed. The mother and son clearly thought that Leigh knew them. Leigh clearly did not. If Andrew Tenant wanted her to be his lawyer, lying to his face the first time they met was the very definition of operating in bad faith.

  She took a breath, preparing to confess, but then Bradley cut her off.

  “Remind me, Linda, how do you know Ms. Collier?”

  Linda.

  Something about the name itched at Leigh’s memory. She actually reached up to her scalp as if she could scratch it out. But it wasn’t the mother who was triggering her recollection. Leigh’s eyes skipped across the older woman and went to her son.

  Andrew Tenant smiled at her. His lips curved up to the left. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “Decades,” Linda told Bradley. “Andrew knows the girls better than I do. I was still in nursing back then. I worked nights. Leigh and her sister were the only babysitters I trusted.”

  Leigh’s stomach turned into a clenched fist that started slowly punching up into her throat.

  Andrew asked her, “How’s Callie doing? What’s she up to?”

  Callie.

  “Leigh?” Andrew’s tone implied that she was not acting normal. “Where’s your sister these days?”

  “She—” Leigh had broken out in a cold sweat. Her hands were shaking. She clutched them together under the table. “She’s living on a farm in Iowa. With kids. Her husband’s a cow farm—a dairy farmer.”

  “That sounds about right,” Andrew said. “Callie loved animals. She got me interested in aquariums.”

  He told this last part to Sidney, going into detail about his first saltwater tank.

  “Right,” Sidney said. “She was the cheerleader.”

  All Leigh could do was pretend to listen, her teeth clenched tight so that she didn’t start screaming. This couldn’t be right. None of this was right.

  She looked down at the label on the file.

  TENANT, ANDREW TREVOR.

  The clenched fist kept moving up her throat, every horrific detail she had suppressed over the last twenty-three years threatening to choke her.

  Callie’s terrifying phone call. Leigh’s frantic drive to reach her. The horrific scene in the kitchen. The familiar smell of the dank house, the cigars and Scotch and blood—so much blood.

  Leigh had to know for sure. She needed to hear it said out loud. Her teenage voice came out of her mouth when she asked, “Trevor?”

  The way Andrew’s lips curved up to the left was so chillingly familiar. Leigh felt a tingle of goose bumps prickle her skin. She had been his babysitter, and then, when she was old enough to find real work, she had passed the job on to her baby sister.

  “I go by Andrew now,” he told her. “Tenant is Mom’s maiden name. We both thought it would be good to change things up after what happened with Dad.”

  After what happened with Dad.

  Buddy Waleski had disappeared. He’d abandoned his wife and son. No note. No apologies. That’s what Leigh and Callie had made it look like. That’s what they had told the police. Buddy had done a lot of bad things. He was in debt to a lot of bad people. It made sense. At the time, all of it had made sense.

  Andrew seemed to feed off her dawning recognition. His smile softened, the upward curve of his lips slowly smoothing out.

  He said, “It’s been a long time, Harleigh.”

  Harleigh.

  Only one person in her life still called her by that name.

  Andrew said, “I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”

  Leigh shook her head. She would never forget him. Trevor Waleski had been a sweet kid. A little awkward. A lot clingy. The last time Leigh had seen him, he was drugged into oblivion. She had watched her sister gently kiss the top of his head.

  Then the two of them had gone back into the kitchen to finish murdering his father.

  Monday

  2

  Leigh parked her Audi A4 outside the offices of Reginald Paltz and Associates, the private investigation firm handling Andrew Tenant’s case. The two-story building had been built for small offices, but made to look like a single colonial house. It had that too-new/too-old feel of the eighties. Gold fixtures. Plastic-trimmed windows. Thin brick fascia. Crumbling concrete stairs up to a set of glass doors. The vaulted lobby had a crooked gold chandelier hanging above a set of winding stairs.

  The outdoor temperature was already climbing, expected to hit the mid seventies by the afternoon. She let the car idle so she could keep the air conditioning running. Leigh had gotten here early, allotting herself twenty minutes to get her shit together in the privacy of her car. The thing that had made her a good student, then a good lawyer, was that she could always tune out the bullshit and laser-focus on what was directly in front of her. You didn’t help chop up a two-hundred-fifty-pound man and still graduate at the top of your class without learning how to compartmentalize.

  What she had to do right now was turn that laser-focus not onto Andrew Tenant, but onto Andrew Tenant’s case. Leigh was a very high-priced lawyer. Andrew’s trial was scheduled to start in one week. Her boss had requested a full-on strategy session by end of day tomorrow. She had a client looking at serious charges and a prosecutor who was playing more than the usual prosecutor games. Leigh’s job was to find a way to poke enough holes in the case for at least one juror to drive a bus through.

  She sighed out a stream of anxiety to help clear her thoughts. She scooped up Andrew’s file from the passenger seat. She flipped through the pages, found the summary paragraph.

  Tammy Karlsen. Comma Chameleon. Fingerprints. CCTV.

  Leigh read the entire summation without comprehension. The individual words made sense, but putting them into a coherent sentence was impossible. She tried to go back to the beginning. The lines of text began to swirl around until her stomach started swirling with them. She closed the file. Her hand found the door handle but didn’t pull. She gulped in air. Then again. Then again. And again, until she swallowed down the acid that was trying to hurl up her throat.

  Leigh’s daughter was the only living being who had ever been able to break her focus. If Maddy was sick or upset or justifiably angry, Leigh was miserable until things were set right. That uneasiness was nothing compared to how she felt now. Ev
ery nerve ending inside of her body felt like it was being pounded by the rattling chains of Buddy Waleski’s ghost.

  She tossed the file onto the seat. Squeezed her eyes closed. Pressed her head back. Her stomach wouldn’t stop churning. She had been on the edge of vomiting most of the night. She hadn’t been able to sleep. She hadn’t even bothered getting into bed. She’d sat on the couch for hours in the dark trying to think her way out of representing Andrew.

  Trevor.

  The night that Buddy had died, the NyQuil had effectively put Trevor into a coma. But they’d had to make sure. Leigh had called his name several times, her voice growing increasingly louder. Callie had snapped her fingers near his ear, then clapped together her hands close to his face. She’d even shaken him a little, before shifting him back and forth like a rolling pin across a piece of dough.

  The police had never found Buddy’s body. By the time his Corvette was located in an even shittier part of town, the car had been stripped for parts. Buddy did not have an office, so there was no paper trail. The Canon digital camcorder hidden inside the bar had been broken into pieces with a hammer, the parts scattered around the city. They had searched for other mini-cassettes and found none. They had looked for compromising photographs and found none. They had turned over the couch and upended mattresses and rifled drawers and closets and unscrewed grates from the vents and rummaged through pockets and bookshelves and inside Buddy’s Corvette and then they had carefully cleaned up after themselves and put everything back in place and left before Linda had gotten home.

  Harleigh, what are we going to do?

  You’re going to stick to the damn story so we both don’t end up in prison.

  There was so much awful bullshit Leigh had done in her life that still weighed on her conscience, but the murder of Buddy Waleski carried the mass of a feather. He had deserved to die. Her only regret was that it hadn’t happened years before he got his hooks into Callie. There was no such thing as a perfect crime, but Leigh was certain they had gotten away with murder.