Privileged Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  Josie swiped gloss on her lips, added hoop earrings and found herself thinking again about Grace McCreary. Their conversation ended with the promise of a check and no mention of Matthew. Not that there should have been; not that Josie was expecting it. Still, it was odd to have been so close to him again and yet make no contact.

  Sinking onto the bed, Josie put her hand on the phone and looked through the French doors to the patio and the garden beyond. She was proud of her work-in-progress home. Matthew would never believe how handy she had become. Her gaze wandered back inside to the leather chair, the bed with its white duvet and mounds of pillows. She smoothed the comforter. Though her thoughts had gone to Matthew, she was really missing Archer.

  Josie wondered if he was missing her, too. Maybe he was thinking that shooting pictures alone in the Sonoran Desert for a month was no way to heal the wounds inflicted by his dead wife's betrayal. Maybe he was wondering why Josie hadn't called. She picked up the phone and punched out the number to Archer's cell but before she hit the dial button the front door opened and Hannah called.

  ''Josie, come on. We're going to be late.''

  Reluctantly, Josie held the phone away from her ear. Archer was as close as the next ring but she couldn't wait..

  ''Okay. Okay,'' she sighed. ''Let's go shake up the art world.''

  Slowly Josie got up, smoothed her pants and chalked up another experience to that ritual of surrogate parenthood: child before self, before love, before everything. Not that it mattered. Archer could wait. He was always there for her.

  CHAPTER 7

  Grace McCreary stood in the darkened knave of St. Anthony's Church and watched a woman kneel, make the sign of the cross and bow her head to do penance for her sins. She had come from the confessional, the ornate little boxes in which sins and secrets. This was an old fashioned way to confess, Grace knew. Most people liked to sit with the priest face to face and tell their sins. Grace preferred the idea of going into the little room where the priest couldn't see you and would pretend not to know you even if he recognized your voice.

  That's what Michelle had told Grace about the confessional. Michelle told Grace that God knew your sins but you always had to tell the priest if you wanted to be forgiven. Grace liked the notion that a man could release a person from guilt, wipe away the dark places of a heart and settle a tortured mind. Michelle was always happier, more content and easier to be with after she confessed. At least she was until she thought she had committed another sin.

  But Grace wondered what the plain person kneeling in front of the altar had to confess. A sharp word? A bad thought? A minor infraction hardly seemed worth the effort of saying out loud the thing that had offended God.

  ''Excuse me. May I help you?''

  Startled, Grace turned to find that a priest had come upon her, silently, stealthily, skillfully. Over one arm he held a white robe trimmed in gold; in his other hand he held a golden cup. He was young and unattractive except for his eyes. Behind his less-than-fashionable glasses his eyes sparkled as if he was excited to be about the business of God.

  ''No. No,'' Grace said quietly. ''I was just looking.''

  ‘Oh, that's great. Look all you want. In fact, I hope you'll stay. It's an hour until Mass but I can promise you a rousing sermon if you hang around. Definitely one to keep you awake.''

  Grace shook her head. She smiled slightly at his eagerness even though it made her uneasy.

  ''No. Thank you. I came. . .'' her voice trailed off. Grace wasn't sure why she was in the church but now that she had spoken the young priest was listening. She took a breath and started again. ''I came to see Father Sidney. My sister-in-law said he was a good man to speak with.''

  ''Oh, I'm sorry, he's gone on sabbatical. I'd be happy to take a moment if you like. I'm not as wise at Father Sidney but I am a superior listener, if I do say so myself.''

  Eager, eager beaver.

  His eyes were almost exploding with sincerity and it was enough to blast Grace back. There must have been something in her expression that made the priest realize she did not share his enthusiasm for soul baring. Quickly, he retraced his steps.

  ''But you're also welcome to just sit and contemplate. Sometimes contemplation is just as good, you know.''

  ''Yes. Thank you .I think I'll do that,'' Grace murmured.

  ''So, I'll be off. You just sit. God's casa es su casa, as they say.''

  Off he went down the aisle, an absolute spring in his step. He paused to raise a hand and offer the sign of the cross over the woman in the flowered dress. So fervently was she fingering her rosary bead, she didn't seem to notice the blessing. When the young priest was gone, Grace walked slowly down the center aisle. Her eyes slid over the stained glass windows, the statues in their alcoves, the wooden pews, the altar ahead. Her gaze lingered on the Stations of the Cross. Grace had sat in these pews twice: once for her sister-in-law's funeral and once while Michelle contemplated these pictures. Michelle had even managed to make that short pilgrimage dramatic as she raised her beautiful eyes to contemplate what Christ had suffered on her behalf.

  Grace cocked her head at the fallen Christ. The weight of the cross he bore was so heavy that he crumpled beneath it. Her eyes clicked right. Christ on the cross. There was a picture of a dead Christ in his mother's arms. She looked back to the fallen god – man - god. Grace understood how man could be god and still frail; sinful and still offer salvation. Grace understood the weight of a cross because she bore one so heavy that it threatened to crush her.

  It was then that despair seemed to be a living thing. It put its arms around Grace and squeezed. Her breath was suddenly loud and the kneeling woman whipped her head around. She was upset her prayers had been disturbed. Grace blinked. No, that wasn't right. The kneeling woman still caressed her rosary, her eyes were still closed, her head was still bent. Grace trembled. How horrible that she had imagined the woman's anger. A pious woman would not look her way while in the throes of prayer. Grace put a hand to her chest and then to her cheeks. They burned with embarrassment. She was a fool. She wanted to hide. She didn't want anyone to see her and she didn't want that priest coming back to help her.

  Trying to get to the side door, Grace started to sidestep through the pew but stumbled and fell. One knee struck wood, the other the padding on the kneeler. Righting herself, Grace put a hand on the back of the pew and looked over her shoulder toward the back. The main entrance was shadowed and ominous looking. Now the woman at the front of the church was rising. In a moment she would turn and see Grace's panic. She might put her hand out to help but Grace didn't want help. She wanted an escape.

  Suddenly, the door of the confessional opened. A young boy emerged. He had barely cleared the door when Grace scrambled forward, twirling into the little room and laying herself against the wall. She was safe in the stillness and the dark.

  Shivering, sweat trickling between her breasts, Grace clutched her purse more tightly to keep her hands from shaking. Her lips were dry and her eyes were screwed shut, almost sealed with tears of terror. Terrified of her panic, Grace was also relieved to be blessedly alone. Suddenly, the wall opposite her moved and she cringed further into the shadows. Slowly, a panel slid open exposing an ornate metal grate and a soft yellow light. Behind the grate was a man. His profile was sharp. He was young, but not as young as the priest she had spoken with. His head was inclined, the fingers of one hand were raised to his chin and his eyes were lowered.

  He was dressed in black, a piece of narrow purple satin hung around his neck. He seemed asleep. Grace held her breath and hoped that he did not sense her presence. She was terrified that he would turn his eyes on her and demand to know what she was doing. She wanted him to close the panel as slowly and deliberately as he had opened it and leave her alone in the dark. But the panel stayed open and the priest dropped his hand. Without looking at her, he said:

  ''You have sinned, my child.''

  Slowly, Grace slid down the wall to the floor. There was nothing to do
now but tell the truth.

  ''Yes.''

  CHAPTER 8

  Everyone who was anyone in Hermosa Beach had been at Hannah's showing. Strike that. Everyone who was anyone, except Josie, was still at Gallery C sipping wine, nibbling on chocolate dipped strawberries and viewing the sum total of Hannah's recent artistic endeavors. Twelve canvases had been hung in the marvelous space that had once been the Bijou Theatre on Hermosa Avenue. Gutted, painted, exquisitely lit, the place was hot, the party cool and Josie was damned proud of Hannah Sheraton.

  Billy Zuni had come, shedding his shorts and t-shirt for a polo shirt and khakis. Fancy dress for the teenager save for the leather flip-flops. Josie asked after his mother. She hoped to catch a glimpse of the woman who shut her son out of his own home when she entertained her male friends. Josie was disappointed but not surprised to find that Billy had come alone. Faye Baxter was there, Carla Merriman from the Chamber of Commerce, the mayor, the head of the school board, a sprinkling of friends Hannah had made at Mira Costa High School and Mrs. Crawford, the principal. Burt had left the restaurant in good hands and was squiring a sweet young thing that looked half his age and sounded like a mere child. Jude Getts, gorgeous, rich and happily full of himself, had come from Brentwood and purchased the first painting.

  Josie was on her second glass of wine, making her way toward Faye and Hannah when her cell rang. She answered it, fully expecting to hear Archer calling from Mexico, pretending he didn't remember this was a special night, unwilling to admit he had a soft spot for the girl who had turned their very independent lives upside down.

  But it wasn't Archer calling. In the minutes it took Josie to process what she was hearing time ground down to a crawl while everything around her came into sharp focus: the petite blonde with a new boob job who moved across the room, leading with her chest, a napkin fallen on the floor, one strawberry left on a platter, a man wearing a wig. Josie felt the strain of her own smile as it faltered and the weight of the phone against her ear. She saw Faye's large body shaking with laughter, her expression turning to concern as she made eye contact with Josie. Hannah's head turning. Her lips moving as she accepted congratulations. Hannah's fingers hitting her denim-clad thigh in a slo-mo count of twenty.

  The moment was over as quickly as it had come. Josie squeezed through a worm hole of surprise only to find herself suddenly on the other side of the universe, noise rushing in on her, amplified a thousand percent. She turned toward the wall, put a hand over her ear and hollered into the phone as she tried to confirm what she had just heard. Once that was done, she filled Faye Baxter in on this turn of events and walked out of Gallery C. Forty minutes later Josie swung out of the Jeep, slung her purse over her shoulder and jogged through the Long Beach Police Department parking lot. She never made it into the building.

  ''Ms. Bates?''

  Josie stopped. She was on her guard. She searched the perimeter of the lot and saw a dumpster, two cars, a wall, surveillance cameras posted on the corners the building, and a shadow that moved and morphed into a man. She planted her feet wide and firm; let her leather saddlebag purse slip off her shoulder and into her hand. With a flick of her wrist, she wrapped the straps around her fist as the man came into the light in bits and pieces.

  Young. Medium height. Thick at the waist. A shock of corn silk hair fell over a wide brow and small oval glasses shot back the dim light from the outdoor floods. His cheeks were round and red, his lips a little fleshy. When he was close enough Josie could make out the creases on his brow, a trilogy of furrows between his eyes. Nervously he eyed the purse-turned-weapon. He stopped just out of striking distance.

  ''It's okay. I'm Tim Douglas, Matthew McCreary's campaign manager. We spoke on the phone. I wanted to fill you in before you. . .''

  Josie drew in a deep breath and blew it out through her pursed lips. Josie held up her free hand and unfurled the purse straps from the other.

  ''It's not smart to sneak up on people in a dark parking lot, Mr. Douglas,'' she said. ''I'll find out what I need to know when I get inside.''

  Filled in. Get their stories straight. How insulting. She had no use for his nonsense. Josie started to leave but Tim Douglas was like a reflection, mirroring her movement. She took another step and when he dared to do it again she growled:

  ''Get out of my way. I'll talk to Matthew.''

  Josie skirted around him, her long strides carrying her away quickly but not fast enough to miss Tim Douglas's warning.

  ''I want you to know he isn't in there. You should know he isn't here.'' Josie paused. He had her attention. Tim Douglas got as close as he thought prudent, close enough to speak as if they were conspirators and that made Josie feel dirty. ''We didn't think it would be wise. We wanted to avoid the press if at all possible until we could work out a strategy. We understand this can't be kept completely quiet, but I've been assured that you will know exactly what needs to be done to minimize the impact of this arrest.''

  Josie's blue eyes bore into Tim Douglas's unimpressive ones. To his credit, he didn't look away. He was a good soldier, waiting to report back to headquarters that those assurances were reliable. What a fool. She showed him her back.

  ''Go away, Mr. Douglas,'' Josie said just before she slammed through the front door of the Long Beach police department and walked up to a wary desk officer. She put both hands on the counter.

  ''You're holding Grace McCreary on a murder charge. I want to see her now.''

  CHAPTER 9

  ''Don't bother going back in, detective.''

  Josie caught Babcock just as he was about to open the door to the interview room three.

  ''Ms. Bates.'' Calm and composed, he didn't seem the least surprised to see her.

  ''A head's up would have been nice this morning,'' Josie snapped, as peeved at him for holding back as she was with herself for failing in her charge.

  ''This morning you were representing the Committee to Elect Matthew McCreary,'' he explained.

  ''And now I'm representing Grace McCreary,'' Josie announced knowing it would be an exercise in futility to convince him that splitting hairs wasn't going to get him anywhere.

  ''She didn't tell me.''

  ''I'm telling you,'' she answered back. ''You're done.''

  Babcock opened the door for her. Josie went into the room where Grace McCreary sat. She was still dressed in her beautiful suit. The ring on her left finger was twirling like a top just as it had at noon. Unlike noon, Grace's confidence was shaken and the face she turned toward Josie was as hopeful for a reprieve as a frightened virgin on her wedding night. Grace's eyes tracked Josie and then ricocheted back to the door. Josie never figured out that it was Matthew Grace expected. Jose was too busy checking out the lay of the land: plain walls, no two way mirror, a metal table, four chairs, a notepad with nothing on it. Her eyes followed the line of the ceiling.

  Wired.

  ''If you're recording, Babcock, stop it.'' Josie threw that out for consideration then planted herself in front of Grace. ''Were you advised of your rights?''

  Grace nodded.

  ''You're sure?'' Josie pulled out a chair. Its metal legs grated on the linoleum. She sat across from Grace. The legs grated again when she pulled up close once more.

  ''Yes. Yes, Detective Babcock advised me of my rights,'' she said quickly, unconcerned with protocol. ''I'm so glad you came. Did Matthew come with you? Is he here yet?''

  ''No, he isn't,'' Josie said truthfully, damning the shot of conscience that made her hesitate. She hated herself for leading Grace to believe her brother was going to come at all.

  ''At least you're here. I was so worried that he wouldn't want to call you.'' Grace put her hand on the table almost as if she expected Josie to hold it. She offered a shaky smile. ''I knew you wouldn't say no to Matthew. Thank you. Thank you so much for coming.''

  ''You're welcome and for the record, I came for you.'' Josie averted her eyes. She wasn't going to tell Grace she didn't rate a phone call from her brother much less a p
ersonal appearance. It had been Tim Douglas who had ordered Josie up like a fast food. ''Anything rough when they arrested you?''

  ''No, Detective Babcock was very concerned and kind.'' Grace's razor cut hair winged out as she shook her head.

  ''Goodie for him,'' Josie muttered and bit her bottom lip, buying time so she could put her head in the right place. This wasn't what she had expected.

  Assumption: Matthew would be here, Matthew would be strategizing with her, Matthew would align himself and together they would champion Grace.

  Reality: Josie barely knew Grace McCreary and it looked like Matthew didn't care what happened to his sister. Surprisingly, that realization calmed Josie immeasurably. This made Grace just like every other client: unknown to Josie, alone, in need of help. They would start from the beginning. Just like every one else.

  ''Grace, you're going to have to make some fast decisions. I will be very clear with you so that you can act in your best interest,'' Josie began.

  ''Can't Matthew come in, too?'' Grace asked, those restless eyes of hers looking for him, those busy fingers gesturing as if she could conjure her brother. ''I think he should be here to help me. I. . .I need him.''

  There were the tics again. The odd tipping of her chin, the stretch of her neck, fingers to the back of her ears. And there was the ring. Always the ring. A manifestation of anxiety that bordered on obsession. But Josie had seen true obsession in Hannah and this wasn't it.

  ''No, you don't need Matthew,'' Josie answered. ''Look, Grace, I want to apologize. You wouldn't even be here if I hadn't screwed up today.''

  ''It's not your fault. You did the best you could.''

  Josie was not reassured. Such largesse wasn't normal. Anyone else would be livid to find themselves in this position. They would be begging for answers, guarantees and demanding apologies. Grace's attitude was as off-putting as an opponent who dinks the ball over the net when you're braced for the spike but Josie let it go.