Hostile Witness (6 page)

The governor finished off the cereal, pushed the bowl exactly six inches to his left, and pulled the plate of fruit six inches until it was in front of him. He ate methodically, chewed thoughtfully, and listened.

“I don’t think this changes anything.” Alex put in his two cents.  “This is Kip Rayburn’s stepdaughter.  It’s not like it’s his own kid doing some sort of Medea thing.”

The Governor’s eyes flickered toward his associate.

“I believe you’re thinking of Lear, and even that isn’t a correct analogy.”

“Whatever. He’s only had the wife for two years. The kid’s been a problem since day one. There’s no relationship there.”

“I don’t care about the emotional involvement.” The governor took a sip of his lemon water.  “Will there be any public opinion fall out that might jeopardize my standing if we continue with the appointment? Conversely, will continuing with the appointment solidify my standing?” 

“I say keep going with Kip’s appointment,” Cheryl weighed in.  “Half of California can identify with a crappy stepfamily situation. It’s no skin off Kip Rayburn’s nose if we spin it so that you’re sympathetic to the extraordinary circumstances facing blended families today. This is an extreme circumstance that points to the need for a dedicated and compassionate ear on the bench. Blah, blah, blah.”

“Fine.” The governor sliced the air and cut her off.  “The election is only four months away. I want to be sure that he’ll be approved and that the dowry is worth it. Kip isn’t his father. He’s less than impressive in person.”

“He’s got a decent enough mind. He’s not going to make waves on the court.  He hasn’t made any enemies. There aren’t any skeletons,” Alex assured him.

 “More than that,” Cheryl chimed in, “he brings the bucks just like his dad. Look, let’s get real here. With Fritz dead, Kip is a full partner with Ian Frank. Between the two of them, they represent three major California corporations that only support you with campaign dollars because they liked the association with a California Supreme Court Justice. We’ll keep it going with Kip. It’s sort of an abbreviated Kennedy scenario.”

“Playing devil’s advocate. . .” Alex held up his hand. “Can’t we pick up those dollars somewhere else? One of the unions maybe? Then we could look for someone with a little more star quality for that slot on the bench.”

Davidson himself dismissed that plan.

“It’s getting to hot to hit the unions up again.  I don’t want any more of those ‘legislation for dollars’ news stories. Kip brings quiet money. Kip’s appointment won’t look like payback.”

“We’re dancing around the real benefit. Kip is president of the CLA,” Cheryl reminded them.

“He’s a hell of an administrator,” Alex agreed. “The California Litigator’s Association has been real happy with him. Those guys have the bucks and Kip’s the main man. He’s an easy sell to the public and a money maker. There’s no downside, so I say we announce tomorrow and minimize coverage of the girl’s arrest.”

The governor toyed with his glass. His face was long and colorless, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke.

“Kip understands we’re expecting a lot from him in terms of support during the election and before he takes the bench, right?”

Alex nodded, “Absolutely. Until he takes the oath he raises funds. After that, no impropriety, just association.”

“Exactly. Letter of the law is important.” the governor mused. “Just to be safe, call Kip. Tell him we’d like a few days before the announcement.  Bring me a poll analysis by, say, Monday afternoon. If it’s good, I’ll announce.”

Cheryl and Alex nodded.  Cheryl would do a quick and dirty poll, check with Kip, and write a press release to have at the ready. Alex would contact donors and feel them out.  If everyone was happy, Kip’s appointment would move ahead.

“One more thing.” Cheryl hesitated before leaving the hotel room.

“What?” The governor was focused on his ever-present notepad now that breakfast was over.

“The girl. Shouldn’t we say something about the girl?”

“The purpose?” the governor asked.

“She’s only sixteen. They would expect you to say something about her,” Cheryl suggested.

“What’s our stand on juvenile offenders in the admission of a felony?” Davidson asked offhandedly.

“It’s been a sub-platform to our law and order stance. We’ve been tough on crime across the board,” Alex answered.

“Then we support prosecuting her to the full extent of the law. We have the greatest faith in our justice system and even more faith in those we appoint to uphold the law.” Davidson shook his head slightly as if he was disappointed he had to do everything.

“But this is different,” Cheryl suggested. “I mean, this girl isn’t exactly a hard case, she’s Kip Rayburn’s stepdaughter.”

“She’s irrelevant except as a concept,” Davidson muttered.

“A concept,” Cheryl reiterated as she glanced at Alex who shrugged. A second later Davidson looked up.

“Any more questions?”

“No.”

Cheryl and Alex left the governor to his notes and parted ways. Both of them hoped if they ever found themselves on the wrong side of the law, the governor would think of them as something more than a concept. Both of them knew that was a false hope. 

5

“That someone would take the life of a man like Fritz Rayburn . . .What can I say to that? I can only hope whoever did this feels the full wrath of our justice system – regardless of who they are. I promise, the person I appoint to fill Justice Rayburn’s seat will have the same commitment to law and order; perhaps feel even more strongly about it than I do.”  -   Governor Joe Davidson, Good Day LA Interview

“Hannah Sheraton.”  Josie tattooed her name on the jail log as she stated her business.

“Room three, counselor. It’ll be a few minutes.”

The officer behind the window flicked her head to the left as she finished searching Josie’s portfolio and purse, then pushed them toward her.  Josie nodded her thanks and dodged the guy behind her as she turned to leave.

“Bitch of a place to be on a hot day,” he muttered as he pulled the log toward him and signed in.

“Bitch of a place to be any day.”  Josie answered back, but she was the only one who heard it.

Josie was already standing in front of the door that led to the interview rooms at Sybil Brand.  Pushing through the first of two doors when the buzzer sounded she paused, waited for the second buzzer, and then went through.  The door locked behind her while she was still wondering if she shouldn’t just forget the whole thing.   In room number three, Josie tossed her briefcase on the table, sat down, and looked through the glass at the LA County women’s jail.

The place was a sprawling complex of old buildings that housed women who committed real crimes: murder, arson, burglary, assault.  Hannah Sheraton would be a ‘keep away’, cut off from the general population for her own protection because of her age. If she were convicted, though, this could be home; this prison with the pastel butterflies painted on the walls to inspire the inmates to come out of the cocoon of Sybil Brand bigger, better, and smarter. But this was also the prison where yellow footprints were stenciled on the floor and each prisoner stepped on them, as if they were balancing on the razor’s edge. Forbidden to veer away. Forbidden to look back.

Josie shifted, trying to get comfortable on the wooden chair.  It had been a long time since she’d been in this place. It could be twenty minutes before they fetched Hannah. Josie closed her eyes and rested her head against the cold, concrete wall and replayed the conversation with Linda Rayburn.

Linda wove her own story in with her daughter’s. Josie had directed, but Linda knew how she wanted the tale to go. One thing was clear; Linda and Hannah did not exist without the other.

Hannah Sheraton. Sixteen. She had been carted around the world with Linda and her lovers, gone through puberty with a bang, and started acting out when she was twelve. Nothing big. Nothing Linda hadn’t done. Nothing Linda couldn’t handle.  Skip classes, smoke a little weed. Try cigarettes.  Hang out with guys too old to have good intentions. Chip off the old block.   Really a good kid though, just a little wild. Grew up too fast.

Linda went through the scotch like water.  She didn’t so much as slur a word. She was a hell of a drinker. And always it was back to Hannah.

Smart kid when she was in school. There had been so many schools, but everyone said the same thing.  Talented, talented kid. Painter. Oils mostly. Some acrylics. She experimented with other mediums. Hannah had a future if she could just settle down. A big future. Bigger than Picasso.

Josie raised a brow. Linda caught it but didn’t back off far.

Okay, maybe not Picasso, but big. Linda took Hannah’s paintings to a guy in Beverly Hills.  He bought a painting for five hundred bucks.  Five hundred was big stuff before Linda met Kip, when Linda was between friends.  Hannah was so happy when her painting helped out. That kid was so selfless. But then, it wasn’t hard work for her. Hannah was only happy with a brush in her hand.

Josie ran out of scotch. Linda didn’t run out of information.

The fire. It started in Hannah’s studio. Okay, it wasn’t really a studio but Fritz let her use the old west wing to do her painting. She used the bottom floor. When Fritz was in town he stayed in the bedroom suite above. That’s where he died. That’s where the fire started. Hannah had loved that studio. Jesus, if Josie had seen her when they first started living in the big house. It was like being a princess...

Josie put a hand on Linda’s arm.  Linda refocused. She moved her hands around like she was rearranging a piece of a puzzle.

Hannah got weird. The Rayburns didn’t think she was all that endearing, but what could you expect from two men? One had been a widower for ages and the other hadn’t married until he was fifty. They were set in their ways. It was hard enough to get used to Linda, much less Hannah.  They didn’t like the way she looked one bit.  But Hannah was beautiful. Linda wanted Josie to know that. Oh, and Fritz took a great interest in Hannah’s painting. But the Rayburns also said Hannah needed discipline.  Kip was impatient when he paid attention at all. He thought Hannah reflected badly on the family.

Things got worse. Hannah had new tricks. She didn’t sleep well. She made everyone crazy with these weird little things she did.  Hey, they’d gone from a one-bedroom apartment to a mansion. They’d gone from being two, to being part of a family.  That was tough. There would be adjustments. Fritz thought different. He put Hannah into therapy, spent hours talking to her when he was home. He called to check on her. He was a good guy that way.  Linda thought, as Hannah’s mother, she should make the decisions, but she and Kip weren’t married long enough for her to object. Linda didn’t want to appear ungrateful and no one had ever been so nice to them before.  Damn her acting out like that. Always head games with Hannah. For God’s sake, she just didn’t know how lucky she was – they were – to be Rayburns.

So Josie was thinking about the dynamic in the Rayburn house when the door opened.  There stood the real thing. Hannah Sheraton, drop dead gorgeous and jumpy as a racing pulse.

Even in an orange jumpsuit Josie could see that her body was perfect: slight but full breasted and broad shouldered. Her long black hair hung down her back and framed her face in a riot of tight curls. Her skin was dark, smooth, luminescent, but her eyes were that same spring green of her mother’s. She could have stood in front of the Taj Mahal in a gold sari or danced on the beaches of Bali and looked at home. Hannah was an exotic creature, petite and feminine where Linda was tall and feline featured. Hannah was a child of the world and all Josie could think was that the other half of her genetic equation must have been something gorgeous to look at.

The guard, it seemed, was not impressed with Hannah. She put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and then gave her a verbal shove.

“Move ahead, Sheraton.”

Hannah lifted her foot but before she put it down again, her left hand touched the doorjamb. Once. Twice. Four. Five times.

“Come on, Sheraton. I haven’t got all day.”  Startled by the order, Hannah stepped into the room, her face tightening in anger. Before the girl could give the guard any lip, Josie stood up.

“Thanks. We’ll call when we’re done.”  

The woman nodded curtly even as her eyes lingered on Josie. Three years had passed but people had long memories.  Josie had almost lived at Sybil Brand during the Kristin Davis trial. She had been the poster girl for defense attorneys – get ‘em out of jail whether they deserved it or not.  Law enforcement didn’t care for Josie’s brand of lawyering; Josie hadn’t cared for it either after Kristin.  

“I said I’ll call when we’re done,” Josie reiterated.

The guard left. Hannah didn’t move. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her shoulders twitching as if she were pumping those hands up and down. 

“Where’s my mother?”

Hannah’s angry voice wasn’t half as attractive as the rest of her. Josie’s smile faded. She had worried about calming a frightened girl, not fighting with a pissed off chick.

This was a mistake, Archer.

“Your mother’s at home,” Josie answered plainly. She motioned to the only other chair in the room. “Sit down.”

“Did you check?” Hannah stepped forward then back again, screwing with Josie.

“I saw her night before last night.”

“No, I mean did you check this morning? You’re sure she’s there?” The girl’s voice rose with agitation.

“Yes, your mother is at home.  She sent me here to help you. . .”

 “Are you a doctor? I don’t need a doctor.”  Hannah cut Josie off, her expression a mix of arrogance, anger, and a bit of childish hope.  Kids like Hannah never thought anyone saw the hope.

Josie shook her head.

“My name is Josie Baylor-Bates. I’m a lawyer. Now, are you going to sit down or am I going to have to call a guard to put you down.” Those green eyes sharpened. Hannah wasn’t going to give an inch and the sooner Josie took control the better. She pointed to the chair again. “You’ve got one minute, or I’m out of here.”

Hannah’s eyes closed briefly. She squeezed her shoulders back. Those hands were pumping again and then it was over. Her body relaxed, her expression eased into something close to relief. Throwing back her hair she reached for the chair.  Josie saw the burn; Hannah saw Josie’s look of surprise. 

From fingertip to wrist, the skin on Hannah Sheraton’s hand was swollen and mottled, red and white.  A lacy looking roadmap of darker pigment was the only reminder of what that hand used to look like.  It had been over a week since Fritz Rayburn’s death.  The injury must have been horrible if it still looked that bad.

“Does it still hurt?”

Hannah furrowed her brow and turned her hand to the right and left, right again as she sat down. Putting her injured hand palm down on the table, she gazed at it.

“I don’t think so.” 

“You have to think about it?” Josie sat, too.

 Hannah raised her eyes without lifting her head.  She was a demonic sprite with those eyes, that skin, her wild hair, and the piercings on her nose and ears. Her full lips curled around her words as if casting a spell.

“Some people can’t stand it when the wind blows too hard. There are degrees to everything.  I don’t recognize pain. I don’t even remember it hurting when it happened.   I didn’t even cry. ”

Josie pulled a pad of paper from her portfolio.

“I don’t know if that’s anything to be proud of.”  Josie noted the date and time on the top of the paper, trying to ignore the warning in her gut.

“I didn’t say it was, did I?”

Hannah’s burned hand went to her hair, grasped the longest tendril and wrapped it behind her ear. She pulled it forward, wrapped it back and forward and stopped as suddenly as she had begun. She put her hands under the table and looked right at Josie.

“Will you be able to paint?” Josie asked.

“If I can’t paint I’ll kill myself.”

“No you won’t. You’re in protective custody,” Josie muttered, making a point about powerlessness that Hannah seemed to miss.  “You can’t breathe without someone watching you. But that doesn’t answer the question. Your mother told me about your painting, and that the fire that killed your grandfather started in. . .”

“My s-t-e-p.” Hannah spelled it out.  “Fritz was my step.”

Hannah’s hostility spike at the mention of Fritz Rayburn wasn’t lost on Josie. She tried again.

“The fire that killed Fritz Rayburn started in the place you used as a studio. Do you know anything about that?”

Hannah came right back at her.

“Why don’t you ask me if I did it? Why ask me if I know anything about it?”

“Because I want to know what you know about it,” Josie reiterated. “If I want to know if you did it, I’ll ask you.”

“I know that the place was on fire. I know if I wanted to burn down the house I wouldn’t have tried to put it out, would I?  My paintings were in there.” From beneath the table came a light and rhythmic thumping. Hannah leaned close to the wood, her hair spilled onto it, her anger shot toward Josie.  “I don’t know why you’re here. Kip will get me out of jail and take care of everything. He got me back in school when I got kicked out. He fixed it so my mom could get into some fancy club.”  Hannah’s eyes sparkled with challenge,   “Kip and Fritz fix everything.”