Read False Witness for Free Online

District Attorney of New York County, who would look a little vague and shake his head.
    He had appeared as a guest on both the Cavett and Susskind shows, yet could distinguish between them only by the clues he’d picked up: Cavett is the little fellow who tap-dances for a hobby and Susskind is the little fellow with white hair who pretends he knows everything. Right? Ah, yes, and Sanderalee Dawson is that pretty young black woman who used to turn up on the Carson show every now and then. And she has her own talk show now? Amazing. The world of television personalities is a vague reality to him; he deals with so much raw flesh and blood, so many real lives and deaths, he must be excused his ignorance of the make-believe world.
    Jameson Whitney Hale settled comfortably into the depths of his leather wing chair and motioned me to his comfortable leather couch, which meant he was prepared to give me enough time to bring him up to date.
    Mr. Hale is the third of his name, although he doesn’t use the number. He is the result of the proper breeding, the proper educational background—Groton, Harvard and Harvard Law School. He had the proper stint in the Navy during the Korean conflict and had spent enough time in his family’s enterprises up in Boston to realize he had no great interest in any of the Jameson or Whitney or Hale interrelated corporations. Years ago, at a proper dinner party, he was introduced to the dynamically energetic, newly elected governor of the State of New York, Nelson A. Rockefeller, who just happened to be in the process of putting together the very best goddamn staff in the country. To be located in New York City. Why not give it a try, Jameson? Why not indeed, Nelson?
    The third Jameson took to public life and public service and his young wife and young family settled into their Central Park West duplex where they balanced all the expenses of living in New York City against all the cultural and social advantages. Finally, after years of appointive positions, Jameson Whitney Hale elected to be elected: he ran, virtually unopposed, for the office of District Attorney. He followed in the hallowed steps of Mr. Frank Hogan, and carried on the spirit of honor, trust, cleanliness, decency and objectivity in the running of his office that had made Mr. Hogan’s career the paradigm for elected officials everywhere.
    I have worked in every one of the eight bureaus under his jurisdiction, after a one-year stint in Legal Aid, defending the very cretins I now prosecute. I decided early on to make this office my career; to catch the attention of the boss not by the fact of being one of the very few women around at the time, but by being one of the very best assistant district attorneys working for the office.
    Even after fourteen years on his staff, there is still occasionally the small slight catch in the throat, the abrupt flood of adrenaline, the thump in the pit of the stomach when you are sent for to discuss what you have done, or failed to do, in the course of an investigation or court case. There is the ever-present need to gain the rarely bestowed nod of approval. Every staff member knows when the “Old Man” has given you the dazzling quick grin or the murderous shaft. For me, Jameson Whitney Hale’s approbation is essential. I am ambitious; totally and with great determination, a step at a time, I have been working and moving toward a definite goal. I want Jameson Whitney Hale’s job.
    While my present ambition, given its historical setting in the age of upward-and-onward-let’s-make-up-for-lost-time women, is not remarkable, Jameson Whitney Hale’s commitment to my ambition is very remarkable. He backs me completely and totally. He was never consciously a male chauvinist; it was just that his entire upbringing—education, social environment, generational outlook—precluded any serious consideration of female abilities in a male world. My success in his domain had been singular—not so much