Hostile Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  Hannah twirled, arms out, her long hair floating in the breeze. Her eyes were closed and every time she peeked Hannah expected to see day. But it was always night. The hours hadn’t passed and that’s when Hannah got sick.

  She stumbled back to her bedroom and sat on her little stool, pulling herself tight in a ball as she rocked. She wished she could paint, but no flammables were allowed around her. That was a no-no. The judge said so. If she could paint, the sickness inside would go away. Hannah made a muffled little mewling sound and rocked her feet heel to toe.

  Her chin hurt because it was pushed hard into the knobs of her knees. Her cheekbones felt as if they would crack from the pressure as she clenched her jaw. Hannah closed her eyes and rocked. She thought of Josie. There’s a lesson Hannah. Take a lesson from Josie, Hannah. Life’s hard. Deal with it. Fight for it. Stand up, Hannah. Do it for yourself.

  Then it didn’t matter whom Hannah thought about. She sprang from her seat, stuck her hand between her mattress and box spring and found the other things she kept hidden. She opened the little box. Three little joints left. Three was her lucky number. Three blades. Three joints. Three people in this house.

  The matches were in the bathroom, hidden in the box of tampons. They wouldn’t let her have paints but nobody checked for matches. How dumb was that? Outside again, Hannah cupped her hands, bent her head and put a match to the roach. She sucked the smoke in deep and held it. The sick feeling didn’t leave. It squeezed her head so she started to walk around the house, ticking and shaking the little box of wooden matches as she went. Shake and shake, counting the times she heard the scratching sound they made. Hannah shook and shook, trying to count the number of matches by the sound. Hannah walked to the back of the house and looked up toward the bedroom her mother shared with Kip. The lights were out. They were asleep. Kip hadn’t looked at Hannah yet. All Linda did was look at Kip. All Linda did was say everything would be all right. Hannah just didn’t know which of them she was saying it to. Guilt. Guilt. It was the word that connected them all, and kept them all apart.

  She walked to her side of the house. Head down and steps measured she paced off her prison. When Hannah had journeyed ten times on that route she detoured inside and walked up the stairs. Hannah was a shadow. No one knew she was there even when it was light. Half the joint was gone; the other half snuffed out and cupped between her hands along with the box of matches. No one would hear them shake as Hannah walked up those stairs and stood outside her mother’s bedroom door. She peered through a crack in the door. They were there. Her mother with her long hair and naked shoulders, Kip curled around her in sleep; Kip who would be a judge; Kip who was just like his father. They were there. In bed. Together.

  Hannah turned around and walked down the stairs.

  Hannah walked up those stairs again and stood outside the bedroom door and looked.

  She walked down.

  She walked up and stood and looked.

  She held the matches and the roach cupped in her hand so no one would hear, no one would smell the smoke, and no one would know she was standing outside the bedroom door looking and thinking and wondering if she had really done the right thing the night of the fire.

  Josie sat with her back to the wall, one foot dangling toward the floor, the other propped up on the bar stool next to her. One arm was on the bar, her hand wrapped around a glass of beer. It was still full, but the foam had long since faded. A half eaten burger was on the plate beside her. Eric Clapton was on the jukebox, and a couple of baseball teams silently ran around on the big-screen TV in the corner. A woman nursed a martini at a table near the window. A couple was having a heated disagreement in the hallway that led to the bathrooms. Other than that, it was a quiet night at Burt’s at the Beach.

  “Is it my cooking?”

  Josie swiveled her head but didn’t lift it from the wall behind her. She smiled at Burt. Burt, who was once one of the finest male volleyball players on the circuit, still looked ruggedly handsome despite the crow’s feet, and the gray through his long blond hair. He crashed and burned on his motorcycle in ninety-four. Broke about every bone in his body. He still looked damn good, but he lost everything that made him one of the best on the beach: his speed, his agility, and his range of motion. He spent the next two years trying to kill himself with booze and pills. Then he found a good woman and opened Burt’s. The good woman wasn’t as good as he thought, but Burt’s at the Beach was a godsend. He loved his place, and so did people who called Hermosa home. You never had to dress up, the food was basic, good and priced right, every woman was safe, every man who wasn’t was asked to leave, and Burt knew everyone’s name.

  “It’s Cordon Bleu as usual, Burt. I’m just not as hungry as I thought I was.” Josie pushed the beer mug his way. “Or as thirsty.”

  “I knew that the second you came through the door. Next time I’ll just refuse to serve you. Hate stuff going to waste.”

  Burt took the plate and put it under the counter. He tossed the beer and put the mug in the sink. He checked out the martini woman and the feuding couple who now seemed to be making up. Then he crossed his arms on the bar and didn’t say anything more. He waited for Josie.

  “So what do you do when someone mistakes professional help for personal interest, Burt?”

  Burt pulled back slightly. “You can’t handle some guy? That’s a new one.”

  Josie laughed softly, “Naw, nothing like that.”

  “Some woman?” Burt raised his brows and wiggled them as he smiled. One of his front teeth was still broken. He didn’t want to fix it because it reminded him of how stupid he had been on his bike.

  “Some kid,” Josie answered. “Some poor messed up kid.”

  “Bummer,” he mumbled as he considered the ramifications of that.

  “Yeah. I’m not sure what to do. What do I know about kids?” Josie traced a pattern through the water ring her mug had left on the bar as she lapsed into a thoughtful silence. “Or maybe I’m making too much of it.”

  Finally Burt sighed real deep. He stood up, took the towel from his waist, and Josie’s arm by the wrist. He lifted her hand and wiped the water away. He patted her hand.

  “You do what everyone else in the whole world does, Josie. Go home. Get some sleep. Start doing your job in the morning. Everything else will work itself out. It always does. Besides, Archer’s due back day after tomorrow, isn’t he? That’s going to make all right with the world.”

  “You’re right. I’m tired. I’ll take Max for a walk and get some sleep.”

  Josie dropped her foot off the stool, and ten bucks on the bar. Burt swiped it up, watched her go, and wondered if Josie was dumb enough to believe that piece of crap. The truth was, personal stuff like that didn’t just hang on, it burrowed like a tick, and that could make you real sick if it was the right kind of tick.

  13

  “My client looks forward to getting back to being a child.” - Josie Baylor-Bates

  “I have great faith in the justice system.” – Kip Rayburn

  “I want my daughter home.” - Linda Rayburn

  Linda and Kip dashed up the steps of the courthouse. Josie Baylor-Bates was close behind with Hannah cringing inside her protective arm. Reporters followed, tossing questions and shoving microphones their way. The three adults threw their answers over their shoulders intent only on getting to the quiet of the courtroom.

  They had exchanged no more than hellos when they met on the street. Each gave a one-sentence statement. Kip rebuffed Josie’s attempts to thank him for coming, for showing support. He was there to show his support for the court, for the system, for a girl who was only accused. It was the line the governor’s right hand man, Alex Schaeffer, had suggested he stick with. Kip hated it. Holding Linda’s hand was his idea. Linda clung to him. Even when Josie held the door open for them Linda hung back as if afraid something might happen to her if she walked through them. That was understandable. Josie had rushed up these steps with another client three y
ears ago and met her Waterloo. Kip was taut, anxious, and trying to hide at every turn. Understandably so. He wouldn’t be able to watch the trial. The prosecution had subpoenaed him. He would wait outside the doors until it was his turn to testify. It was a despicable move by Klein and there was nothing Josie could do about it. Hannah was the only one who remained silent, her eyes downcast, hearing, no doubt, every nuance in the terse exchanges between parents and attorney, attorney and reporters.

  Inside, no one spoke. They passed through the metal detectors single file. Purses, briefcases went through the conveyor belt. Arms out. Wands were passed over each of them. They waited for the elevator and entered together. They exited with Linda leading, her arm around Hannah, Kip on the other side of the girl. A tense caravan, they walked into a courtroom filled with curious, respectfully subdued spectators. The clerk was handling last minute housekeeping. The bench rose high off the floor, the seal of the state hung heavy on the wall. Josie and Hannah parted ways with the Rayburns. They went to the seats behind the bar, Josie and Hannah to the table in front of it. Josie put her briefcase on top, pushed the chair aside with her leg. Hannah was already settled, her hands in her lap, looking exactly as Josie had requested. Her wild hair was plaited in a braid down her back, wisps of caramel colored hair curled around her temple, highlighting her eyes. She wore a white sweater set, long sleeved to cover the scars on her arms. Her skirt was flowered in black and navy. It hit below her knees. Her shoes were low heeled; her multiple piercings discarded save for pearls on each earlobe.

  Josie leaned down, put her hand on Hannah’s shoulder and whispered:

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Hannah was quick. Her hand caught Josie’s. She held on tight. Without a word she begged Josie with her eyes. Don’t go. Don’t leave. Josie extricated herself. She half-smiled knowing she wouldn’t be effective for Hannah if she couldn’t banish the ghost of Kristin Davis real fast.

  “I’ll only be a minute. You can talk to your mom. It’s okay.”

  Josie looked at no one as she pushed through the door, walked halfway down the long hall, went into the ladies room into a stall and closed the door behind her.

  Sitting on the toilet fully dressed, Josie cradled her head in her hands. She felt heavy, unworkable, in need of some cosmic grease for joints that hadn’t moved in years. She had been so sure the determination, the excitement, the game-day exhilaration would drive away any doubt or fear that still clung to her like a fine sea spray. She was wrong.

  “Come on. Come on” Josie gritted her teeth and cheered herself on. This wasn’t three years ago. Her client wasn’t an evil woman with an increasingly wicked agenda. This was Hannah who called and talked just to make sure Josie was still with her. This was a kid who showed Josie exactly how she tried to put out the fire. This was a case where all the prosecution had was circumstantial evidence. She could do this. She could win, and it would be right.

  Sitting up straight, Josie took a deep breath through her nose and held it in her lungs. She put her hands in the pockets of her blazer and squared her shoulder. Her fingers curled around the picture she’d almost forgotten was there. Archer had come early in the morning, missing her as she walked Max. He had taped his favorite picture of her to the door of her house: Six pack abs showing, square jawed face straight on to the camera, hat on backward, and glaring eyes behind the glasses. He had taken it when she lost a point; Archer could see that she meant to win the next one. Now the next one was here. She wanted to do him proud, she wanted everyone to be proud including herself.

  Pocketing the picture, Josie got up, washed her hands for good measure, and walked down the center aisle of the courtroom where she sat next to Hannah as the Court TV cameras rolled. Cyrus Norris, the trial judge, took the bench, Kip Rayburn left the courtroom, and Rudy Klein began his case with Chris Keenan, the arson investigator.

  Young enough to be the kind of guy every woman would want to have around to put out her fire, old enough to be competent, he was the perfect witness. Blue eyed, black haired and handsomely dressed Mr. Keenan answered clearly and spoke directly to Rudy. They’d run through the preliminaries: when he arrived at the scene, ordering up the dogs, cordoning off the scene, and the suspicious color of the smoke indicating accelerants had been used. Now Rudy propped a board on an easel in front of the jury.

  Exhibit one. The crime scene. The handsome Mr. Keenan pointed out where he had found the first indication that accelerants had been used to start the fire. Six feet inside the French doors on the ground level.

  Exhibit two. Enlarged photos of the flooring shadowed with burn marks. Spalling, he called it. Caused by either high heat or mechanical pressure.

  Keenan flashed a bright white, perfect smile at Rudy that radiated right into the jurors’ hearts. “The marks were made by high heat. A petroleum-based flammable was spilled on the asphalt tile floor and set afire. When the asphalt curled in the heat the liquid seeped through to the concrete and pooled in cracks. Bottom line, the fire on the first floor was deliberately set using a flammable liquid as an accelerant.”

  “And could you identify that agent?’ Rudy asked.

  “Turpentine,” the witness answered.

  “And the second floor?” Rudy pointed to the exhibit.

  “The vapor samples were consistent with a turpentine spill.” Keenan answered. “The fire was deliberately set just inside the door of the bedroom where the body of Justice Rayburn was found.”

  “Is it unusual to find two independent points of origin in the matter of arson?”

  “No. It’s very common. The arsonist realized she couldn’t rely on the first fire to accomplish her objective.”

  “Your Honor, the use of the pronoun is prejudicial!” Josie was on her feet. Keenan might as well have hung a guilty sign on Hannah with that one.

  “Restate, Mr. Keenan,” Judge Norris said offhandedly, leaving the outrage for the attorneys.

  “In my experience, the first fire is set to destroy something and the second would be started in the hopes of destroying the evidence of the first arson or an additional crime.”

  “So in this case, the objective of the first fire would be to make sure Fritz Rayburn was killed in that. . .

  “Your Honor! Speculative and highly prejudicial.” This time Josie flew out of her chair. Beside her, Hannah’s hands hit the underside of the table in agitation.

  Judge Norris shot a finger at the prosecutor. “Mr. Klein that will not be tolerated. The jury is instructed to disregard Mr. Klein’s comment. Mr. Klein, you know the boundaries. Don’t cross them.”

  “I was just connecting the dots, Your Honor,” Rudy explained, his deceit obvious to his peers. To the jury, that comely face of his wore a look of innocent surprise that he had displeased the judge.

  He backed away, smiling apologetically, until the jury could no longer see his face. When he passed Josie, his expression was rock hard. He was happy to have drawn the first blood. They didn’t acknowledge one another as Josie stood. Two could play at this game. He nicked a vein; she would go for the witness’s jugular. Squaring her shoulders Josie let the jurors get a good look at her. She didn’t want them trying to figure out how tall she was when they should be watching as this witness went down in flames.

  14

  “Mr. Keenan, you testified that there were pools of flammable liquid found in the crevices of the concrete floor on the ground level. Would you consider that unusual given the inventory you noted in that room?”

  “The concentration of the fluid was unusual,” the witness answered.

  “But the room was used as an art studio. Would it be unusual to find turpentine in a studio?”

  “No.”

  “I wouldn’t think so either, Mr. Keenan.” Josie smiled, happy that they could instantly agree with one another. “In fact, you referred to the pooling of turpentine as a spill. Would you say it was unthinkable for an artist to accidentally spill turpentine in the course of completing a project?”


  “No, it’s not unthinkable but. . .”

  Josie turned back to him, all business, non-threatening. She was simply intellectually curious, a direct contrast to Rudy’s more affable style.

  “So it is possible that in a studio, anyone going about the business of creating art could have accidentally spilled turpentine in that particular area.”

  “Yes.”

  “And even if the artist wiped it up, it would be impossible to see the liquid pooling in the cracks and crevices of the floor. Yes or no.”

  “Yes,” the witness answered, chaffing against the restraint of a one-word answer.

  “Thank you, Mr. Keenan. Now, can you tell me what overlap is?” Josie changed tracks effortlessly. Let Rudy use the dirty tricks; she would use finesse.

  “Overlap is a phenomenon by which a fire burning on one floor licks up to the floor above it and ignites a separate fire.”

  “During stage two when the fire is free burning, is it possible for a fire to spread by flashover, Mr. Keenan?” Josie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How about spontaneous ignition?”

  “Yes, in certain condit. . .”

  “Convection?”

  Josie questioned without defining terms. The rhythm made the words frightening, mysterious and important. She felt swept along with the tempo of the moment. It was a good feeling.

  “Yes.”

  “Pyrolysis?”

  “Possible.”

  “Could a fire spread vertically?”

  Keenan raised his hand slightly in exasperation.

  “Yes, it could spread up stairwells or pipe shafts. But in this case. . .”