False Witness by Dexter Dias Page A

River of Many Streams
    The court door was opened and the first girl slipped out. Jenny Stone cast a venomous glance in my direction, tightened her
     belt still further, and also departed.
    When I looked back at Kingsley, I realized that I was still on my feet. He seemed—as did everyone—miles and miles away from
     me. A vast distance below me, Emma refused to look up.
    There comes a time in any trial where all is at stake. The balance is perfect. At such times, do you have a choice? Or is
     it all ordained? I instinctively felt that the note had a bearing on the truth of the case. But if I had been asked at that
     precise moment what that was, I could not have said.
    “M’Lord,” I said, “I have not finished my cross-examination of the last witness.”
    Emma was speechless. She gawped at me, her mouth wide enough to accommodate a sheaf of her notes.
    “Do I understand that you want the young lady recalled?” The color seeped out of Manly’s face. “Do you object, Mr. Davenport?”
    The prosecutor saluted his good fortune, smirked and shook his head. The girl was hauled back, her screams of protest pouring
     into the well of the court and then rushing round and round. When I saw her, she was disorientated, her head flicked from
     one corner of the ceiling to the other.
    Jennifer Stone glared at me, no doubt trying to think of an appropriate psychiatric disorder for my behavior.
    The sheet of paper in my hand was not the product of a word processor. It had been typed on an old-fashioned typewriter. The
     underside was bumpy. The content was meaningless.
    I read the note again.
    The Past is a River of Many Streams
    One night I had heard similar things. At least, I thought I had.

C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
    T HE FIRST THING I EVER LEARNT ABOUT ADVOCACY was from the novel, To Kill a Mockingbird. A lawyer in the Deep South was defending a black man on a rape charge. The attorney’s
     child said, “Never ask a question unless you know the answer.” It is sound advice, but there are two exceptions. Ask what
     you like if you want to know the truth. And ask about anything if you don’t really care.
    As I looked at the girl trembling again in the witness box, it became very clear to me that I didn’t give a damn.
    “You know exactly what happened,” I said to her.
    She did not answer me. Her nail-bitten fingers danced along the witness box.
    “Don’t you?” I said under my breath so she could barely hear. It forced her to look up and strain to hear. “Don’t you?” I
     shouted.
    My right hand moved up to the edge of the sheet. “Look at this,” I said as she stared back at me defiantly. “If you wouldn’t
     mind.”
    Norman petulantly stamped across the court to deliver the sheet so noisily that I was able to ask Emma where the note came
     from. She didn’t know. I half looked at Kingsley when I heard the rustle of paper in the witness box. He lightly fingered
     his neck.
    “Now, tell us,” I said. “What does it mean?”
    The girl dropped her head vacantly, like a fast-wilting bloom. She waved the note and turned it over and over.
    “Well, what does it mean?”
    Emma hissed urgently to me. “Tom, just leave it. Leave it there.”
    “Have you got something to hide?”
    The girl became whiter. The spot of blood on her nose stood out strangely.
    “I’m going to ask you for one last—”
    Manly intervened. “Can you read? Young lady, are you able to read?”
    She shook her head.
    Manly turned sharply toward Norman. “Give me that,” he growled. The judge read the note and jotted something down. “Do I understand
     you want to put
this
to the witness, Mr. Fawley?”
    “No,” whispered Emma.
    “Yes, M’Lord,” I said.
    “Very well.” Manly turned toward the box. “Young lady, I’m going to read this note to you, do you understand?”
    She seemed completely empty.
    Manly cleared his throat and then did so again. He held the sheet of paper in front of his face and read slowly and clearly.
    “The