Expert Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  When Archer saw it, he was disgusted. When Liz saw it, she was pissed. The freelancer’s clip showed her standing with Levinsky and Arnson clear as day. She could only hope Hagarty didn’t watch T.V. When Hannah saw it, she was sad. On one hand, they were talking about a Josie she didn’t know and wouldn’t want to know; on the other hand they were reveling in the possibility that Josie had come to a bad end.

  Hannah turned off the set, and took Max out for a walk. When the dog was bedded down, she picked up her big bag, locked and checked the front door, positioned herself at the end of the walk-street on the corner of Hermosa Boulevard, and waited.

  Archer picked her up exactly on time. She climbed into the Hummer, put on her seat belt and listened to the radio. The host was accepting calls concerning the question of whether or not Josie deserved what she got because she had defended a scumbag in the first place. Calls ran fifty-fifty that she did, and ten-to-one that the good doctor was brave, a saint, and the only one who might have a chance to save these women. Archer flipped it off. He had no intention of listening to a Daniel Young love fest.

  They drove the rest of the way in silence, the miles melting under the Hummer’s tires. That Archer drove too fast when there was a break in the traffic was something Hannah understood. Every hour away from their search was an hour that further jeopardized Josie. It would be many hours before they got back because the Edleman Children’s Courthouse in Monterey Park was about as far from Hermosa Beach as you could get.

  When they arrived, Hannah got out of the Hummer. She dragged her giant purse from the back seat and put it over her shoulder. The beach was hot, but Monterey Park was blistering. Archer slammed his door, came around and walked with her. It was a second before Archer realized Hannah had dropped behind. The heel of her shoe was stuck in the melting blacktop. Archer looked back just as she yanked her leg up and the heel released. The next step was the same. She yanked again. Then she stomped and yanked. She stomped once, twice, three . . .Archer went back and took her arm.

  “It’s okay, Hannah,” he said quietly.

  Her head snapped up. Behind the huge, gold-rimmed sunglasses, Archer could feel her green eyes turning to glass. That was always the first sign that her defenses were rising and her armor was clicking into place. Funny how well he knew her when all this time he didn’t think he had been paying any attention at all.

  “It’s cool,” he offered.

  He tightened his hand on her arm, steered her toward a sidewalk, and gave her no time to count or argue. When they got there, Hannah pulled away. The fact that she didn’t give him one of her ‘looks’ allowed him to take no offense. She leaned a hand against a stunted tree that, at one time, had probably been part of some long-forgotten beautification project.

  Hannah raised her foot and peeled the black stuff of her heel. When she was done, she stomped the rest clean, and Archer turned away to give her some privacy. It was a ridiculous gesture considering they stood within a foot of each other, but he was embarrassed by her antics, unable to shake the idea that if she really wanted to she could control all the touching and counting. Yet a part of him also empathized. Hadn’t he been uncontrollable when he was accused of killing his stepson? No one could have deterred his outrageous righteousness, so he let Hannah be. They were all on edge. If this is where she danced on the head of a pin, so be it.

  Archer put a hand to his eyes and rubbed hard when he realized he was starting to count the heel-whacks on the concrete, too. When she reached twelve, she added a vocal.

  “I should have gone with her. I should’ve.” The words pushed themselves through her teeth so that they were shredded by the time Archer heard them.

  He almost laughed, though, when he realized she had spoken eight words combined with twelve stomps, which brought her to her magic count of twenty. Archer wondered how she did that, decided Hannah must be some sort of savant, and then entertained the thought that she had lost a little of her mind.

  “You couldn’t go to work with Josie. That doesn’t make sense.”

  Hannah put her foot down. The heel of her shoe still had some tar on it, but other than that she looked amazing. From afar she could be taken for an attorney in her crisp suit. Except that the skirt was a little shorter, her shoes a little too cutting edge and her hair a little too wild for an attorney. Still, she looked like she was ready to plead her case.

  “I meant Mrs. Crane. If I had just let her send me to a foster home for a while, you wouldn’t have to be here with me. You could be looking for Josie.” Hannah let go of the tree and stood up. She shook her head back and set her jaw.

  “Yeah,” Archer mumbled.

  “Really?” Hannah’s shoulders pulled back, the set of her jaw softened but that was the only indication that some of the wind had been sucked out of her sails.

  “Yeah about what you meant. If we weren’t here, I could be looking for Josie,” Archer answered. “But you shouldn’t have gone with that woman, and you’re not going today. You can’t just leave with the clothes on your back.”

  “I packed my stuff.” Hannah pushed her giant bag forward. It wasn’t just a purse, it was her parachute in case she flew too close to the judicial sun and was cast down somewhere foreign. “I know how it works.”

  Archer pulled his lips together, considered the bag, and then took it off her shoulder. When she resisted, Archer gave her the look and she let go. It took him a minute and a half to go back to the Hummer, open the door, toss in Hannah’s bag, and return. He didn’t break stride when he came abreast of her, and she didn’t hesitate when she turned on those very cool heels of hers to join him.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Archer muttered.

  He hoped it was true. If he had to get the bag out of the back of the car it would be the longest walk he ever took.

  Judge Leisinger’s Courtroom, Edleman Courthouse,

  Montery Park

  In the Edleman Children’s Courthouse words like wretched, hopeless and desperate was the order of the day for attorneys, judges, clerks and investigators whose lot it was to take children away from their abusive and neglectful parents and put them into a horrendously flawed foster care system. There were other attorneys who fought to keep those kids home with drugged out mommy or fist-raising daddy. And there were the kids who didn’t win no matter which way it went.

  To mitigate the devastation experienced every day in this court, the building itself had been constructed as a testament to denial. The hall floors were carpeted; the walls were bright with pictures of cavorting cartoon characters and super heroes. Just off each courtroom was a playroom rather than a holding cell. The judges and staff spent part of their salary buying stuffed animals, gifts meant to give kids something to cling to when Child Protective Services whisked them away with nothing more than the clothes on their back. The door between the courtroom and playroom was soundproof so the children could not hear the testimony against their parents, yet it was made of glass so that they could see them.

  In the courtroom itself, the bench was nestled into a well rather than elevated on a platform. The entire place was well thought out so that the little ones would be less intimidated. Archer and Hannah were far from intimidated, but they were uncomfortable: Archer was too big and rough for the place, and Hannah was too sophisticated and knowledgeable. She’d been in children’s courts often enough to know that the trappings didn’t change the misery.

  The county attorney was there when they arrived, and it took no time for her to assess the situation. Her look said that these two were trouble. Hannah and Archer looked back and thought the same of her. The woman, if, indeed, that’s what she was, was huge. From shoulder to knee, there was no break for a waist, no indication of breasts, no ballooning of hips. Her hair was short and swept haphazardly behind her ears. She wore neither jewelry nor make-up, and there was just a hint of a mustache on her upper lip. Her hands were beefy, her feet flat and wide. Her jacket and pants draped over her without any consideration of fit or st
yle. She had to scare the hell out of kids; she scared the hell out of Archer.

  Mrs. Crane joined them within moments of Hannah and Archer’s arrival. Her ever-present clipboard was clutched to her breast. She wore a matching sweater set despite the heat outside, sensible shoes, and well-pressed trousers. Her single strand of pearls was as thin and tight as her lips, and as fake as her smile. She paused and bent from the waist as she drew alongside Hannah.

  “You look so nice today, Hannah.” Her tone indicated that the last time she had seen Hannah the girl looked like a slut.

  She gave Archer a stiff ‘hello’ before joining the county attorney. They were all in place when the chambers’ door opened and Judge Leisinger appeared. He was a gray sort of fellow: thick silver-grey hair, putty-grey shirt, and a metal-grey tie visible just above the neck of his robes. Even the black robes had a silvery sheen as if time was worn away the blackness and softened his judicial demeanor. He took his seat behind the lowered bench, picked up a file, flipped through a few pages and smiled at those gathered.

  “Morning all.” Murmurs of morning rolled back at him from the left side of the courtroom. Mrs. Crane sat and lowered the clipboard to her knees. The judge continued on. “We are here today to complete the petition for legal custody of the minor, Hannah Sheraton.”

  Judge Leisinger rested his eyes on Hannah. His gaze indicated that all those who appeared before him were children, so his expression registered no surprise at her appearance or comportment. “How are you today, Hannah?”

  “Fine, thank you, Judge,” she answered.

  He smiled at her, but the big woman from the county lumbered up and captured his attention.

  “Judge,” she said, in a deep and gravelly voice.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Rice.” Judge Leisinger smiled, his greeting solving the mystery of the attorney’s gender.

  “Morning, Your Honor.” She answered back as if such niceties could barely be tolerated by someone like her with so many important things to do on that hot, hot day.

  “I haven’t seen you in this court for some time, Ms. Rice. I thought Hermann was handling this.”

  “He was, Your Honor, but he’s on leave,”

  “I hope nothing serious,” Leisinger noted conversationally.

  “Heart Attack. He’ll recover,” Mrs. Rice said offhandedly.

  “Then I suppose you’re going to kick the can down the road until he returns?” His tone was that of someone who always hoped for the best.

  “Not at all, Judge. We intend to . . .” Leisinger held up his hand.

  “A moment, please. I’m not so quick on the uptake first thing in the morning.” His eyes rested on Archer. “I assume you are representing Hannah, sir?”

  Archer rose and addressed the court. “I’m here to support Hannah.”

  “Excellent. Mrs. Crane I know well, so we are all accounted for. Counsel? Now it’s your turn.”

  “Your Honor, we have a situation,” Mrs. Rice said.

  An Outbuilding in the California Mountains

  Josie hadn't meant to sleep so long, and now the cement cell was heating to an almost unbearable degree. She was sweating as she worked the hinges on the old metal door.

  “What are you doing?”

  Josie held up Erika’s shoe without looking at the other woman, “I took it out of your closet. I’m glad you wear high heels.”

  “You’re not going to get very far.” Erika’s voice had a dreamy quality that made Josie take notice. She stopped her efforts to work the hinge, sat on her heels and looked more closely at the other woman.

  Erika Gardener was laying on her back, curling her hair around one finger, her eyes lazily moving from the hole in the wall to Josie and back again. She was obviously more interested in the small patch of outside that she could see.

  “If he comes this morning, we should ask him for some toilet paper.”

  Josie couldn’t help laughing. “Tell you what, when we get out of here we’ll find a real bathroom, but first we have to get out.”

  Josie slammed the heel of the shoe up against the bolt that held the hinge tight. Rust fluttered over her bound hands. What she wouldn’t give to be free of the rope.

  “Want to help?”

  “No, thank you,” Erika answered lazily.

  “Okay,” Josie answered and hit the heel of the shoe against the metal so hard the shoe broke.

  Edleman Children’s Court, Monterey Park

  “We don’t deny Josie has gone missing. It’s all over the news, Judge.”

  It was Archer’s turn to speak now that Mrs. Rice had her say, and her say had been laced with ugly innuendo. “But to suggest she is willingly absent or unreliable is bull.”

  The judge raised one finger, a warning for Archer to watch his language. The big man rotated his shoulders under his jacket. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d put on a jacket and tie, yet that morning he did it without thinking. In fact, he would have worn a straight jacket if that were what it took to plead Josie’s case. When the jacket lay a bit more comfortably on his shoulders, Archer readjusted his language.

  “Josie would have walked over hot coals to be here, and you don’t have to take my word for it.”

  “Your Honor,” Mrs. Rice interjected. “It is not a function of this court to speculate about why Ms. Bates is gone, only to establish that she is. Now we must analyze how that impacts the best interests and welfare of the child, Hannah Sheraton. We all know where statistics stand on matters like this. There’s a greater chance that Ms. Bates, a single woman used to living alone, may have simply found the idea of being legally responsible for Hannah too much. There’s a greater chance of that than of foul play.”

  “She didn’t find the idea of defending Hannah from a frame-up too much of a bother. Or what about making sure she had a home to live in all this time, and a school to go to?” Archer retorted. Mrs. Rice glared at him, her eyes almost disappearing in the folds of her cheeks.

  “The court isn’t concerned with history,” Mrs. Rice drawled.

  “Your Honor, can I approach?” Archer asked. He was no attorney, but he knew the protocol.

  Leisinger waggled two fingers. Archer stood in front of the bench and looked right into the judge’s eyes. What the man was thinking was a mystery. The guy was good.

  “Josie Bates is the most reliable person I know, but we can’t change the fact she isn’t here. But if she were, she’d be the first to say that all she wants is what’s best for Hannah. I can tell you, leaving Hannah in Hermosa is what’s best for her.” Archer squared his shoulders. “You’ve got Hannah’s file, and you know that history is the only thing important here. Hannah’s had a hard life until Josie took her in. Staying in Hermosa gives her the stability Mrs. Rice is talking about.”

  He shot the woman a glance that withered her a bit but didn’t knock her down.

  “Judge, the people of Hermosa are worried about Josie, but they are also friends to Hannah. They are a family now. If you knew Josie, and knew the people I’m talking about, you’d know I’m right. No foster home could be better for Hannah than we are.”

  “Well, doesn’t that argument just have a lot of holes in it? We don't even know if these people exist. We know nothing about this man, and I think that bears looking into. Also, why does he so desperately want to be responsible for this young girl?” Mrs. Rice cried.

  Mrs. Rice had a dirty mind, which could be forgiven considering what she heard inside these courtrooms. Archer still didn’t like the insinuations. He looked back at Leisinger.

  “Retired LAPD, Judge. Private investigator now, and I do some freelance photography and-”

  “And,” the big, fat woman interjected. “Accused of killing his own stepson. Let’s not forget that.”

  Archer gave her a long, hard look and this time she didn’t flinch. Slowly he turned back to the bench.

  “And exonerated.”

  “But they were charges of violence against a child. Exonerated or not, that cannot b
e overlooked. Transcripts show that he had no regard for the boy, and that he refused the mother’s wishes that he care for the boy after her death. It doesn’t matter if this man didn’t actually kill anyone, it is his attitude toward children that is critical.”

  Archer wanted to strangle the woman. She was like a mindless animal. Her teeth were dug into something she shouldn’t have a hold of, and she didn’t know enough to let go. She added:

  “Hannah Sheraton is, after all, a child.”

  Even the judge could not help himself. He and Hannah shared a glance. One side of the courtroom knew very well that Hannah was no child. But Leisinger was an old hand at this and the indication of his understanding was no more than a flicker in his eye, a barely perceptible twitch of his lips.

  “Mrs. Rice, please. You know better than to try histrionics here.” His time at Children’s Court had given the judge the patience of a saint and the ability to reprimand like a parent.

  “Then let me call Mrs. Crane, Hannah’s case manager.” Mrs. Crane rose in anticipation of her moment in the spotlight only to hesitate as Leisinger’s ever so expressive finger pointed to Archer.