The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  "I don't want to talk to her," Faye cried in frustration. "I want you to forget about her, come back to work, and deal with the people you told me you wanted to represent when I hired you."

  "You are so full of it. You're not even listening to yourself. You want us to help people but only certain people."

  Josie planted her hands on her hips and turned her head toward the window. Her back was to Faye. Clouds hung over the horizon. Josie wanted the sun to come back so she could go outside and pick up a game of volleyball, sit on the beach with a beer, and get her work done between nine and five. She didn't want to feel this kind of passion again, yet there it was. Her gut burned with it. Whatever had driven Josie all those years ago was driving her again. But this time it was fine-tuned. This case was more than a challenge to Josie's intellect; it was a challenge to her emotional well being. Faye had drawn the line. Josie would have to step over it.

  "You're not putting limits on what we do as lawyers, or how we do it, but on who we do it for. I wouldn't have expected it from you, Faye."

  "I wouldn't have either, Josie. I just know this isn't what I want for my firm and, bottom line, this is still my firm."

  "You're not giving me any real options here, Faye," Josie whispered.

  "Refer her, or take her out on your own," Faye said plainly.

  Josie didn't move. She couldn't move. Something inside her said that she was the only one who could help Hannah. The arrogance of that was ridiculous, but there it was.

  "Josie?" Faye's voice surrounded her, challenged her.

  "I heard you." Josie faced Faye. "Those are ultimatums, not options."

  "I'm not going to defend my decision," Faye answered. "Even if you win, there isn't going to be a happy ending, Josie. Sad thing is that I think you're the one who is going to be hurt when this is over. You make a commitment as a lawyer to be a clear-eyed, clear-headed advocate. You are supposed to be unmoved by the mitigating circumstances, and able to put aside your experiences and emotions as a woman in order to do your job. You're not doing any of that. This is just too personal for you. Step away now and take a real good look at yourself, Josie, before you go any further."

  "I'm doing the right thing. I may be the only one who is. Bottom line, Hannah deserves her day in court. That's the business we're in."

  "I agree, just let her have that day with another attorney." A flush crept along Faye's jaw line, and regret in her eyes, but she didn't back down.

  "I hate all this, Faye," Josie said.

  "So do I," she answered.

  "Then hang in there with me. Get back to where you were thirty years ago when you promised to be a lawyer, not just someone who steps in when Mr. Jones down the street gets a DUI."

  "That's low, Josie. I won't have you talk to me that way."

  "And I'm hurt," Josie answered. "I've got to believe there is a reason Linda came looking for me. Maybe we're supposed to help this girl just to prove our brains work and our hearts aren't all closed off. Maybe you need to care about something since your husband died, and maybe I need to learn to live because I checked out of the real world three years ago. Did you ever think of that?"

  "Don't go there, Josie. You don't have any right to talk about Charlie. As for you, I don't know anything about you. You've been protecting yourself ever since you walked through my door. All I did was give you a place to hide."

  "Then maybe that's what I'm supposed to find out. Not just what kind of attorney I am but what kind of woman I am." There was a heartbeat of silence. Josie took a deep breath. "I can't go back to the office and pretend this doesn't matter. I need to take a leap of faith in Hannah's innocence and my own worth. I'm asking you to stand with me, Faye."

  "And I'm telling you I won't," Faye answered without hesitation.

  "Then do it for friendship."

  When Faye didn't answer, Josie nodded. With a snap of her fingers she called Max from the corner, clipped his leash and said:

  "Screw you, Faye."

  CHAPTER 25

  "A cold front is moving in. Expect temperatures in the sixties through Thursday." – Johnny Mountain, Channel 7 Weather

  There is an impressive vein of concrete that winds from the hills of Palos Verdes and ends in Malibu. It ribbons through all the beach cities in between and plays host to anyone who is drawn to the ocean. Josie and Max ambled down Hermosa's portion of that mile-long bike path after they left Faye's place. A quarter of a mile from her own house, Josie stopped. A guy on a fifteen hundred dollar bike whizzed by her, intent on breaking the land speed record to Malibu. The smell of grilling onions filled the air. Lunch was being served up at The Strand Café. Four men with gorgeous bodies played volleyball with a vengeance, yet somehow unable to get their game into a rhythm. Josie could have shown them how it was done, but even a pick up game wouldn't cure what ailed her.

  An ancient woman in baby-blue warm-ups and rhinestone glasses held hands with a man in purple pants and a checked shirt. Families walked together, dogs pulled their owners on roller skates, and no one minded that the weak sun left the water looking gray and uninviting – no one except Josie. Faye had knocked the air out of Josie's world, flattening it so there was no place to maneuver.

  Behind her, Josie heard the scrape of skates and a chorus of giggles. She pulled Max close as a group of teenage girls went by. They had poured their overactive glands into swimsuits the size of postage stamps and laced their feet into roller blades as big as Nevada. They were oblivious to the chill, unaware that the earth was out of kilter, but they looked damn cute with their Frankenstein feet, their big tits and tiny butts.

  To her left was Archer's building. His very own. It was purchased long ago when Lexi was alive and Archer thought he had the world on a string. It was one of the original three-story apartment buildings that graced Hermosa Beach before the money came in and people who could afford to tear down a bit of California history did just that. But this one still stood. The paint on the wood framed windows was peeling. Rust streaked from the metal balcony and spilled over the rose-colored stucco like mascara tears rolling down old rouged cheeks. The salt air was a landlord's bane, but there were flowers in the little bed, and tenants to Archer's liking in each apartment.

  Josie looked up. She could just make out Archer's camera pointed out to sea. Hitching Max close, Josie climbed the stairs slowly letting the old dog rest at each landing. At the top she didn't bother to knock.

  "Archer?"

  Josie walked around a brown tweed sofa, wide enough for two to snooze comfortably on a lazy Sunday. The back was dimpled with three giant buttons covered in the same fabric. Josie's mother had a coat with buttons that big when she was young and Josie was a baby. She saw a picture once. It was the only picture she could remember where her mother was dressed up. Josie wondered about that coat. It was too frumpy for the days of hip huggers and peasant blouses; too old for someone so young and beautiful.

  Archer's papa-san chair was in one corner. There was a La*Z*Boy and a low coffee table strewn with travel magazines. She looked toward the balcony. It was empty.

  "Jo?" Archer stood in the bedroom, a towel around his waist another in his hands, ready to dry his hair.

  "Hey." Josie stood her ground but let Max go. Archer ruffled the dog's ears and kept his eyes on Josie.

  "What happened?" Archer pushed Max aside and took a few steps.

  "Faye just booted me out, Archer. I'm on my own with Hannah."

  Archer wrapped the smaller towel around his neck. Josie walked toward him. He held out a hand and drew her close. He was dewy from his shower; water droplets were still nestled in the hair on his chest. Josie put her head on his shoulder; her arms were caught beneath his. He had wrapped her up like a treasured possession.

  "Want some help?"

  "Got any problems helping me prove Rayburn was one sick son of a bitch?" She asked forlornly.

  "Not a one, Jo. Not a one."

  CHAPTER 26

 
"Even if there's an ounce of truth to what they're saying about that judge, then that girl had a right to do what she did – if she did it. Well? Need I say more? Ever hear of the movie The Burning Bed, for God's sake?" – Talk radio/Inland Valley

  "So, like, here's the question. Did Governor Davidson know this guy was a sicko when he appointed him? If he did, then I'm voting Republican. Hey, what about the guy's son? Maybe he's a weirdo, too. Politics. Davidson can go pound sand." – Talk Radio/Sacramento

  "Hey, have you seen that chick? Sixteen ain't sixteen anymore. She probably loved it." – Talk radio/Hollywood

  "If they just would put prayer back in the schools. . ."– Talk radio/San Diego

  Josie walked out of terminal three and dropped her duffle bag at her feet. She dialed Archer's cell. He was where he said he would be: Starbucks just off Sepulveda, nursing a coffee, waiting for her call. Ten minutes later he maneuvered around LAX and pulled his Hummer up to the curb. Josie threw her bag in the back seat and settled herself in the front.

  They met in the middle and kissed one another. Archer checked his side mirror and was back in the flow of traffic before he heard the click of her seat belt. He skipped the turnoff to Sepulveda south that would take them home, and instead rolled down Century Boulevard at a decent clip for that time of day.

  "Where are we going?" Josie asked, disappointed she wasn't headed home.

  "Dinner." he answered.

  "It's three o'clock," Josie pointed out.

  "Yeah, well, it will take us awhile to get there."

  "Okay." She sighed and rolled down her window. It had been bone-chilling cold in San Francisco. Los Angeles was cloudy, but still warm enough for Josie to be comfortable in her shirtsleeves. She cocked her elbow in the open window, and laid her left arm over the back of the bench seat.

  "Hannah's story checks out," Josie said. "I found Lyn Chandler. The woman clerked for Rayburn for six months third year of law school. Now she's on the partnership track at Monikar & Finacker. Smart lady. Good looking. Petite. Light-skinned African-American."

  "Interesting," Archer commented. He changed lanes, moving the tank of a car through traffic like he was slaloming on razor-sharp skis.

  "So, Lyn Chandler was working for Rayburn for three months when he puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes hard. You know, he hits that little nerve right here." Josie dropped her hand to the base of Archer's neck for a second. "She says she didn't think anything of it at first. He'd touched her before. There was nothing sexual about it. Usually the contact was brief and in context of him looking at her work. But that time he hurt her. She said something, but Rayburn made light of it. Told her if she wanted to be a player she was going to have to toughen up. That's what the law is about."

  "Lay it on her. Nice touch," Archer muttered with a dispassionate approval. He had a great appreciation for those who performed well, whether they be cop or criminal.

  Josie adjusted her sunglasses as he stopped at a light. The neighborhood had changed. Warehouses and airport hangers gave way to one of those nondescript arteries that connected the vital parts of LA. This one was peppered with small houses and smaller businesses. Every window was barred, every flat surface graffitied. The billboards were in Spanish. Instead of touting sleeper seats to the Orient, they advertised family planning and beer. Josie leaned her head back and closed her eyes, as if trying to remember the sequence of her interview. Archer hit the gas, Josie picked up the story.

  "It gets better. Rayburn left an open knife in the top drawer of his desk. Newly sharpened. She had reached in that drawer a thousand times to get his calendar, but this time there's a knife sticking out the side of the book. She cut her hand and wanted to use his bathroom to get a towel to stop the bleeding, but Rayburn wouldn't let her. He didn't offer to help, and suggested she use the bathroom down the hall for the clerks. Rayburn let her clean up the blood in there, and told her she could see a doctor on her lunch hour if she thought the cut needed attention. In his opinion though, it looked like a clean slice."

  "Nice of him." The Humvee slid forward as smoothly as Archer's next question. "How'd he explain the knife?"

  "He didn't. Lyn said he never explained anything. Not when he dropped Blacks Law Dictionary on her hand. Not when he grabbed her arm hard enough to leave a bruise. He would just keep talking as if nothing had happened. She said it was spooky. At the end of the day she'd always wonder if these things were accidents. She wondered if she was nuts."

  "Sounds like he enjoyed the head games as much as he liked the physical stuff. That's why nobody ever caught on. Rayburn had no nerves, I swear," Archer said. "What's the upshot?"

  "I asked her to testify. She said no. The bastard was dead but there were just too many people who still thought Rayburn was God's gift. She figures it is in her best interest to have clerked for a respected justice for six months, than to be the one who levels accusations against him."

  Josie slid her arm off the back of the seat and opened her purse. It had been dry in San Francisco. Her skin felt tight but she didn't have any cream, nothing to soothe that feeling that she was going to crackle like old glass. She flipped her bag shut.

  "I could subpoena her, but she'd put such a spin on her testimony it would end up looking like she was grateful to Rayburn for keeping her on her toes. What did you pick up?"

  "Rayburn had two disciplinary actions against him when he was with the LAPD."

  "That was a lifetime ago."

  "Still of interest for our purposes. Shows a pattern. He picked on hookers. One was beat up pretty good. Cut and burned. Another tripped, and Rayburn dislocated her shoulder and broke some teeth when he helped her up. It's ancient history. Got it from a couple of retired cops. They figured the hookers got what they deserved."

  "Any chance of finding those women?" Josie asked without much enthusiasm.

  "Nope." Archer tapped the brakes. A woman was trying to navigate a stroller and three small kids across the middle of the street even though a crosswalk was half a block away. "But I got a good lead on something more current. And this is where we find out if my source is any good."

  Archer drove another half block, made a sharp left, and cut off conversation with a pull of the emergency brake. He sat for a second before getting out of the car. Josie did the same and met him half way. Leaning against the hood she pulled her shoulders back. Josie tightened the muscles in her butt to work out the kinks from her flight, and used the time to get the lay of the land.

  The strip mall had seen better days. The parking lot needed to be resurfaced. White stall lines had faded to perforation marks. Vandals had scored the glass of the phone booth; the phone itself was missing a receiver. A liquor store anchored one end, a dry cleaner the other. The liquor store did the better business. In between were a pet store that specialized in snakes, a Japanese Anime video shop, and Marguerite's – tamales, burritos, and check cashing.

  "Rosa Cortanza is who we're looking for." Archer took a few steps toward Marguerite's and opened the door. "Come on. I'll buy you a taco and won't even put it on my expense account."

  Josie pushed off her perch and took him up on his offer. She walked into a place that was just like a little slice of heaven.

  In Los Angeles there are restaurants that served Mexican food, and Mexican restaurants. This was the latter, the real deal: fresh salsa, tortillas made by hand, meat roasted until it fell off the bone, shells deep-fried in lard. Dark, rich mole. Carne asada. Chilis. Frijoles. Marguerite's restaurants wore those smells like a coat of wet paint but it was empty except for a young woman sitting at one of the tables flipping through a magazine.

  Her black hair was short at the crown and waved long at the nape of her neck. Razor cut bangs fell over eyes outlined in kohl, and shaded in gray. Her nails were long and purple. Rhinestones winked from the tip of each one. Her jeans were tight; her shirt was big and loose. The sleeves were rolled up just enough that Josie could see that the tattoo on her forearm w
as homemade. She closed the magazine when Josie and Archer took a table by the wall. A picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe blessed their choice. A red neon Coors sign hung along side like the Virgin's nightlight.

  The woman came at them with a basket of chips and a tub of salsa. She slapped both on the table. From under her arm she whipped out two menus featuring a matador and bull on the front. The matador was poised on his toes, his cape a flourish at his feet, his body angled forward as he stabbed the bull with a massive sword. It was an appetizing image.

  "Rosa Cortanza?" Josie asked the minute the woman disappeared.

  "Fits the description," he answered as his eyes ran down the menu. He closed it, set it aside and dug into the salsa. "Wish I had my camera. I like her look."

  Rosa was back. They ordered: number 8 combo with enchiladas, tacos and tamales, beans, rice and a side of corn tortillas for Archer, two tacos for Josie. The waitress didn't say a word as she took their order, and their menus. Far from surly, she wasn't exactly worried about their dining pleasure either.

  Rosa Cortanza brought Archer's combination on a platter and Josie's tacos on a small plate. It took them seventeen minutes to eat and they waited on Rosa five more before the check arrived. They were still the only ones in the place. Josie checked out Rosa, letting her mind linger on the woman a little longer each time she came to the table.

  Rosa was a young woman who had nowhere to go and nothing much to do. She kept body and soul together, pampering the body with fake nails and makeup while ignoring the soul. Maybe she had a kid waiting at home. Maybe she lived in a two-bedroom house with a dozen family members. Maybe she had a man. It was a no-brainer she'd hung with the gangs; all Josie had to do was look at her tattoos to know that. What wasn't so easily divined was whether or not Rosa would want to talk to them – much less to a jury – or whether a jury would give credence to anything she said.