False Witness Read online

  Carzak lowered his voice and adopted a much more conciliatory tone. “For the record,” he said, “if anybody asks, I reamed you out good on this one.”

  “And for the record,” Parcelli said, “this was my response: we haven’t lost a witness yet unless he violated the terms of his memorandum of understanding or lied to get the agreement in the first place.”

  Carzak wanted to get along, but he just couldn’t let that one go. “What’s your record on the others?” he asked. “What percentage do we lose if they’re careless enough to violate provisions of their agreements?”

  “Nobody keeps records on them,” Parcelli said.

  “Well, maybe somebody should.”

  The phone line was quiet for a few moments, and then Parcelli spoke. This time, he was the one who toned it down a notch. “Look, Allan, I don’t like it any better than you. But despite all of its flaws, the witness protection program is still one of the best things we have going.”

  “Try telling that to Walter Snead.”

  92

  Monday, April 28

  Clayton, Georgia

  The grand jury room in Rabun County was a far cry from the grandeur of federal court. The room was cramped and humid, a large window AC unit working furiously to complement the overtaxed central air system. Even so, Jamie estimated the indoor temperature to be in the low eighties.

  The county prosecutor was Rex Stafford, a zealous law-and-order advocate in a county where they still believed in shooting the bad guys first and letting God sort them out later. Rex was a former basketball star for the Rabun County Wildcats and coached at the school as a part-time assistant to help make ends meet. He wore cowboy boots and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His suit coat was flung over a wooden chair. Like everyone in Rabun County, he was a friend of Jamie’s brother, Chris.

  Rex had agreed to pursue this case for two reasons. First, he didn’t like the feds. And second, Chris had called in a favor. But Rex warned Jamie that the evidence was pretty thin even for the low standards needed to get an indictment. “Grand juries up here have minds of their own,” he said.

  Jamie settled into the witness stand, slightly unnerved by the stares of the sixteen grand jurors. They seemed intrigued, if a little skeptical, by a third-year law student from the big city. Rex walked her through the background information—how she came to represent David Hoffman, the threat by the mob to herself and Snowball, the hearing in federal court requesting a new witness protection deal for Hoffman. She was careful not to mention anything about the algorithm. The jurors were at least interested, she could tell that much. This was a far cry from the trespassing and disorderly conduct disputes that formed their normal fare.

  Interest turned to sympathy when she testified about the poisoning of Snowball. A few of the grand jurors, undoubtedly dog lovers themselves, seemed to be tearing up. Jamie surprised herself by remaining stoic, even when she talked about burying Snowball and placing her favorite pair of Chacos in the grave.

  Rex walked to the end of the jury box and stood next to the rail as he considered his next question. This way, it would be natural for Jamie to look right at her audience.

  “Did there come a time,” Rex began, raising his voice to emphasize the importance of the question, “when you began to suspect that the federal government, not the mob, had poisoned your dog?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please tell the members of the grand jury why.”

  Jamie swallowed hard, cognizant that a lot was riding on the next few moments. Jurors didn’t like indicting law enforcement officials. “First of all, there was the note on the windshield of my 4Runner immediately after the judge announced her ruling on our federal court motion. That entire proceeding was under seal, and it seemed highly unlikely that the mob could have found out about it so quickly.”

  “Was FBI Agent Sam Parcelli aware of the proceedings?” Rex asked.

  “Yes, he testified at the hearing.”

  “Proceed.”

  Jamie needed to be careful. She couldn’t mention the kidnapping because of the terms of her agreement with Carzak, yet she had to provide the jury with some reason why Parcelli would do such a thing. She believed that Parcelli had done this—poisoned Snowball and blamed it on the mob—so that Carzak would go along with Parcelli’s scheme to kidnap Jamie. But how could she explain a plausible motive to the jury?

  “I also knew that the federal government desperately wanted to find my client,” Jamie said softly. “For the reasons I mentioned earlier, they wanted to use him as bait in order to apprehend more members of the Manchurian Triad. But first, they had to find him.” Jamie paused, realizing how far-fetched this all sounded.

  “They wanted an excuse to put a tail on me since I was Hoffman’s lawyer. They hoped he might try to contact me. They also wanted me to trust a local law enforcement guy named Drew Jacobsen, who was actually working with the FBI. They hoped that I would confide in him about Hoffman’s location. The ironic thing is that I had no clue where Hoffman was hiding. Basically, they wanted to use me to get Hoffman. That’s why they poisoned Snowball.”

  Rex circled back and had Jamie explain her reasons in more detail. He looked worried. Some jurors looked skeptical. It was time to play the trump card.

  “Is there anything else that made you suspect it might have been this Parcelli character who poisoned Snowball?” Rex asked.

  “Yes,” Jamie said. “A couple weeks ago, I went out to dinner with Drew Jacobsen and asked to use his cell phone. When he wasn’t looking, I wrote down the numbers in his call history and the times and dates of each call.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “On the night that Snowball died, Drew was the first law enforcement officer I called. Afterward, he told me that he had called the local sheriff’s office and the FBI. That’s when Agent Parcelli made this a federal case and told Drew and the other local authorities to back off.”

  “What time did you call Mr. Jacobsen?”

  “The conference call with the judge took place at about two. I found the note on my windshield a little while later. The earliest I would have called Drew was probably three o’clock.”

  “And what did you find on his call log?”

  “Numerous calls earlier that day, and several the previous day, to a number that I later called myself.”

  “Whose number was it?” Rex asked.

  Jamie hesitated, just as they practiced. “The number belonged to Agent Sam Parcelli.”

  A few jurors sat forward in their seats. Others furrowed their brows. Not exactly a smoking gun, but it was the best Jamie had to offer.

  “Can you think of any legitimate reason Drew Jacobsen would have been calling Agent Parcelli before Snowball was poisoned?” Rex asked.

  “No.”

  Rex must have sensed the lingering ambiguity among the jury members, a sense that there ought to be something more substantial to justify indictment of an FBI agent. The prosecutor went straight to a question that was not in the script. “Did you also have a chance to listen to any of Mr. Jacobsen’s saved messages?” he asked. “And if so, were any of those saved messages from Mr. Parcelli?”

  Stunned, Jamie tried to quickly process the implications. Rex might be a country boy, but he was also a savvy prosecutor. He hadn’t raised this question during preparation. That way, he couldn’t be accused of soliciting false information. He would say that he really didn’t know; he just wanted an answer.

  But in reality, it was a road map to a sure indictment. Jamie could claim she heard a recorded message. She could make up the damaging content, secure in the knowledge that it would simply be her word against Jacobsen’s and Parcelli’s. At trial, Rex would argue that Jacobsen had erased the message once the indictments came down. There was enough suspicion raised by the very existence of the phone calls that a jury would probably believe Jamie.

  The perfect setup. Snowball avenged. Justice guaranteed. She took a sip of water, stared at Rex for
a moment, and thought about the pain Snowball must have endured in those final hours as he fought for his very life.

  “No,” Jamie said firmly. Decisively. She felt a weight leave her shoulders as she did so. “I didn’t listen to any recorded messages.”

  93

  Tuesday, April 29

  Atlanta

  On Tuesday night, Jamie joined Wellington and Isaiah for a celebration dinner. They toasted the indictments of the triad members and the corrupt L.A. lawyers and judges. They toasted the fact that Wellington had not been called to testify at the grand jury. They toasted the indictments of Sam Parcelli on cruelty-to-animal charges and Drew Jacobsen as a coconspirator.

  Rex Stafford had called Jamie late Monday afternoon with the good news. Following the indictments and his call to Jamie, he had placed courtesy calls to Parcelli and Jacobsen. Soon, he heard back from their lawyers, and the negotiations began.

  The indictments would remain under seal. The two men would plead no contest to a Class 1 misdemeanor, pay fines of a thousand dollars each, and agree to six months’ probation. They would both be suspended from their jobs for six months. Rex asked Jamie how she felt about the terms. Given the sparse evidence, she told him it was probably the best they could do. Nothing could bring Snowball back. But at least Parcelli and Jacobsen wouldn’t get off scot-free.

  Before Wellington left that night, he thanked Jamie one last time for helping quash his grand jury subpoena and gave her an awkward hug. Isaiah volunteered to tutor him on proper displays of affection with the female sex. Jamie smiled at them both. She couldn’t ask for better friends. Wellington Farnsworth: nineteen-year-old whiz kid and keeper of the world’s most powerful secret. Isaiah Haywood: defender of the downtrodden, a man who risked his life for a client he barely knew.

  There were still good men in the world, Jamie realized. Decent men. Men who cared about justice as much as she did.

  After dinner, Jamie returned to her condo and decided to catch up on some coursework. Her professors had been incredibly accommodating, telling Jamie she could even postpone her final exams if she wanted, but that was not Jamie’s style. She had been studying for about two hours at the kitchen table when she heard somebody knock.

  The knock, loud and insistent, startled her. Jamie didn’t get unannounced visitors. The kidnapping wounds were still fresh. The death of Snowball was still a gaping hole in her heart. She pulled the gun out of her backpack, double-checked the safety, and headed for the door.

  Would she always answer the door with a gun? Would life ever return to normal? Could she ever learn to trust people again?

  She knew the answers would take time. She had survived tragedy before.

  She peered through the peephole. Nobody.

  Strange.

  Curious, she unlocked the dead bolt and cracked the door open, her gun ready. She still didn’t see anybody or anything . . . until she looked down. There was a small, white plastic crate with a wire-mesh door. She opened the apartment door, knelt down, and looked inside.

  Big brown eyes peered back, like two bright stars surrounded by the black night sky. Jamie had to press her face up to the metal grate to see the little guy. A black Lab puppy! Wagging his little tail. Standing at attention in the crate, his oversize tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. His enormous paws made him look like a little black clown.

  Instantly, the nightmares of housebreaking and crate training and teaching a puppy not to eat everything in sight came flooding back. But so did the companionship, the spirit and loyalty of this breed. This incorrigible, wonderful, frustrating, irrepressible breed.

  She noticed for the first time the card on top of the crate and picked it up. I need a good home, it read. I like playing Frisbee. Jamie felt tears forming in her eyes. My name is Casper Haywood.

  Casper made a high, squeaky noise, a let-me-out-of-here bark, and clawed at the front of the cage. Jamie loved her friends. And she would learn to love this puppy. It wouldn’t be all that hard, if past experience was any guide.

  But she had her own ideas about names. “Casper Haywood, huh?

  “I think I’ll call you Justice for short.”

  A Note about the Church in India

  Those of you who read the original version of False Witness probably noticed many substantial changes. Most were designed to bring the story more in line with the original vision for the book that came to me at my friend’s funeral. But one set of changes was for a different reason altogether—I wanted to highlight the challenges of the church in India.

  I did this for two reasons. First, I believe that most Western Christians are unaware of the persecution of the church and the miraculous things happening there. And second, I believe that India is at the center of the greatest human rights struggle of our generation.

  India is a land with two faces. To the outside world, there is “shining India”—the world’s largest democracy, a growing economic force, and a land with admirable civil rights laws. But for the hundreds of millions of Indians in the lower castes, and for a large segment of the Christian church, there is a darker side to India. Anti-conversion laws are used to imprison pastors. Some radical Hindu groups intimidate and abuse Christians and Dalits (formerly called untouchables) often without repercussions from the government. For the 165 million members of India’s lowest caste, India is a land of civil rights in theory but oppression in fact. Human trafficking in all of its barbaric forms is rampant, and equal enforcement of the laws is still a dream.

  During my first trip to India a few years ago, I saw firsthand the systemic oppression of the Dalits through the Hindu caste system. I was astonished by the fact that the world’s largest democracy was also a breeding ground for the world’s largest human-trafficking operations, that it would allow the exploitation of 15 million children in bonded labor, that it would tolerate temple prostitution and other forms of sexual slavery, and that it would foster economic and social systems that oppress nearly 25 percent of its people.

  But for the people of God, there is a silver lining. At a pivotal human rights rally in Delhi in 2001, Christian leaders apologized to the Dalits for ignoring their plight and promised to stand with them in the future. Thereafter, when the Dalits were abused or attacked, Christians helped publicize the events and called for government intervention. A bond was formed and the Dalits began asking the church to help educate Dalit children. Hundreds of schools sprang up, providing thousands of Dalit children with an English-based education (critical to landing good jobs) and newfound self-respect. The church also offered help in other areas: social justice, economic development, and health care. The result is that millions of Dalits and other Indians are learning that Jesus loves them and that the ground is equal at the foot of the cross.

  What can we do to help? For starters, I’m donating every penny from the sale of this book to the Dalit Freedom Network. By buying this book, you’ve been able to help sponsor a child at one of the Dalit schools in India, including the costs of meals and health care. If you’d like to sponsor a child for a full year, you can do so for less than a dollar per day through the Dalit Freedom Network child sponsorship program (www.dalitnetwork.org).

  During one of my trips to India, a Christian leader explained to me that it takes two generations to abolish systemic slavery or oppression. The first generation gains legal freedom through the courts and the legislative process. Much of this has already been done. But it takes a second generation to really grasp the mind-set of freedom and equality. And this can only be done if the children are given a chance through education and economic opportunities.

  “It is,” the leader said, “the struggle for the soul of a civilization.”

  I was moved by the plight of these beautiful Dalit children, struggling to throw off the yoke of oppression and replace it with real freedom and dignity. I committed to do my part. I’ve never asked my readers for a favor before, but I’m asking for one now.

  Won’t you consider helping out?

 
; A truthful witness saves lives . . .

  Proverbs 14:25

  About the Author

  Randy Singer is a critically acclaimed author and veteran trial attorney. He has penned ten legal thrillers, including his award-winning debut novel, Directed Verdict. Randy runs his own law practice and has been named to Virginia Business magazine’s select list of “Legal Elite” litigation attorneys. In addition to his law practice and writing, Randy serves as a teaching pastor for Trinity Church in Virginia Beach, Virginia. He calls it his “Jekyll and Hyde thing”—part lawyer, part pastor. He also teaches classes in advocacy and civil litigation at Regent Law School and, through his church, is involved with ministry opportunities in India. He and his wife, Rhonda, live in Virginia Beach. They have two grown children. Visit his website at www.randysinger.net.