“I don’t know what I think, but I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
Archer dug in his pocket for the plastic bag, walked across the room and put it on the table. Young positioned it exactly in front of him, leaned over it dutifully, and took it in. When he was done, Daniel Young pushed the envelope over the table and sat back.
“Someone has very nice printing, but I can’t say the artwork is too impressive.”
Archer glanced at the paper. Names were neatly printed in two columns. Beside each were tiny avatars. Next to Daniel Young’s name someone had drawn something that looked like a donkey.
“Do you recognize any other names on that list?” Archer took back the evidence bag.
“Almost everyone,” Daniel answered. “It’s a list of the people who were involved in the Xavier Hernandez trial.”
“I found this under the mat in Josie’s car.”
“I dread to think what’s under the mat in my car,” Daniel countered.
“Her car was abandoned in a parking lot in Redondo Beach, and she hasn’t been seen since yesterday afternoon.”
“Then shouldn’t you be talking to the police?”
“I already did. Missing adults aren’t a priority,” Archer said.
“Well, then, I don’t know how I can help.”
“I don’t either.” Archer grabbed the back of the chair, hung his head. He didn’t know what he expected when he headed here.
“She was a very attractive woman; a very aggressive lawyer,” Daniel said. Archer looked up. The other man smiled sympathetically. “I can understand why you’re upset if you have a relationship with her. I never did understand, though, how she could defend Hernandez. Then again, I don’t understand how many defense attorneys can do what they do when guilt is so obvious.”
Archer walked around the chair and stopped to lean against the cushioned arm.
“What did you have to do with it?” he asked.
“I examined Hernandez.”
“A for-hire witness, huh?”
“An expert, yes,” Daniel Young responded. “I assume you don’t think much of that kind of testimony.”
“I think the work is easy, the pay is good and if you’re not talking hard science you can pretty much tailor your testimony for whichever side pays the bill,” Archer noted.
“True,” Daniel admitted. “That’s why the jury has to be completely convinced of an expert’s ethical and intellectual value. My analysis of Hernandez was impeccable, but the day was won by Ms. Bates.”
“Then I guess you weren’t expert enough if Josie got the guy off,” Archer suggested.
“One clear and rational voice does not a defense make,” Daniel pointed out. “I would never be so arrogant as to think that. And, to the point, she didn’t get him off. There was no doubt he was guilty. Josie Bates’ brilliance lay in maneuvering to argue the best-case scenario. Xavier Hernandez was charged with two counts of first-degree murder. The prosecutor wanted to add special circumstances. Ms. Bates got the first charge dropped completely during the preliminary hearing, and she convinced the judge to offer jury instructions that allowed for a finding of second degree murder on the second count.”
“There had to be a basis.” Archer pressed for more information as he moved the chair slightly and sat down.
“Technically there was, but I’ve never been a fan of technicalities. You might say, I abhor them,” Daniel Young said. “I tried to convince the prosecutor to fight, but he was confident he could convict on first degree murder. He didn’t account for the fact that jurors are human. Many find it difficult to impose the harshest sentence when another option is available.”
Archer resisted the urge to point out that the prosecutor had the law degree, but he also had to give Young credit for not blaming the lawyer completely. Archer had seen enough jurors swayed by the oddest of sympathies: a pretty face, a sad childhood, or an old mother sitting in the spectator gallery. Archer never understood it, but then it wasn’t his job to worry about things like that. His job was black and white: investigate, click the puzzle pieces in place, point the finished piece at the jury and hope they weren’t idiots.
“Do you remember the prosecutor’s name?” Archer asked.
“Rothenberg, I think,” Daniel said offhandedly. “I doubt he’s still with the D.A.’s office. I don’t think he was cut out for public service. Is his name on that list?”
Archer shook his head, “No. I’ve got a Paul Rothskill listed. You sure the prosecutor was Rothenberg?”
“Positive,” Young began only to pause. “Wait. Wait. Rothskill was the young man who had been with the two victims before they were abducted.”
“Erika Gardener?” Archer ticked off.
“A reporter. Very attractive.”
“Donald Maas?” Archer said.
“He was the judge.”
“Cuwin Martin?” Archer asked. “Peter Siddon?”
Daniel Young’s brows pulled together. He leaned forward and reached for the paper. “Those names aren’t on the list.”
Archer smiled held up the see-through envelope. “Good memory. They aren’t.”
“I have an exceptional memory, if I do say so myself. It’s long and very clear. Pity those who underestimate it,” Daniel said, seeming a little peeved at Archer’s game. “Why ask me about those two?”
“They called Josie’s office recently. I figured it couldn’t hurt to see what you knew.”
Daniel Young tented his fingers and tapped them against his chin. He dropped them when he saw Archer staring.
“Where was her car found?”
“In the parking lot of the Blue Fin Grill. Redondo Beach,” Archer answered.
“My bike club was by there yesterday. That’s the one thing the beach cities did well. The bike path from Santa Monica to Palos Verdes is amazing, don’t you think?”
Archer’s chest tightened. The guy didn’t just look GQ, he lived it. The doctor was part of the cycling elite that terrorized Southern California. They rode in packs, dressed in matching Spandex, and wore helmets that made them look like raptors. The serious male riders shaved their legs to cut down on wind drag. Male or female, they all had great butts. That was the only good thing Archer could say about them. The fancy cyclists thought they owned the highways and bi-ways. They rode double-digit miles, cut you off in traffic, blew stop signs and never signaled. Knowing Young was one of those put him in perspective for Archer. Any other time, he wouldn’t be spending even a minute with the doctor, but Archer didn’t want to bond, he just wanted information. To his credit, Young had read Archer’s initial disdainful expression accurately.
“You know, Archer, given the circumstances, you should count yourself lucky that I’m talking to you at all after your assault on my office staff and myself. A modicum of respect and a little courtesy would be appreciated.”
Archer colored. That Young couched his slap down in that polite psychiatric voice ticked him off. Still, he knew he deserved it.
“Just a few more questions.” Time was wasting and somehow they had veered from the problem at hand to Daniel Young. The guy wasn’t that interesting, and finding Josie was imperative. “Did you stop and go into the restaurant?”
“We didn’t stop. We went up to Palos Verdes, around the bend to Miraleste and came back. Beautiful ride, but I can’t remember anything out of the ordinary.”
“Anybody veer off and go through the parking lot?” Archer asked.
“Not that I know of,” Daniel said.
“How many people in your group?”
“We have fifty members; perhaps twenty were there yesterday. It was a work day.”
“Any of them stop in at the Blue Fin Grill?” Archer fired off another question.
“I wouldn’t know. We’re pretty focused when we ride, but someone could have stopped. I could send an e-mail and ask if anyone did.” Daniel picked at his sleeve.
“I’d appreciate it,” Archer mumbled, feeling more uncomfortable by the minut
e. Graciousness when it was uncalled for was suspect. “What time were you there?”
“Early. That’s all I can tell you,” Young said, and Archer knew time was running short. He wasn’t asking the right questions and he was losing the guy.
Tight-lipped, Archer focused on the middle ground, his eyes resting on the books and papers on the desk, the slim computer, even Young’s well-pressed shirt as he considered the minimal information he had garnered. Archer settled on a different tact.
“What can you tell me about the trial?” Archer asked.
Daniel smiled and his eyes brightened. Bingo.
“As I said, it was a murder trial. The original charges were for two counts in the deaths of Susie Atkins and Janey Wilson. Both were sixteen. Both were held for five days and both were brutally murdered. Susie Atkins might as well not have existed. Her death was dismissed in the preliminary. Janey Wilson was another matter, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Daniel paused, waiting for Archer’s reaction only to be disappointed when he received a shrug in response. “Janey was Isaiah Wilson’s daughter. The televangelist?”
Daniel inclined his head to acknowledge Archer’s dawning. When he was satisfied Archer had caught on, he continued his monologue.
“Of course, back then Isaiah was just a storefront preacher. Janey and Susie had gone to Mexico on their first independent mission. They were helping build a house in some village. Paul Rothskill was the youth minister and chaperon. Their car broke down, and Rothskill hitched a ride to find help. Hernandez found the girls and convinced them to go with him.
“After the trial, the reverend wrote books, produced tapes based on his experience with forgiveness and his belief that retribution always comes to those who offend God." Young added dryly. "Isaiah masterfully navigated the issue. Read one of his books and you can find justification for both love and hate. I thought he came very close to condoning vigilante justice in the name of God. Very provocative stuff. We followed one another around the media circuit once he found his voice. I was commentating on the trial for CBS, appearing on talk shows, and interviewed for print articles. It was quite a time.”
“Was that kosher?” Archer asked.
Young answered. “I was very careful not to cross any ethical boundaries.”
“But Wilson did?”
“I didn’t say that. There wasn’t a gag order. Isaiah was dramatic to say the least. He was good for ratings.”
“Sounds like you think he exploited his daughter’s death,” Archer noted, then added, “or, are you sorry you didn’t?”
“You really should read Dale Carnegie,” Young laughed easily. “But I’ll play along. Mine was an objective voice, and the public was more entertained by the voice raised in grief. I actually empathize with Isaiah. When something you value and cherish, something that defines you, is taken away so brutally and abruptly, life is never the same. You look for ways to make the pain go away. Perhaps, Isaiah was right. Retribution is necessary to the soul.”
“But his motives?” Archer pressed.
“I believe Reverend Wilson’s first book was written out of a real need to come to terms with his grief and outrage. What came after that was the result of a refined business sense; he saw an opportunity and he took it.”
Archer couldn’t help but wonder if the man of God would be pleased to know that the most momentous event in his life was tied up neatly in one paragraph by this shrink. But Daniel wasn’t finished. He broadened his horizons, covering all of mankind as he spread his intellectual plumage.
“Human beings are fascinating creatures,” he went on, seemingly enamored with the sound of his own odd voice. “I am amazed at the longevity of Isaiah’s celebrity. What is it that pushes some people into the spotlight when they really don’t deserve it? Why do they capture the imagination of the masses when other voices are passed over?” Daniel heaved a sigh and offered Archer his beautiful smile. “But I suppose the mighty have fallen. Someone doesn’t think very highly of him.”
“I don’t get your meaning,” Archer said.
“Look at your list.” Young gestured with one finger.
Archer raised the evidence envelope and looked again. Isaiah Wilson’s name was in the second column, third down. Beside the preacher’s name was the picture of a clown. Young turned around. When he faced Archer again he had a book in his hand. He put it on the desk.
“New York Times. Fifty-two weeks at number one.”
Archer wasn’t one for self-examination, self-help or self-recrimination so the book didn’t look familiar, but he was curious about this turn of events. Here was a celebrity and one with an agenda that might include Josie. Archer tilted the book, taking a moment to consider the title: AN EYE FOR AN EYE. He opened the cover. Copyright was eight years earlier. He was lowering the book, ready to ask his next question, when Daniel Young reached out and cupped his hand underneath his own. Archer’s eyes snapped up. His first thought was that Daniel Young’s hands were rough; his second was that the guy had crossed the line. Archer started to pull his hand away, but Daniel Young clamped down and held tight. His gaze never wavered and behind his eyes Archer saw that the tables had turned. Daniel Young was in control.
“I understand the pain you’re in, Archer,” he said quietly.
The book slammed back on the table as Archer stood up.
“Yeah,” he said tightly. “You’ve got my card. Call me if you have any real information.”
With that, Archer turned on his heel and took off.
Damn shrink.
CHAPTER TEN:
An Outbuilding in the California Mountains
“Hey, wake up! Hey! Come on! Wake up! Wake up!”
Josie’s teeth stuck to her lips so the word ‘wake’ sounded like ‘walk’. She worked her throat and brought up some saliva, just not enough to make a difference. She rolled, tipped the water bottle to her lips and clamped down on the nozzle with her teeth. She threw her head back. The bottle rose, the water cascaded down the plastic, through the nipple and into her mouth. She swallowed.
She closed off her throat and held the next gulp in her mouth. It was hard to swallow given how she was tied. Josie was thinking she would have to pace herself when suddenly she lost control of the precariously balanced bottle. It dropped out of her mouth, fell to the ground and spun away. Josie thought she heard a crack but it was hard to tell. The rabbit hole was opening again, and she sure as hell was getting tired of falling through it. To fight it, she’d focus on something else. Josie pulled her feet up and kicked the woman behind her. She kicked and kicked and kicked.
“Talk to me,” she demanded, and then she slept again.
The Strand, Hermosa Beach
Hannah stormed down the Strand. She went past the five thousand square foot mansion that squatted like a Sumo wrestler next to a tiny box of a place that had been built before Hermosa Beach was prime property. Hannah fumed as she went by three men sitting on a patio drinking beer. They were dressed in shorts and well-loved logo t-shirts that reminded them of happy days spent in crappy bars. She heard their burst of laughter and that ticked her off even more. They weren’t laughing at her she was just pissed that they were happy and had nothing better to do than sit around drinking.
Two women walked toward her: the big one waddled and the other was so old she toddled. A man on a beach cruiser slalomed around Hannah, and then a tall woman in running shorts and a backward baseball cap jogged past. The woman could have been Josie; that woman should have been Josie.
Hannah swiped at her hair. She climbed over the low retaining wall that separated the beach from the bike path and trudged through the still-hot sand. It filtered into the back of her gold shoes and chaffed where it got near her toes. Angrily, she ripped off her shoes and high-stepped with a vengeance toward the shore. She hated the sand, the smell of the ocean, and grown people running around like children eager to get in another hour of play before it got dark and their mothers called them home to dinner.
Hermosa Beach
wasn’t the real world. The real world was scary and out of kilter and not right, and if these people weren’t careful they’d end up like Josie. Gone somewhere, leaving someone alone, abandoning someone again.
Hannah stopped a few feet from the water’s edge and took a deep breath, surprised to hear the tremors of a sob intermixed with it. She tossed her shoes on the sand on the other side of a berm. Scrambling over it, she dug in her heels and planted her rear; she pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around her knees, and realized it was Archer she was mad at.
Wait.
That’s what Archer said as he ran out the door.
Go home. Walk the dog. Stay put.
Well screw him. Letting her head fall back, Hannah closed her eyes and, ever so slightly, began to sway hoping some part of Josie would reach out to her.
Even with her eyes closed, Hannah was aware of the blue world of Hermosa Beach. Robin’s egg day faded into navy nights. The palest, palest baby blue wispy clouds hung offshore. She had tried to paint this place as a way to claim it as her home, but this kind of beauty was elusive. The colors morphed by the minute and the landscape of it was flat. Sand, sea and the sky all coexisted seamlessly. There was no drama, no conflict to focus on.
Beach people were equally hard to define. They weren’t super-charged with the energy it took to pursue success. They didn’t lust. Hannah could spot lust a mile away. These people simply loved without restraint and accepted that people came and went. Their souls went no further than their smiles; their worries were lost in big hearts. Their beauty was worn like God’s hand-me-downs, still attractive in their faded glory. Except for Josie.
Josie’s kindness was tempered by practicality. Her compassion was reserved for those who deserved it. Her beauty was strong. Josie walked beside Hannah, but stayed far enough away so that she couldn’t be clung to. Josie was objective, pro-active and a problem solver. She was Hannah’s friend and guardian and mentor and muse. And she wasn’t here. She wasn’t anywhere.
Expert Witness Page 6
