“We went to school together,” Josie answered. “I told her I’d see you through the bail hearing, and then find someone to help if you go to trial.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“I haven’t done criminal work for a long time,” Josie said, averting her eyes. “Not like this anyway.”
“How come?”
“Because I haven’t,” Josie retorted, peeved that this kid should insist on an answer.
“But why?” Hannah persisted.
“Because I was very good at it and sometimes I got people off who should have gone to jail. Sometimes they hurt more people. That’s why.”
“Oh, so you’re scared,” Hannah decided.
“I made a decision not to do major criminal work any more,” Josie insisted.
“You didn’t choose. You quit. You were scared you’d do it again.” Hannah smiled as if they had suddenly found a meeting ground. Now they could be friends. “I’d want you to help me. People who are scared think better. Besides, if you choose not to do something you can choose to do it again - if the person is innocent - right?”
Josie wasn’t listening to Hannah. Another voice came out of the walls and wrapped itself around her brain in tantalizing whispers. She had been in this room, in this place, listening to another client say the same words. Choose me. Help me. I’m innocent. I am.
“Isn’t that right? You can choose, right?” Hannah demanded, and Josie blinked.
“We’ll keep our options open,” she answered. “Do you have any other questions?”
Hannah eyed Josie, checking out every twitch, every evasion, and every noncommittal statement. Then she started to probe.
“Do you know my mom really well?”
“I did a long time ago.”
“Did you know she gave up being a pro volleyball player so she could have me?”
Josie inclined her head. Josie didn’t care about that little bit of fiction, but she noted the point of it: Hannah the child wanted to be life-changingly important to her mother. That was something Josie understood better than anyone on earth. In Hannah’s case she probably had been, just not the way she thought.
“So, are you sure Kip isn’t going to do something for me?” Hannah suddenly demanded.
“Yes, I am.”
Hannah nodded. Her fingers were tapping. Twenty. Then her left hand covered her right and stroked the mottled skin. Twenty. Josie’s muscles tightened in annoyance. It was hard to watch, this lack of self-control.
“There’s another question.” Hannah said finally. “I want to know if you think I’m crazy?”
Josie eyed her coolly and answered honestly.
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to your doctor.”
“I mean from what you’ve seen? Counting and touching stuff. Do you think that’s crazy?” The tapping began again.
“No, that doesn’t fit the legal description of insanity if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Are you sure?” Restless and troubled, Hannah’s hands moved a mile a minute.
“Why would you want me to think you’re crazy, Hannah? Why would you want anyone to think that?” Josie asked, trying to read between Hannah’s lines.
“Because if I was crazy they couldn’t say I murdered Fritz, could they?”
Josie finally got it. This girl was thinking ahead, figuring ways to get herself out of this predicament. Her permutations were flawed, but Josie found the exercise to be extraordinarily clear headed for someone so young.
She had done the same thing when her mother disappeared; planned her own destiny, planned how to find Emily. In the end Josie failed to find her mother and learned that destiny had a will of its own. If nothing else, Josie understood and empathized with Hannah Sheraton. When she spoke again, Josie committed herself more deeply than she intended.
“Hannah,” Josie said evenly. “I want you to listen to me very carefully. I can review the information the District Attorney has, and try to get the charges dismissed. If I can’t make that happen, you will be indicted for murder. Then you’ll have a choice: plead guilty, plead to a lesser charge, or we can fight.
“If we fight don’t think for me. Don’t try to beat this system on your own because it can’t be done. Knocking on wood and twirling your hair doesn’t constitute an insanity defense. Do you understand that?”
Hannah listened, thinking hard, weighing the worth of Josie’s advice against that of other adults she knew. Finally she made a decision. Slowly she brought her hands from under the table, unbuttoned the cuffs on her jumpsuit and deliberately rolled up her sleeves - ten rolls each. Twenty in all.
Hannah held up her arms. At first Josie’s eyes were drawn to her hands. Then she saw what Hannah was offering. On the delicate skin of her forearms was a web of scars and welts, red scratches and deep cuts, some viciously fresh. Josie took a deep breath and forced herself not to look away.
“Does this count for crazy?” Hannah asked, holding out what she considered to be her ticket to freedom.
“No, Hannah. It doesn’t count for crazy.” Josie whispered.
Hannah’s expression changed, the hope drained away, the light in her eyes dimmed. She didn’t seem as much disappointed as sadly accepting. Lowering her arms Hannah rolled her sleeves down, buttoned the cuffs, buried her hands beneath the table and started knocking the underside again.
One, two, three. . .ten. . .twenty.
7
Archer: “So? How’d it go?”
Josie: “She needs help.”
Archer: “And?”
Josie: “Bail hearing’s tomorrow.”
Archer: “You going to be there?”
Josie: “Yeah.”
Archer: “Sounds good, Jo. ‘Nite, babe.”
Josie: “Nite, Archer.”
There were no halls of justice in trailer C, department 32 of the Superior Court, the Honorable Judith Davenport presiding. There were, in fact, no halls at all.
Hannah was scheduled to be arraigned in Santa Monica but the actual courthouse was overcrowded. The proceedings would take place in one of the modular units the state had plopped in the middle of the parking lot in an effort to solve the problem. Unfortunately, while that had been a practical decision it sorely undermined the dignity of the court.
Still, it was what Hannah Sheraton drew. Josie had no doubt that if it came to an actual trial The People v. Hannah Sheraton in the matters of arson and murder would be played out on a much finer stage.
It was early. Half a dozen cars were scattered over the asphalt parking lot. Beyond the fence that separated court property from the West LA police station cops were changing the guard. Black and whites pulled in and out. Tired officers went home; fresh ones hit the streets. A roach coach was doing a brisk business in breakfast burritos and bad coffee.
Checking her watch, Josie hurried past a woman dragging a two year old behind her, a couple of attorneys conferring by a green Mercedes, and two marshals before opening the metal door to Department 32. It closed with a thud. The walls wobbled. This was a judicial trailer park hoping for a bureaucratic tornado to wipe it out. Still, there were things that made Department 32 feel just like every other courtroom: a Court TV camera, a jar of candy on the clerk’s desk, an empty jury box, and the seal of the state hanging behind the bench. But there was one thing missing: people. Josie thought the place would have been packed. Instead, she tagged only the AP and the LA Times reporters. A young blond man sat in the back. He was too well dressed to be a court watcher, and too relaxed to be the prosecutor. Linda was up front alone. If this was all the public interest the DA could muster, that was a good thing.
Josie shrugged into her jacket then walked down the aisle toward Linda. They had been on the phone for over an hour last night discussing Hannah’s history, and what the family was willing to do to secure bail. Josie touched Linda’s shoulder and motioned her to move over. Linda looked up, gratitude plastered on her face like an extra layer of make-up.
“I was wo
rried. I thought maybe I was in the wrong place.” Linda kept her voice low.
“How long have you been here?” Josie asked.
“Half an hour. Seems like forever.” Self-consciously Linda touched her hair. It was pulled straight up and gathered into a sleek knot on top of her head. On her ears were diamond hoops. She was nervous but controlled, a far cry from the woman of a few nights ago. They would have to talk about clothes if this went to trial. The last thing Josie wanted was for Hannah and Linda to look like escapees from Rodeo Drive.
“Is your husband coming?”
“No, he couldn’t make it. He had a meeting. But he wanted to. He did.”
Josie nodded, understanding it was futile to hope Kip Rayburn would stand by Hannah. Josie shifted closer to Linda.
“There’s a camera in the back of the courtroom. Don’t react to anything you hear during the proceedings. If you have a question, let me know about it when we’re out of here, okay?”
Linda nodded. Josie started to get up. Linda grabbed her.
“What about you? Are you okay? I mean I know you didn’t want to do this.”
Josie slipped her hand from Linda’s.
“Everything is fine. Don’t worry,” Josie assured her.
Just then the back door opened. Rudy Klein, Deputy District attorney had arrived. It was time to go. Rudy and Josie passed through the bar together.
“It’s been a long time, Rudy,” she said.
“Not long enough,” he muttered.
They took to their respective tables. Things moved quickly after that. The door to chambers opened. Her honor, Judge Judith Davenport, was announced. Everyone stood. The court was called to order. There was a millisecond of silence before Hannah Sheraton, still dressed in orange, was led into the room.
This time she was buttoned up to the chin.
8
Hannah looked exactly as Josie hoped she would: stunned, vulnerable and innocent. That was good. Fear could be very useful when your client was arrogant, disturbed and young.
Her hands were cuffed making it impossible for her to twirl her hair. The space reserved for the accused was too wide for her to touch a wall. Her hands rose and fell in frustration; she connected with nothing. Panic showed in the way she licked her lips, the way her eyes searched for, and found, her mother.
Josie glanced at Rudy Klein in time to see a shadow of regret pass over his face. Their eyes locked. He was younger than she, but not by much. He had cut his prosecutorial teeth on the Kristin Davis case as a pinch hitter and Rudy had given Josie a good run. Today he was a surprise, a challenge. She wished the prosecutor had been a stranger.
Josie looked away. Her palms were moist, her heartbeat noticeable. It had been too long since she’d been responsible for someone’s whole life. She was afraid. But there was no turning back now so Josie faced the bench. It was time to play.
“Good morning. Call the case of the People v. Hannah Sheraton.” Judge Davenport planted her elbows on the desk, clasped her hands and gave them permission to touch gloves. “Counsels?”
Rudy Klein and Josie Baylor-Bates identified themselves. Davenport gave the nod to Josie who waived the reading of the complaint. Everyone knew why they were there. Davenport swiveled toward Hannah. All eyes followed.
“How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
Hannah looked past Josie to Linda and something passed between mother and daughter. Assurances. Strength. Commitment. Whatever it was, Hannah was overwhelmed by it. She swayed slightly, closed her eyes briefly, and then looked at Josie. She gave Hannah an encouraging nod, knowing whatever she did could never match what a mother had to offer.
Davenport was on to business.
“So recorded. If there are no objections, I’ll set a date for a preliminary hearing eight days from today. That will be on. . .”
“Your Honor,” Rudy interrupted, “the prosecution will be proceeding directly to the grand jury for indictment.”
Stoned faced, Josie kept her surprise to herself. A grand jury indictment meant that Hannah could be bound over for trial without her defense attorney being privy to the prosecution’s case. Not a good thing.
“When is the grand jury scheduled to meet, Mr. Klein?”
“In three days, Judge,” Rudy answered. “We’re already scheduled.”
“Your Honor, I’d like for the D.A. to present any exculpatory evidence to the grand jury and save the defense, this court, and the taxpayers time and money,” Josie argued.
“If there were any evidence to exonerate Ms. Sheraton we wouldn’t be here.”
Rudy smiled brilliantly. Josie ignored him. She’d seen his act before: handsome and boyish, nice suit, charm the pants off everyone within spitting distance. An ex-actor who decided being a lawyer was better than playing one, Rudy Klein had a perfect stage presence, a prosecutor’s conviction, and a good mind to boot.
“Very well, then. Notify my clerk immediately if the grand jury indicts. Do either of you have any other business?”
Josie was about to speak when Davenport furrowed her brow and directed her peevishness in the general direction of Josie’s camp.
“Bailiff, what is that noise?”
All eyes went to Josie and, not finding the answer to that question, segued toward Hannah. She had closed in on the wood and glass partition, hungry to make contact with something. Her knuckles drummed and knocked against the wood. Her wide lips parted as if she were blowing on a candle as she breathed the count, comforted in her recital, removed from this place and these proceedings.
Embarrassed to be caught napping, the bailiff took Hannah’s arm and moved her back. Like an animal disturbed in sleep Hannah bristled but Josie caught her eye. Hannah stepped back but, unable to control herself, she lunged forward again. The bailiff held her tight.
“Apologies, Your Honor,” Josie said to the court. “My client suffers from obsessive/compulsive disorder and has been under a psychiatrists care for some time. In order for her to continue her treatment, I would like to arrange for bail at this time.”
Rudy was right there.
“Judge this woman set a devastating fire that resulted in Fritz Rayburn’s death. This is a woman with a long history of drug and alcohol abuse. . .”
Josie cut in, demanding the judge’s attention.
“This is a young girl who has been under a doctor’s care. We will report on her rehabilitation as a condition of her bail. And, I might add, Ms. Sheraton has been wrongly detained. She was, in fact, burned in her attempt to put out the fire that occurred at the Rayburn home. The prosecutor should save his opening statement for the appropriate time, when he has an appreciative audience.”
“And Ms. Bates shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Your Honor. The defendant is unreliable. She has not been a willing participant in her own rehabilitation. In July of two thousand and two she escaped from the Forman Rehabilitation Center in Oregon.”
“If it pleases the court,” Josie drawled in disgust. “The Froman Rehabilitation center in Oregon is not a prison facility. She wasn’t in custody when she entered, and she was not on the lam when she left.”
Rudy was still reciting Hannah’s transgressions as if he had Davenport’s ear since the first minute he opened his mouth.
“In September of two thousand and three Ms. Sheraton was AWOL from another clinic in Northern California. As recently as six months ago, the defendant was apprehended in San Diego just before reaching the Mexican border. In her company was one Miggy Estrada who had an extensive juvenile record and two arrests since his eighteenth birthday. They had stolen her stepfather’s car. In short, Ms. Sheraton is a flight risk, Your Honor.”
Josie came back seamlessly into the argument.
“I can bring two thousand files into this court on Los Angeles teenagers who have been joyriding. Ms. Sheraton holds no passport. Her driver’s license has been revoked. She is, at worst, high-strung – much like the prosecutor, who seems prone to melodrama.”
“And the defense is naïve, taken in by the defendant. She is not giving enough weight to her client’s actions,” Rudy responded. “Ms. Bates should have learned something from her previous experience.”
“That is a cheap shot and irrelevant. We are talking about my client’s alleged actions,” Josie argued angrily, “there is still the burden of proof, and I don’t shoulder that particular burden.”
“We are talking about the death of a California Supreme Court justice.” Rudy talked over her.
“Who died in this tragic fire should be of no consequence to this court’s final decision. Determining whether or not my client is eligible for bail is this court’s only business.”
“There is no need to tell this court its job, Ms. Bates,” Judge Davenport snapped. “And both of you seem to prefer arguing at each other rather than convincing me of the matter at hand. I would suggest you behave and get on with it. I have a full calendar.”
Josie took a deep breath. This wasn’t like her. She felt like a child pointing a finger at a playmate. He started it. In years past she had been smoother, more self-assured. In the beach court she was downright laid back. Her nerves were showing. She had reacted badly when she should have steered the argument. That wasn’t good. When she spoke again it was with a modulated voice, and eyes that did not dart toward Rudy.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor. But the question of bail is clear. Since the fire at the Pacific Palisades home the defendant’s family has moved to Malibu. Flight is more than difficult given the isolation of the property. If Mr. Klein is that skittish, we’ll submit to court ordered home monitoring. The Rayburns will pay the fee and allow the prosecution access to the reporting so Mr. Klein can sleep at night.”
Josie stepped out from behind the defense table, a confident calm coming over her as the territory became more and more familiar.
“I would further like to make a motion that the court considers a change of venue. The press coverage will be extraordinary in Los Angeles making it difficult to pick a jury. A move to Ventura County might be preferable.”
“Oh, please. Your Honor!” Rudy’s hands were raised in a gesture of amazement. “This is ridiculous. In this case, who the victim is does matter. Justice Rayburn served all of California, and all media will give equal weight to covering the story.”
Hostile Witness Page 6