Hostile Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  “I don’t know. Maybe fifty. Maybe a hundred.”

  “So you had a hundred customers in your shop who smoked?”

  “I don’t know if they smoked. I just see the matches are gone, so I put more in the basket.”

  “So you couldn’t tell me how many you give out in month or a year?” Josie raised an eyebrow.

  “Not this minute,” he sniped. “I probably would know if I looked it up and figured out when I order more.”

  “But it’s a lot, isn’t it? You reorder quite often.”

  “Yeah, a lot,” he grumbled.

  “Do you remember everyone who comes into your coffee place, Mr. Hilbrun?”

  “I remember her,” he said and pointed at Hannah. He was working himself up again, his cheeks were scarlet and his eyes sparkled as he warmed to his subject. “I remember who comes and goes in my place and who doesn’t treat it right.”

  “Do you know if this lady has come in for coffee?” Josie indicated Linda sitting front row center. He shook his head.

  “No, I don’t know her.” Mr. Hilbrun crossed his arms.

  “How about the lady sitting next to her? Do you recognize that lady?”

  “No, I don’t know her neither.” He barely looked but that was okay with Josie. She addressed the court.

  “The defense would like to identify Mrs. Peterson, the Rayburn’s housekeeper.” Josie walked close to Mr. Hilbrun. “Would it surprise you to know that Mrs. Peterson stops at the Coffee Haus at least three times a week?”

  “That’s good,” the witness huffed.

  Another giggle from the jury. Josie smiled as if to say this all wasn’t so bad, just a misunderstanding. She took her hands out of her pockets and pointed to the housekeeper.

  “Would it surprise you to know that Mrs. Peterson has, at one time or another, taken matches from the Coffee Haus?”

  “One at a time is okay.” He was petulant, tired of being the center of attention. Josie had counted on his waning attention.

  “And would it surprise you to know that Mrs. Peterson had a box of Coffee Haus matches in her car the night of the fire?”

  “Why should it surprise me?” Mr. Hilbrun shrugged. “I sell good coffee. I should be selling coffee right now and not talking about who comes to buy. So can I go now?”

  “Let the record show that the defense has identified Mrs. Linda Rayburn and Mrs. Peterson who lived at the Pacific Palisades home. Both had access to the hall table as well as the defendant’s room.”

  “Hey, can I go now?”

  Josie gave Mr. Hilbrun a small, perfunctory smile and excused the witness.

  The last witness Rudy called on the end of the third day was the chauffer who had seen Hannah arguing with Fritz. Rudy was to the point. Josie’s cross of Theodore Smith, a large, hulking man with a whispery voice, was short.

  “You just testified that the defendant and Justice Rayburn were arguing? Could you hear what they were saying?”

  “Nope,” the man answered.

  “Then how did you know they were arguing?” Josie asked.

  “Her hands were going all over the place. I can tell when somebody is pissed, can’t you?” He raised a bushy eyebrow. Josie ignored the question and the challenge.

  “Did you know that my client suffers from obsessive/compulsive disorder, sir? That she often reaches out to touch something to make herself feel safe?”

  “How could I know that?” He dismissed her with a toss of his head.

  “Now that you do know, could it be that the defendant was simply trying to find something to touch. Could it be that’s why she was waving her arms?”

  “Calls for a conclusion, Your Honor,” Rudy objected.

  Point made. Josie took a tangent.

  “Could you see both Justice Rayburn and Ms. Sheraton completely? Their full bodies? Their faces?”

  “I could see the old guy’s head. I was looking at her back mostly. Sometimes I could see her from the side”

  “Then you couldn’t always see both of the defendant’s hands?”

  “No, not always. She moved around a lot,” Theodore admitted.

  “So you really couldn’t tell if the defendant pushed Justice Rayburn or touched him or, perhaps, tried to help him because he lost his balance? He was an old man, after all.”

  “He wasn’t that old.” Theodore Smith sized up Josie and nodded a couple of times as if to say no broad was going to trick him up. “That girl pushed the old guy. I saw him fall. I didn’t see her try to catch him. That was not the way she was moving.” He looked at the jury and warned them: “Don’t you believe what she is saying. That girl pushed the old guy.”

  “Your Honor,” Josie snapped. “Instruct the witness to answer my questions and move to strike that last comment.”

  “So ordered,” Norris instructed.

  Josie’s jaw twitched in annoyance. She began again, drawing up to her full height, clasping her hands behind her back.

  “You’re a very big man, Mr. Smith. If you believed there was an altercation, why didn’t you try to stop it?”

  “It happened fast. They were talking, and then he was on the ground. There was no time.”

  “Talking?” Josie reiterated. “That is a far cry from someone angry enough to assault another person.”

  “Arguing,” the witness corrected. “They were definitely having a strong difference of opinion.”

  “Did Justice Rayburn call to you for help?”

  The man shook his head and his chin dimpled as he drew it up thoughtfully.

  “Nope.”

  “Did he cry out when he fell?” Josie demanded.

  “No. But someone needed to help him.”

  “And why would you draw that conclusion?” Josie pushed. The witness bridled.

  “Because he looked afraid,” Smith said tightly. “And don’t ask me how I know. I know afraid, and that man was afraid of her.”

  He pointed right at Hannah. He did so with righteous indignation. The rhythm of Hannah’s knocking increased. The witness heard it too and his finger wavered the longer Josie remained silent. Finally he lowered his hand then raised it again to wipe his forehead seeming to question his own conclusion. Josie looked at the jury and mused at the witness.

  “I guess that little girl scared you, too, since you didn’t try to help Justice Rayburn until after she left.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Rudy called. “Insulting a witness is not a question.”

  “Withdrawn.” Josie sat down, smiled at Hannah and patted her arm. Hannah’s eyes rested on Josie. Judge Norris called it quits for the day and, as soon as the jury was out of the courtroom, Josie asked one more question.

  “I want to know about those damn pills.”

  “One. Two. Three!” Josie and Archer strained to lift the marble fountain and mount it on the side of the patio wall. Josie made the final adjustment. They both stepped back. A flip of the switch and nothing. No water spewed out of the little bird’s mouth.

  “Forget it. Just forget it. It’s too late for this, Archer. Let’s call it a day.”

  Josie sat down on the ground and surveyed the half laid patio tile, and the mounted fountain that wouldn’t work. She could see through the open door to the dining room table where papers and files were spread among Chinese take-out containers.

  “I can’t walk and chew gum at the same time today.” She sank to the ground, her back up against the patio wall, one leg up, and one stretched out. Sweeping up the can of beer by her side, Josie tipped it only to find it empty. Archer offered his and then put his hand atop her head. He ruffled her hair as he leaned against the wall and listened to her complain.

  “What happened today to set you off?”

  “Nothing,” she muttered. “Everything, I suppose. I’m missing things, Archer. The cops found Vicodin in Hannah’s bedroom along with a roach. Rudy’s setting up to say she killed Rayburn for drugs and tried to cover it up with the fire. Hannah says Rayburn gave the pills to help with the pain w
hen she cut herself.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “I say this is beginning to stink. If Rayburn were this saint who sent Hannah away to rehab to get her sober, why in the hell would he give her something as addictive as Vicodin? It makes no sense no matter how much pain Hannah was in. And that’s another thing. Hannah doesn’t show pain. Not when she cuts herself, not when she burned herself. She made that clear the first time I met her. I spoke to her psychiatrist. Hannah’s pain is so internalized she could probably slit her throat and watch it bleed and not blink. So, why would Rayburn be so concerned?”

  “Maybe he was the one who had a low threshold for pain. You know how some people are. They nurture, and they worry. Sometimes they don’t do it the right way,” Archer suggested.

  Josie shook her head vehemently. “Nope. He was a judge. Rayburn would be guilty of breaking a dozen laws if he handed out prescription medication to a minor. I don’t buy it.”

  “So Hannah is lying?” Archer asked, taking the beer back.

  “I don’t want to think so but what other conclusion is there? Especially given her reaction. Hannah was too furious when I suggested she was lying. Way too mad, if you know what I mean. She was trying to make me feel guilty for even suspecting she was untruthful. To make matters worse, I think Linda knew something about it.”

  “What was the boy wonder doing this whole time?”

  “Kip? He was about as interested as a deaf, dumb, and blind man. Once we were behind closed doors it was pretty evident he’s barely tolerating Hannah, or me.” Josie’s fist pounded the ground lightly before she drew her open palm over the tile she had so lovingly laid. “I’m starting to think I made a real bad choice taking this on.”

  Archer sat down beside her. Josie leaned into him. They sat in silence, shoulder-to-shoulder, hot and tired. Max wandered by. Archer and Josie put out their hands and let them roll across his back as he headed toward the grass. Josie handed the beer back to Archer. When he took it, Josie put her head on his shoulder.

  “Are you ever sorry you didn’t have kids with Lexi?’ she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Never?”

  “I didn’t worry about what we couldn’t do. It didn’t weigh on Lexi.” He took another drink, tipping his head back, closing his eyes as if he wanted to savor the moment. The can clattered against the already laid tile as he set it down. “They would have been good kids. Beautiful kids, if Lexi had ‘em.” He put his hand on Josie’s knee. “You’d have beautiful kids, Jo.”

  “Not me. I wouldn’t know how to do it.”

  “Last I heard it didn’t take any practice to do it.” Archer’s hand traveled up her thigh. His finger caught a thread on her cutoffs.

  Josie smiled and turned her head just enough to smell the salt on his bare arm, the leftover sunshine from his day photographing the lifeguards for the city.

  “I know how to do it; it’s the other part that I wouldn’t know about; the part about taking care of a kid. I would be so neurotic. I’d be all around, never let him go anywhere. I’d be a hovering mom.”

  “So? That’s good. Just the opposite of what your mother did,” Archer said.

  Josie disagreed. “No, that’s not all there is to it. Look at Linda. She’s with her daughter all the time, but there’s something wrong there. Linda is still selfish and Hannah is so screwed up it might have been better not to have had a mother at all. Nope, no kids for me. In fact, right now, I’d give anything just to get Hannah out of my head.”

  “Anything?” Archer asked. Taking a sip of beer then putting his cold lips against her warm neck.

  “If it worked, sure,” Josie whispered, snuggling into him.

  “Tell you what. Why don’t we try the cure, and then discuss how much it’s worth later.”

  Josie raised her head, looked into that rugged, wide face of his and then took it between her hands. She kissed him hard. She was going to owe Archer a fortune. Hannah Sheraton was already nothing more than a memory.

  “Are you going to be okay, honey?”

  Hannah looked up. Linda was put together perfectly: a white dress and jacket, a gold pin on the lapel. Her shoes were bone; her purse so small there was only room for cigarettes and a lipstick. Her hair was down around her shoulders and her make-up was minimal. Though the change had been made for the benefit of the jury, the look had been kept because Kip thought it far more appropriate for a judge’s wife. Linda’s peach colored smile faded when Hannah’s eyes trailed back to the paper.

  “What are you working on?” Linda asked even though she knew exactly what Hannah was doing. For the last six hours Hannah painted as if she were sculpting, chipping away at the paper and Linda’s nerves. The dining room table was littered with watercolors and brushes, glasses of water and rags. The table was a mess. Hannah had painted without consideration of the furniture, the housekeeper’s time, the. . .

  Linda stopped before she said what she was thinking. All she had to do was keep Kip from seeing this and keep Kip from seeing Hannah. A few more weeks - a month at most - and everything would be sorted out. As it stood now she was living with two children: Kip demanding she attend to him and his newfound prominence, Hannah and her constant need for reassurance. Linda knew too much about both of them.

  Forcing herself to smile Linda put her hands on Hannah’s shoulders, kissed the top of her daughter’s head and breathed the scent of shampoo. She let her lips linger in the softness. She almost convinced herself that this was her little girl, her baby, but then Hannah stiffened. The shrug of distaste was slight but imminently insulting. Linda dropped her hands; one look at Hannah’s painting the smile followed suit.

  Gone were the clear bright colors of oil replaced with opaque grays and blacks, thin blues and sheer browns of watercolor. Night shadows, indistinct figures, and just enough definition so that interpretation could be open for discussion. This painting was damn personal. Linda saw what Hannah wanted her to see: a woman with her back to a girl, a fire behind them both. The woman’s hair was long and dark; it streamed out behind her as if she was running away from the girl.

  “What do you think?” Hannah asked sharply. Her eyes were down. She pushed the tablet to the side giving Linda a better look.

  “Do you think that’s funny, Hannah?” Linda fussed over her purse. Hannah pulled the pad back in front of her. The spiral binding scratched the table. Her burned hand held a paintbrush up, its bristles pointing heavenward. Linda pulled out a chair and sat down. “Well, do you?”

  The hard end of Hannah’s brush clicked against the table. A drip of water squeezed out of the bristles and trailed down the shaft until it fell like a dirty tear onto Hannah’s hand. The sound, the movement, the mere idea of this counting was making Linda crazy.

  “No,” Hannah said, her voice small, the tapping ever more quickly.

  “I haven’t walked out on you, have I?”

  “No.” Hannah’s voice got smaller but still it slid on a slick of defiance. “They think I’m a drug addict.”

  “And we know you’re not,” Linda snapped. “When are you going to get it through your head that all this stuff is just stuff? The thing that matters is whether or not Josie can convince that jury that they can’t be totally sure who you are, or what you did. That’s what our case rests on – not six Vicodin.”

  “It’s not our case, Mom.” Hannah slid her eyes toward Linda. “It’s mine. I’m the one that everyone is looking at and everyone is talking about? I’m the one they think killed Fritz and the one who does drugs and sets fires. Or have you forgotten?”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten one damn thing.” Linda’s voice dropped. “If it hadn’t been for me you wouldn’t have nice clothes or a big house to live in or a car. You sure wouldn’t have the time for all this self-indulgent tapping and walking and checking crap. I haven’t forgotten that I’m the one who got you a great attorney, and I really haven’t forgotten that I promised you every thing would work out. I always deliver on my promises
. Name me one that I haven’t.”

  Hannah’s lashes fluttered. The paintbrush tapped, tap, tapped. The gray water wept from the bristles. “Kip’s going to testify against me. Josie wanted to know what I thought he was going to say. I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I’m scared.”

  “He has to testify, Hannah. They subpoenaed him. There’s only an exception for husband and wife. I’ve talked to Josie about his testimony, too, and I’ll tell you what I told her. Kip barely paid attention to you since we’ve been married. What can he say? What can he know?”

  When Hannah remained silent, Linda took a deep breath.

  “Look, Hannah, my priority has always been to keep you and me together but I’m in the middle here. I told you when I married Kip keeping him safe would keep us safe. Without him we’d be back in those cheap apartments. Without him we couldn’t pay for your defense. You should get down on your knees and thank him for that because he didn’t have to. . .”

  “Why should I get on my knees? You’re already there,” Hannah hissed.

  Before the last word was out, Linda grabbed her daughter. Hannah’s chair teetered. The paintbrush flew out of her hand; the thick pad of watercolor paper slid across the table and fell to the floor. Linda put her face close to her daughter’s. Her make-up had sunk into the lines around her eyes and the small fissures above her lips. Anger aged her; frustration dried her out.

  “You listen to me, Hannah. I’m no prostitute. I do what I do so we can both survive. You think there haven’t been times when I wanted to just leave you behind and make my life easier? I could have put you in an orphanage. I could have dropped you in a trashcan, but I didn’t. I kept you with me, I fed you, and I’m sure as hell not running out on you and you better not run out on me.” Linda tried to shake the look of cold fury off Hannah’s face. “Do you think this is easy for me knowing what I know? Knowing what went down? Do you think it’s easy?”

  “No,” Hannah mumbled.

  Linda’s loosened her grip but her voice was no less passionate.

  “Without Kip we don’t have money. Without money, we don’t have a life. Without money, you don’t have a defense. Learn that lesson.”