The Redondo Courts were made up of low-slung, whitewashed, Cape Cod style buildings with marine blue trim. All the beach cities did business here. It was a far cry from downtown’s imposing courthouses and city smells. Redondo Beach Court was perched on the outskirts of King Harbor Pier where the air smelled like salt and sun. Downtown attorneys fought holy wars, and life and death battles, while standing on marble floors inside wood paneled courtrooms. Here, court felt like hitting the town barbershop for a chaw with the mayor. Sometimes Josie missed being a crusader. The thought of one more local problem, and one more local client, made her long for what she once had been: a headline grabber, a tough cookie, a lawyer whose ambition and future knew no bounds. But that was just sometimes. Mostly, Josie Baylor-Bates was grateful that she no longer spoke for anyone who had enough money to pay her fee. She had learned that evil had the fattest wallet and most chaste face of all. Josie could not be seduced by either any more.
“You walking?” Judge Crawford called to her from the end of the walk.
“No.” Josie ambled toward him.
“Want me to walk you to your car?” the judge offered.
“Don’t worry about it. This isn’t exactly a tough town, and if another Billy Zuni is hanging around I’ll sign him up as a client.”
“Okay. Let me know if you and Faye are in on that sponsorship for the Surf Festival.”
“Will do,” Josie answered and started to walk toward the parking lot. The judge stopped her.
“Hey, Josie, I forgot. Congratulations are in order. It’s great that you’re signing on as Faye’s rainmaker.”
Josie laughed, “We’re going to be partners, Judge. I don’t think there’s a lot of rain to be made around here.”
“Well, glad to hear it anyway. Baxter & Bates has a nice ring, and Faye’s a good woman.”
“Don’t I know it,” Josie said.
Faye Baxter was more than friend or peer; she was a champion, a confessor, a sweetheart who partnered with her husband until his death. Josie was honored that now Faye wanted her, and Josie was going to be the best damn partner she could be.
Waving to the judge, Josie crossed the deserted plaza, took the steps down to the lower level parking and tossed her things in the back of the Jeep. She was about to swing in when she caught the scent of cooking crab, the cacophony of arcade noise, the Friday night frantic fun of Redondo’s King Harbor Pier and decided to take a minute. Wandering across the covered parking lot she exited onto the lower level of the two-storied pier complex.
The sun had been down for hours but it was still blister-hot. To her right the picnic tables in the open-air restaurants were filled. People whacked crabs with little silver hammers, sucked the meat from the shells, and made monumental messes. On the left, bells and whistles, and screams of laughter from the arcade. Out of nowhere three kids ran past, jabbering in Spanish, giggling in the universal language. Josie stepped forward but not far enough. A beehive of blue cotton candy caught her hip. She brushed it away and walked on, drawn, not to the noise, but to the boats below the pier.
These were working craft that took sightseers into the harbor, pulled up the fish late at night; they had seen better days and were named after women and wishes. The boats were tethered to slips that creaked with the water’s whim and bobbed above rocks puckered with barnacles. Josie loved the sense of silence, the feeling that each vessel held secrets, the dignity of even the smallest of them. The ropes that held these boats tight could just as easily break in an unexpected storm. They would drift away like people did if there was nothing to tie them down or hold them steady.
Josie leaned on the weather worn railing and lost her thoughts to the heat and the sounds and the look of that cool, dark water. At peace, she wasn’t ready when something kicked up – a breeze, a bump of a hull – something familiar that threw her back in time. Emily Baylor-Bates was suddenly there. A vision in the water. The Lady of the Lake. Yet instead of the sacred sword, the image of Josie’s mother held out sharp-edged memories. Josie should have walked away, but she never did when Emily came to call.
Even after all these years she could see her mother’s face clearly in that water. Emily’s eyes were like Josie’s but bluer, wider, and clearer. They shared the square-jaw and high cheekbones, but the whole of Emily’s face was breathtakingly beautiful, where her daughter’s was strikingly handsome. Her mother’s hair was black-brown with streaks of red and gold. Josie’s was chestnut. Her expression was determined like Josie’s but…but what?
What was her mother determined to do? What had been more important than a husband and a daughter? A good daughter, damn it. What made her mother - even now after all these years she could barely think the word - abandon her? Why would a woman cast off a fourteen year old without a word, or a touch? There one night, gone the next morning.
Suddenly the water was disturbed. Emily Baylor-Bates’ face disappeared in the rings of ever widening concentric circles. Startled, Josie stood up straight. Above her a group of teenagers hung over the railing dropping things into the water. They laughed cruelly thinking they had frightened Josie, unaware that she was grateful to them. The water was mesmerizing, the memories as dangerous as an undertow. Emily had been gone for twenty-six years. Twenty-six years, Josie reminded herself as she strode to the parking lot, swung into her Jeep, turned the key, and backed out. The wheels squealed on the slick concrete. She knew a hundred years wouldn’t make her care less. Time wouldn’t dull the pain or keep her from wanting to call her mother back. On her deathbed, Josie would still be wondering where her mother was, why she had gone, whether she was dead, or just didn’t give a shit about her daughter. But tonight, in the eleven minutes it took to drive from Redondo Beach to Hermosa Beach, Josie put those questions back into that box deep inside her mind. By the time she tossed her keys on the table and ruffled Max-The-Dog’s beautiful old face, that box was locked up tight.
The dog rewarded Josie with a sniff and a lick against her cheek. It took five minutes to finish the routine: working clothes gone, sweats and t-shirt on, and her mail checked. Faye had dropped off the partnership papers before leaving for San Diego and a visit with her new grandson. The tile man had piled a ton of Spanish pavers near the backdoor for Josie to lay at her leisure. The house of her dreams – a California bungalow on the Strand – was being renovated at a snail’s pace, but Josie was determined to do the work herself. She would make her own home; a place where no one invited in would ever want to leave.
In the kitchen, Josie checked out a nearly empty fridge as she dialed Archer. It was late, but if he were home it wouldn’t take much to convince him that he needed to feed her. Josie was punching the final digits of Archer’s number when Max rubbed up against her leg, wuffing and pointing his graying snout toward the front door. Josie looked over her shoulder and patted his head, but Max woofed again. She was just about to murmur her assurances when the house seemed to rock. Snarling, Max fell back on his haunches. Josie let out a shout. Someone had thrown themselves against the front door, and whoever was out there wanted in bad. The new door was solid, the deadbolt impossible to break, but the sound scared the shit out of her. The doorknob jiggled frantically for a second before everything fell quiet – everything except Josie’s heart and Max’s guttural growl.
Bending down, Josie buried one hand in the fur and folds of his head. With the other she picked up the claw hammer from the tool pile. Standing, she smiled at Max. His eyebrows undulated, silently asking if everything was all right now. For an instant Josie thought it might be, until whoever was out there flew at the door with both fists.
“Damn.” Josie jumped. Max fell back again, snapping and barking.
Clutching the hammer, Josie sidestepped to the door. She slipped two fingers under the curtain covering the narrow side-window and pulled the fabric back a half an inch. A woman twirled near the hedge. Her head whipped from side to side as she looked for a way into the house. Her white slacks fit like a second skin, and her chiffon bl
ouse criss-crossed over an impressive chest. A butter colored belt draped over her slim hips. Her come-fuck-me sandals had crepe-thin soles and heels as high as a wedding cake. This wasn’t a Hermosa Beach babe and Josie had two choices: call the cops or find out what kind of trouble this woman was in. No contest. Josie flipped the lock and threw open the door.
The woman froze; trembling as if surprised to find someone had actually answered. She started forward and raised her hand, took a misstep and crumpled. Instinctively, Josie reached for her. The hammer fell to the floor as the woman clutched at Josie’s arm.
“You’re here,” she breathed.
Close up now, Josie saw her more clearly. The dark hair was longer than she remembered. The heart-shaped face was still perfect save for the tiny scar on the corner of her wide lips. Those long fingered hands that held Josie were as strong as they’d always been. But it was the high arch of the woman’s eyebrows and her small, exquisitely green eyes that did more than prick Josie’s memory; they shot an arrow clear through it. It had been almost twenty years since Josie had seen those eyes, and the face that looked like a heroine from some Russian revolutionary epic.
“Linda? Linda Sheraton?”
“Oh, God, Josie, please help me.”
2
The last time Josie Baylor-Bates saw Linda Sheraton they were twenty years old and sharing a cheap apartment in downtown Los Angeles. Both were on a USC athletic scholarship, and both were poor as church mice. Josie, for all intents and purposes, was orphaned. Linda hailed from a trailer park, raised by a mother who didn’t give a damn if her daughter ended up in poverty or Princeton. That was where the similarities ended.
Josie cleaned fraternity houses to make ends meet; Linda dated the fraternity. Linda would rather dance the night away than crack a book. Josie knew law school wouldn’t consider bar hopping a fine arts credit. Linda was hard living, sure of herself, plain talking, and smart as a whip. Unfortunately, her whip didn’t crack for academia unless it had to.
She could talk anyone into anything - teachers into grades, boys into adoration, men into gifts, and Josie into setting her up on the volleyball court so that she, Linda, came away looking like a star. It wasn’t hard to figure out why men succumbed to Linda’s particular brand of charm. There was a strong, sinewy animal beauty about her; a beauty that promised more than she ever intended to deliver. The one thing Josie could never figure out was why she had fallen for the act. Maybe it was because Linda Sheraton made you feel like she deserved the favor, as if she would reward you twofold if you came through for her just once. Josie pulled Linda’s ass out of one fire after another, thanking her lucky stars that Linda never asked her to do anything illegal or immoral. Luckily, two things happened before Linda did ask: Josie got a clue and Linda took off.
Three months into their junior year Linda hooked up with a guy from France leaving Josie with an apartment she couldn’t afford, a pile of phone bills, and a couple pair of jeans. Josie wore the jeans, got a second job to make the rent, and had the phone disconnected. Sometimes Josie wondered about Linda when she sat at Burt’s at the Beach, watching the sweet young things snuggle up to a potential meal ticket. Now Josie didn’t have to wonder what happened to Linda Sheraton. Something, or someone, had caught up with her. Despite the clothes, the jewelry and the make-up, she was a mess, and scared to death.
With a snap of her fingers, Josie backed Max off to his rug in the corner. In a jumble of questions and answers she settled Linda on the couch, determined she wasn’t hurt or in imminent danger, then left her long enough to grab a bottle of scotch and a glass from the kitchen. She poured two fingers and handed the glass to Linda.
“Thanks.”
The glass quivered as Linda knocked back half the drink, sank deeper in the couch and tried to get a grip. Josie sat in the leather chair and put the bottle on the table between them.
“Do you have an ashtray?”
Linda’s deep, pebbly voice shook. Her eyes darted around the living room. Spare of furnishing, there were blueprints and books spread over the desk in the corner near the picture window. Linda seemed to see nothing as she fidgeted with the buckle on her belt and the stitching on the couch cushion. Josie got up, found an empty beer can in the trash and put it on the coffee table.
“You don’t mind. . .”
Linda put her drink aside, fumbled in her purse, found her pack, tapped one out, and finally put a cigarette between her lips. Her lipstick had faded, leaving only a faint outline of claret colored pencil. Her hand, and the cigarette in it, trembled as she snapped a silver lighter open. It took three times to catch but finally there was flame. Linda sucked hard and the tip glowed red. She held it away and blew out a plume of smoke while Josie studied her. Three of Linda’s knuckles were scraped but they weren’t bleeding. Her clothes were messed, but not torn. She seemed to tremble more with outrage than fear.
Finally, Linda tossed the lighter back in her purse, reached for her glass and shot the scotch. One more puff and she dropped the cigarette into the can. It sizzled in the last swallow of beer and died.
“I almost didn’t recognize you. It’s been awhile,” Josie said.
“Yeah, well, you haven’t changed.” Linda eyed Josie’s sweat pants, and the muscle shirt from Gold’s Gym that Josie had pulled over her sports bra. “I should have known I’d find you in a place like this. You must still be playing volleyball.”
“Pick up games,” Josie answered.
She didn’t ask if Linda still played. The cut of her clothes, the length of her nails, and the paleness of her skin spoke volumes. Linda wasn’t really interested anyway. Her observation was a reaction; Josie was the physical manifestation of word association. Linda licked her lips as if her mouth were dry. Josie nodded toward the glass. Linda pushed it across the table, leaning forward as she did so. Josie did the same.
“Still getting in over your head?” Josie asked while she poured.
“You have no idea,” Linda whispered, holding her drink in both hands. She didn’t look at Josie when she said: “My kid – my daughter – she’s been arrested for murder, Josie.”
“Where?”
“In Santa Monica,” Linda said.
“Christ.”
Josie reached out to touch Linda. Women did that during trying times. But this time the connection wasn’t made. Neither of them were that kind of woman. Josie’s way was like her father’s. Figure out the problem. Deal with it. Linda’s way was to stand removed until she figured out who was with her, and who was against her.
“Who do they say she killed?”
“Fritz Rayburn,” Linda answered.
“Justice Rayburn? The California Supreme Court Justice?”
There wasn’t much that shocked Josie anymore, but this did. There had been no hint that the fire was suspicious much less the jurist’s death. Linda poured herself another double. It was gone before Josie could blink. Linda came up for air and looked into the empty glass as if it was a crystal ball.
“The one and only Fritz Rayburn. The governor’s buddy. Beloved of all lawyers. Champion of the underling. Soft spoken, confident, fearless, witty, brilliant, perfect California Supreme Court Justice, Fritz Rayburn.” Linda raised her glass in a cheerless toast. “That’s who the cops say my kid killed.”
“Oh, my God,” Josie breathed.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Linda cocked her head and gave Josie a small, wretched smile. “I’m talking mega trouble, Josie. The Goddamn Vice President came to Fritz’s funeral. They were talking about nominating him to the real Supreme Court if any of those old shits ever died. The cardinal said the mass. There were a thousand people in that cathedral, and those were only the ones that were invited.”
“What’s this got to do with your daughter?” Josie got up, grabbed a cold beer and popped it on her way back. Linda hadn’t missed a beat.
“Fritz Rayburn was my father-in-law. He was down from San Francisco for the summer break. When he was here he sta
yed in an apartment at the Palisades house or at the place in Malibu. We were all in the Palisades the night of the fire. ”
Linda’s fingers trailed over the deep cut of her blouse and found their way to the side of her jaw. She leaned into the touch nonchalantly, her posture a strange contrast to the twitching of her eye, the taut cording of her neck muscles.
“Hannah – my daughter – she didn’t like it in the Palisades. She’s city all the way. Independent. She didn’t particularly like Fritz, but to say she killed him is just plain ridiculous.”
“When was she arrested?” Josie took a long drink but the beer tasted wrong.
“Just now. Tonight. We got home from the funeral. I changed. My husband and I were going out to dinner to . . .to talk about something important.”
Linda ran the back of her hand under her nose. She shook out her hair. This was the way she used to act when she had to pull herself together for competition. Linda was at her best under pressure. The near-tears were gone; the face she turned toward Josie had fixed to a look of brutal resolve.
“You’ve got to get her out of this mess, Josie. Hannah is sixteen, she’s scared and she’s innocent. I want you to get her out of that God damn jail tonight.”
Josie rested her arms on her knees, the beer dangling between her legs. She remembered what she hadn’t liked about Linda Sheraton-Rayburn. She demanded. She expected. She wanted. Under any other circumstances Josie would have shown her the door. But whether or not her daughter was guilty, Linda was in for a lot of pain. For that Josie was truly sorry and she was sorry she couldn’t help.
“There’s nothing I can do, Linda. Your daughter’s been processed. She is in for the night.”
“Don’t give me that. I busted my butt tracking you down tonight because I knew if anyone could help, you could.”
“This isn’t college, Linda. I can’t just fast-talk a problem away.” Josie put her beer on the side table. “Besides, I don’t work with juveniles. You need some who specializes. . .”
Hostile Witness Page 2