Character Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  Harold turned a cold eye on Kathleen. ''I know because Lionel wasn't that kind of man. I would testify to that in court, my hand on the Bible. If no one else will speak for Lionel Booker, then I will. You see, Miss Cotter, people like Lionel and me, we realize very early that we are life's square pegs. That's why our senses are honed and our thought process is keen. From the time we are young, we know that we won't have many friends so we treasure the ones we do have. Lionel was a lucky man. He had Sarah and, though he probably didn't know it, he had me. I will speak out for Lionel Booker. I will be his character witness. And, if no one wants to hear about a man of principal, then I will simply keep my opinions to myself. Either way, Lionel will live on as an example to me.''

  Kathleen sat silently, considering the grass. There were a few large blades that would have made marvelous whistles. Had she been a girl she might have plucked one up and whistled at tune. But she was a grown woman with a purpose and that purpose had suddenly taken a very personal turn. She wouldn't be swayed. Harold's feelings were not evidence.

  ''You're very astute, Mr. Douglas. I appreciate your honesty and your insights. But the information I need has to be more concrete. Did Lionel ever tell you he was happy? Did he share with you any plans for the future in the last weeks of his life? That would be truly helpful if you could come up with some concrete evidence that Lionel felt he had a future.''

  Her voice was hypnotic. The sea breeze took her words, spoken so gently, and spread them between the two men. Beside her she could almost feel Michael Crawford's mind turning as he tried to help her.

  ''He talked about the farm he wanted to buy someday.''

  ''Did he talk about that in the last few weeks?''

  Harold hung his head. There was nothing more he could add and his word alone wasn't enough to convince anyone that Lionel Booker's intent was other than sinister.

  Kathleen patted his hand. ''I wish I had a friend like you, Mr. Douglas.''

  ''I'm surprised you don't, Miss Cotter,'' he answered with equal sincerity. Michael Crawford had no comment.

  ''Well, if you can think of anything, I would appreciate hearing from you.'' She poked into her bag and pulled out a card. Harold took it reverently, tucking it safely away in a zippered change bag that hung from a clip around his belt loop.

  ''I promise I'll call right away.'' He stood up. His knees were pocked with the pattern of the grass; one white sock had worked its way down around his ankle. Michael stood up and shook Harold's hand. He said all the things a boss would say to an employee, but he said them with impressive warmth.

  ''I appreciate you coming all the way out here, Harold. I'll see you at work on Monday.

  ''Sure thing. I was glad to do it for Lionel.'' Harold tugged at his blue shirt, bent and picked up his book. Before he left, though, he had another thought. ''Mr. Crawford? Has Lionel's desk been cleaned out?''

  ''It has. I thought the same thing, Harold.''

  ''Too bad. It might have helped to look at his desk to see if there was anything he held back,'' Harold suggested. ''Well, if there's anything else let me know.''

  He gave a waist high wave with his 'good-bye'. Kathleen shaded her eyes to watch him go, only to call him back briefly.

  ''Was there anyone at all who Lionel disliked, Harold? Or anyone at work who particularly disliked Lionel?''

  Harold shook his head. ''Lionel gave everyone a fair shake even if they didn't reciprocate. No one ever really dislikes guys like us. They just don't pay us much mind.''

  ''They don't know what they're missing, Harold.''

  ''Thank you, Miss Cotter.''

  With that he was gone. A mince and scurry and he was at his car. Kathleen watched him go. Michael Crawford watched her watch.

  ''I'm sorry that wasn't much help.'' Michael was already sitting down, leaning back on that elbow again. Kathleen's legs were cramped. She stood a few seconds longer before joining him on the grass.

  ''Not at all. It was very helpful to meet him. I think you can tell a lot about people from the company they keep.'' Kathleen finally picked up the beer and popped the top Michael had put back on. She took a sip, thinking while her taste buds adjusted to the cold, bitter taste. ''Lionel sounds very nice. Accommodating. Worried more about other people than himself. He was either one in a million or he was on drugs and that's why he was always on an even keel.''

  ''Maybe, but I doubt it. It's hard to hide something like a habit especially if you're using heroine. It can be done, but it takes someone extremely controlled.''

  ''You sound like you know something about it.''

  ''Something,'' Michael crumpled the pretzel back and cleaned up the chicken bones. Kathleen handed him the napkin she'd been using. ''Have you talked to his wife?''

  ''Same story from her. Lionel was this perfect guy, content in his own little world. But even she confirmed he was upset about something. She didn't give me any indication that it was anything earth shattering. Did you get that impression from Harold?''

  ''Nope. It just sounded like Lionel had something to take care of. He was playing it close to the vest and that all seems very mysterious, but it sure didn't affect his performance. If the problem was something that drove him to suicide I'd assume someone would have seen some majorly out of character behavior. I'd say whatever had his feathers ruffled was in the context of normal, everyday living. No big problem there.''

  ''Shows what you know.'' Kathleen nibbled on her last pretzel. ''Any good attorney can take a molehill and build a mountain faster than you can say 'I object'. And the insurance company's attorney is pretty good.'' Kathleen chuckled and waited for Michael to politely speculate that she could probably give as good as she got. He didn't. She stopped laughing and cleared her throat. ''Look, I appreciate you going to all this trouble. I didn't expect you to get quite so involved. I know it's been an imposition.''

  Michael shook his head, ''Not really.''

  ''You don't say much do you?'' Her legs were going to sleep. She re-crossed them, put the beer aside, and laid the unfinished pretzel on top. Michael took it all and put it into the trash bag and that went into the back pack. They made a great housekeeping team.

  ''Sorry. It's a failing. I guess I like to watch and figure out what needs to be said then I say it.''

  ''Smart thing to do as long as you don't lose your nerve when it comes time to say what you've been thinking.''

  ''I've never lacked for nerve, but I must say I'm pretty darn careful about what I say and who I say it to.'' Michael stood up, towering over her. He hoisted the back pack and looked ten feet tall from where she sat. ''Do you have to be somewhere right now?''

  ''Nope.

  ''Feel like working anymore?''

  ''Nope.''

  ''Good.'' He held out his hand. She took it. Michael pulled Kathleen up. There were still the flutters, still the ridiculous awareness of the sheen of his hair, the feel of his hand in hers but now there was something more. The more didn't have an adjective to go with it.

  He hoisted his bag and held her hand tighter. ''There's nothing like the open sea to clear the brain.''

  ''You mean sailing?'' Kathleen choked. ''I've never seen the ocean before today. I don't know if I'm ready to bob around on it.''

  ''Come on. What's it worth being alive if you do the same thing everyday? Come on,'' He tugged at her hand and grinned. ''We'll just go past the breakwater. Unless you've got something better to do? Someone waiting for you?''

  ''No. No one waiting, nothing better to do.''Kathleen looked at the beautiful boat. She would like to sit on the deck chair, her face turned up to the late afternoon sun. She'd like to feel something other than the hard, unforgiving ground under her feet. She'd like to spend a minute more with Michael Crawford.

  ''Okay. Why not?''

  ''Good. Great.'' He gave her hand a squeeze, friendly and inviting. Kathleen thought no further than beyond the next minute. Lionel Booker was forgotten. Louise could leave a zillion messages. Gerry could hold down the fort without her
. The day was hers - or theirs. But they hadn't cleared the grass before they were stopped.

  ''Mr. Crawford. Miss Cotter'' Harold was back. He was leaning half out the window of his car. Kathleen walked back, to the white picket fence that ran the length of marina, separating it from the parking lot. Michael waited where he was, still close enough to hear. Harold was flushed, perspiration dotting his forehead and the bridge of his nose. The little car lacked air conditioning. ''I forgot something. I don't know if it's important, but Lionel was wearing a suit on the day he died. He never wore a suit. It was just something I thought was odd, him wearing a suit. That's all. Just odd.''

  His car stuttered. He revved the motor and drove away again without a wave or a second look.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was more beautiful than Kathleen could ever have imagined. The horizon was endless; the sea was stitched to the sky with the delicate, invisible thread of some brilliant cosmic seamstress. The blue of the water had changed from that of a robin's egg to the deep navy that can seem black in the endless reaches. Here and there white sails dotted the grand expanse, canvas billowing out to catch every last one of Mother Nature's breaths.

  Michael hadn't bothered with his sails. Instead, they cut through the water powered by an unseen and almost silent motor. Their wake was pleasing to the eye, the slight rock and rise of the boat soothing to the soul and, when Michael Crawford cut the engine and sat beside her on the deck, he redefined the meaning of the words alone together.

  Michael brought water in clear plastic bottles. He handed her one, the plastic fogged and perspiring with cold. Kathleen took it and held it, not wanting to disturb her perfect posture. She was reclining in the chair, hands crossed at waist level, face titled toward the sky but at an angle where she could slide her eyes toward him. Her legs were stretched out, her stockings and shoes discarded - privately in the cabin below - to make maneuvering the slick deck easier.

  ''So, what do you think about the suit thing?'' Michael kept his eyes on the sea, his hands on the steering wheel that guided the craft he had named Gentle Reminder.

  Kathleen didn't move. Contentment had paralyzed her. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined a day quite so perfect. She wouldn't spoil it for anything. ''I'm not sure I should think anything about it. Sometimes people feel like dressing up. Or is that just a female thing?''

  ''It's been known to happen in our ranks, too,'' Michael chuckled. Kathleen laughed lazily. He reached down and pulled a lever or pushed a button, the conversation never breaking stride. ''It is unusual at a place like Tysco, though. Especially in a department like auditing. We don't do the big meetings. Lionel reported to me. I report to those above me. It's very cut and dry and I've never required anyone to dress when they meet with me. What's really strange is that he died in another part of the complex. He really had no business being there. You know that's always bothered me. Who in the heck was he going to see? Now add the suit and you've really got a mystery.''

  ''Maybe he was dressing up for someone. You know, like a lover. Do you think Lionel Booker could have been having an affair?'' Kathleen put her hand to her hair. Each strand was sticky and tipped with a drop of salty water. She fluffed her hair and let it blow as free as her thought associations.

  ''That would be a case of still waters running more than deep,'' Michael laughed, and she knew he was looking at her from behind those black glasses. His gaze lingered, his voice softened. ''Besides, he was already dealing with two women. That's more than enough for any man.''

  ''Could he have been going over to another Tysco division to look for another position? I mean can't people move around within the company?''

  ''His wife would have said something. If they were such soul mates he wouldn't keep plans like that from her.''

  ''Maybe he was in another area so no one would recognize him and ask what he was doing because he truly was an addict.'' That didn't sound right even to Kathleen, but Michael played along.

  ''What about the suit, then?''

  ''True.'' She licked her lips. They tasted like salt. Her lipstick was long gone. That gave her pause but Lionel Booker was a more interesting subject to consider. ''Okay, how about this. He dressed up to kill himself. People do that, right? They have some big statement they want to make and they want to do it right. So Lionel got dressed up because he wanted to be found in his Sunday best?'' Kathleen's fingers drummed on the back of the chair. ''But what kind of statement was he making? This particular day was important to him. He was going to try to escape some dissatisfaction by taking to drugs and the suit signified the transition. . .''

  Michael snorted but it was an elegant expression of disbelief rather than off-putting. ''Never happen. Drugs are a thing of the moment. People don't plan to become a junkie like they plan to go out to dinner. It just happens. Lionel had to have tried it once before, then he had to want to do it again. It's not like you can decide to take up drugs the same way you take up smoking. You can't buy crack at a corner drug store. He would go back to whoever turned him on in the first place, buy the stuff, get the syringe, pick a time, worry about being caught.''

  ''Unless he did want to kill himself, then he wouldn't worry about being caught.''

  ''Then he'd be near his normal department. I mean whose feelings would he be trying to save by doing it a few floors down? Harold? Naw, he wouldn't worry that he was dressed right to make a buy if he didn't worry about what he wore to work everyday.''

  ''Okay. Bear with me. I'm just throwing things out. If Harold thought the suit was so unusual then there had to be an unusual reason for it. Obviously nobody bothered to look into what Lionel was trying to say by dressing so out of character. His statement was lost because. . . because. . .'' Kathleen searched for the logical conclusion to her argument. Michael stood up and looked out to sea then back to her.

  ''You are really something.'' Michael abandoned his station. Going past her, he settled himself in the middle of a padded bench that did double duty as storage. ''Do you always think the best of people?''

  Kathleen raised a shoulder. ''I suppose. Why not?''

  ''Because, for the most part, there is no universal 'best' in people. Most people aren't concerned with what's right or wrong but with what's expedient, easy and self serving. You want to know why nobody wondered why Lionel Booker was dressed to kill - excuse the expression. Nobody cared what kind of statement a man like Lionel Booker wanted to make. They wanted to push it under the rug. If there had been a note, it probably would have made the six o'clock news. Since there wasn't a 'statement' his suicide meant nothing.''

  ''That's pretty cynical,'' Kathleen complained, vexed to find this handsome, rather personable, obviously intelligent man was so mean spirited, so small hearted.

  ''Not at all. That's just the way things are,'' he answered evenly.

  ''Didn't anyone ever teach you generalizations are dangerous? Don't you know that there's an exception to every rule?'' she shot back, surprised at her own intensity.

  ''Are you the exception? Would you have thought to wonder why Lionel Booker was wearing a suit?''

  ''I might have.'' He rolled his eyes. She sat up straight and leaned forward. ''I just might have.''

  ''And if you had, and if you'd found out that Lionel Booker was making a statement about being so unhappy with his life that he dressed up and purposefully took it, your whole case would be blown right out of the water.'' Michael sat back and the boat bobbed.

  ''You've forgotten one thing. I'd at least know the truth.'' Kathleen tapped the middle of her hand with one finger.

  ''But you'd have to find some way around that truth if you're going to do your job,'' Michael countered. Something had changed. The edge in his voice sharpened, his words felt dangerous. Kathleen sat up and paid close attention.

  ''You're assuming I would continue with this case if I knew that to be true.''

  ''But that's what lawyer's do if they find a truth that doesn't suit them. They rearrange it.'' His superior at
titude was more infuriating because it was presented with such maddening confidence.

  ''Boy, you sure know how to ruin a perfectly nice day.'' Kathleen threw up her hands. ''You're full of assumptions. What makes you think that I don't care about the truth, or that all lawyers do the most expedient thing? You are an incredibly negative person. Look at the life you live. You have a safe and excellent job that pays for a boat like this. You haven't got a worry in the world, nor do you have to prove yourself in a public forum. You don't have to make decisions every day of your life that involve other people's welfare. You live in a safe little cocoon between that office of yours and this boat. You have nothing to be afraid of, but maybe Lionel Booker did. If he did, I want to know.''

  A speedboat passed. The swell it created caused the boat to tip. Kathleen slid forward in her chair and Michael Crawford moved quickly. He put his hands on her shoulders, holding her so she didn't end up sprawled at his feet. He looked into her eyes; she could just see his own through the smoky lenses of his glasses. When he spoke, his voice was low and flat.

  ''I'm not cynical, I'm realistic. I'm not afraid, I'm cautious. And, there are other forums besides the public one in which you operate.'' He set her back on her chair, bent over, let his elbows rest on his knees and took off his sunglasses.

  His eyes were beautiful, but they had no depth. They were hard and honest and Kathleen knew she had made a big mistake in challenging him. She waited for him to speak but he had obviously changed his mind. He put his glasses on and went back to the wheel. The engine came to life. Michael threw the wheel. The boat responded, kicking up a question mark of a wake as it headed to shore.

  Kathleen was alone, looking back at the horizon toward which they had been headed. She didn't want to go back to shore, back to her apartment or back to the office. She stood up and then stood beside Michael Crawford.

  ''I'm sorry. That wasn't very nice of me. I shouldn't make assumptions.'' Silence. A sigh. She tried again. ''When I came here I had the crazy idea that my uncle was still the handsome, successful attorney he'd been when I was a kid. I was mad when he wasn't. When Louise Booker told me about her law suit, I assumed she didn't have a leg to stand on, but I found a way around the other side's arguments. I guess I made assumptions about you, too. I don't know which - if not all - are wrong, but I'd like you to set me straight. When I meet the real Michael Crawford then I'll apologize to him.'' Kathleen waited a beat. ''If it would be appropriate.'' Another beat. ''Is that fair?'' A gull cried. Kathleen asked. ''Michael?''