Josie interrupted, turning toward his sketch of the crime scene.
“What is this area indicated on your sketch of the scene?” Josie pointed to a green box.
“That is a dumb waiter.”
“A dumb waiter is a hollow shaft between the first floor and the second floor of that wing, isn’t it Mr. Keenan? And the inside of this dumb waiter was charred wasn’t it, Mr. Keenan?”
“Yes.”
“Consistent with highly accelerated vertical travel of the fire?”
“Yes.”
“And this stairwell, Mr. Keenan?” Josie pointed to a rectangular area. “Another vertical path upon which the fire from the first floor could travel?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t take into consideration the flash point of the fire upstairs.”
Josie lips twitched. She barely took a breath.
“Mr. Keenan, can you tell us when the accelerant was spilled upstairs?”
“Considering the burn patterns, the rate of vaporization of the accelerants, the amount of accelerant left in the carpet samples the spill happened within minutes of being ignited.”
“And how was the fire initiated?” Josie asked, leaning toward him as if she was hanging on his every word.
“We found matches on the ground floor. We’re still testing debris on the second floor. ”
Josie walked slowly toward the jury. She stood close as if she was part of them, as if they were a team. Her skepticism radiated outward, engulfing them.
“Mr. Keenan, can you tell us who used that match to set the fire downstairs?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Could you tell if the match was dropped by someone? A smoker? Someone lighting a candle?”
“I don’t think that is probable.”
“But is it possible?” Josie prodded.
“It is possible, but not probable.”
“But it is possible,” Josie insisted.
“Yes,” Keenan acquiesced, his face coloring.
Josie nodded thoughtfully. She began to walk toward Hannah. She was almost at the table, almost by her client’s side, when suddenly she looked over her shoulder, held up a finger as if remembering something important.
“Mr. Keenan? How long have you been an arson inspector?”
If looks could kill, Josie would have been incinerated where she stood.
“Six months,” he answered.
“That long?” Josie drawled.
“And how many arson investigations have you conducted?”
“Two,” he said quietly.
“Including the Rayburn fire?” she asked.
“Objection, Your Honor!” Rudy had finally had enough. “The defense stipulated to his expert status before he took the stand. She has nothing to gain by trying to insult this witness.”
“Withdrawn,” Josie said quietly, confidently, her point well taken.
Rudy stood up without an invitation to redirect. He didn’t button his coat. Instead, he stuffed one hand in his pocket and ran his other through his hair.
“Mr. Keenan, have you completed all the necessary training an arson investigator needs to be qualified in the State of California?”
“I was top of my class.”
“And what did you do before you became an arson investigator?”
“I was a firefighter for fifteen years.”
“And could you tell the court why you are no longer a firefighter?”
“I lost my leg when I fell through the roof of a burning building while attempting to rescue a woman on the second floor.”
Rudy dismissed Chris Keenan, keeping his eyes on Josie as he walked back to his table. Disgust radiated from him. Josie’s eyes locked with his. She had nothing to be ashamed of. He would have ripped Chris Keenan to shreds if he’d been in her shoes. He just would have done it with a smile.
“I have no more questions for this very expert witness, Your Honor.”
“Then this seems to be a good time to break for lunch.”
Judge Norris ended the opening skirmish. Rudy Klein left the courtroom, Linda and Hannah walked out after the spectators. Josie sat for a minute, looking at the bench and the witness stand. The muscles in her body had been locked since the proceedings began and now, suddenly, she realized they had miraculously relaxed. Josie laughed a little and shook her head. She was still standing.
Josie got up and rapped the wooden table for luck and turned around in the silent courtroom, turned around and found that she wasn’t quite alone after all. She walked down the center aisle, stopping when she reached the last pew.
15
“Hey, Faye. Checking up on me so I don’t give the firm a bad name?”
Josie slung her purse over her shoulder as she pushed through the swinging gate. Smiling, she joined Faye and together they walked into the hall.
“Just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“Right,” Josie laughed and touched Faye’s arm, steering her around a knot of attorneys and their clients who had gathered outside department 50. Hannah and Linda were gone. Kip was nowhere to be seen and Josie could only hope that he was with his wife and stepdaughter.
“I met Kip Rayburn. Introduced myself as your partner,” Faye said before giving her a sly wink. “I don’t think he appreciates your talents.”
“There are only twelve people I want to appreciate me,” Josie answered. “And I don’t want to talk about Kip Rayburn. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch. It’s the least I can do for the only friendly face in the crowd.”
“I tried to get Archer to come but he wouldn’t,” Faye said as she got into the elevator.
“I wouldn’t expect him to.”
Josie pushed the button for the ground floor and stood back, a small smile on her face. Faye didn’t understand that Archer had been with her since this whole thing started.
Kip Rayburn saw Josie leave the courthouse but gave her no more than a passing thought. Hidden behind the blackout windows of the state owned SUV, Hannah and Linda already sent away in another car to lunch, he concentrated on what Cheryl Winston, the governor’s campaign manager was telling him.
“Our polling results indicate there’s a fifty two percent approval rating for your appointment. The governor is happy with that.”
Kip nodded. Happy was not pleased. Pleased was not thrilled. The governor was simply happy about the results and Kip knew, without a doubt, that two percentage points were all that stood between him and mediocrity. He managed a thin smile while she kept going.
“The focus groups were supportive of you standing by your wife. They split on whether or not you owe Hannah anything. That’s to be expected. A criminal case like this engenders strong feelings both ways.”
“Did you ask them what they’d think if I testified for the prosecution?” Kip asked.
“Admiration. You score big there. They think you would be courageous. The public doesn’t view this as they would a husband testifying against his wife. Remember, half the families in this country are blended. You’ve got a lot of people who may like their new spouse, but don’t care for the kids. Or, they inherited a real bad apple when they got married. No big deal. When it comes to your nomination, they just don’t know how you stand on certain issues but they’re willing to give you a shot because of your father. Those we polled figured they don’t know anything about their local judges either, so what the heck. All in all, Mr. Rayburn, I think we’re on target. Just hang in there. Stay cool during the trial.”
Cheryl closed her folder and gave Kip a broad smile. She was just a kid. Kip hated being at the mercy of kids. Still, he smiled back. The governor obviously had faith in her, and Kip wouldn’t do anything to undermine his standing with the governor.
“I will. It will be tough, but I believe in the system.” Cheryl seemed to wince. Kip knew he had to work on his presentation. Sincerity had never been a strong suit.
“That’s admirable.” Cheryl answered in a way that made Kip feel as if he had shown his teacher a particula
rly unmemorable piece of artwork. “We’re thinking confirmation in about two months. I’ll let the governor know everything looks okay down here. If you need us or have any questions, just call me or Alex.”
Kip took her card, noted the plethora of numbers – fax, phone, e-mail, and cell – and said: “Thanks.”
“Get some lunch.” She patted his arm. “It looks like it’s going to be a long day. It’s great that you’re willing to hang out. Makes you look like you’re concerned. Oh, you may want to bring some thing appropriate to read since the press will be seeing you waiting outside the courtroom to testify. Recent Supreme Court Decisions might make for a good photo op. I can get you a copy if you want,” Cheryl suggested. “And don’t worry. Looks like you’ve got a good lawyer for Hannah. I have a feeling this thing is going to run at record speed. By the time you’re confirmed, this trial will be a memory.”
With that, the governor’s gal took off. Kip didn’t take her advice about lunch. He wasn’t hungry. Instead, he wandered back into the courtroom wishing he could sit and listen. He wanted to know what the prosecution had. He wanted to know if Hannah was going to be out of his life for good. But he was the one who offered himself as a witness. He couldn’t have it both ways. Besides, he really didn’t care about the battle; it was the war he wanted to win.
Slowly he walked down the center aisle, his eyes roamed over the jumble of cables and wires that connected the Court TV camera. Everyone was gone. They would be gone for an hour and a half. Kip passed the bar and stood in front of the bench. It wasn’t an unfamiliar place but, in his career, his handful of trials had not created a sterling resume of accomplishment. Now, if he were patient, all that would change.
Yes it would.
Without a second thought, Kip Rayburn mounted the steps to the bench and sat in Judge Norris’s high-backed chair. Kip leaned back. He swiveled right then left. He looked at everything: the full calendar, the small clock, the state-of-the-art computer, and the gavel.
It was the gavel he found interesting. He picked it up and ran his fingers down the carved handle, over the heavy head with the brass band declaring it a gift of an appreciative staff.
Kip Rayburn sat forward, thinking of nothing and everything all at once. Looking at the gavel he raised the head and brought it down on Judge Cyrus Norris’s desk and whispered:
“Guilty.”
Josie and Faye grabbed a sandwich at the courtyard coffee shop of St. Vibiana’s. Los Angeles’s new Cathedral had risen like Herod’s palace in the desert of downtown. The whole thing had cost good Cardinal Mahoney a bundle of dough and an avalanche of bad press. Some inventive reporter had tagged the thing the Taj Mahoney for all its grandeur in the midst of so much need. Homeless, displaced Hispanic families, the poor of L.A. could be housed and fed forever on half of what it cost to build the thing.
Still, all was not lost. St. Vibiana’s served a purpose. It was another stop on the tourist track, a graveyard for those who could afford twenty grand for a prime crypt, the sandwich shop did a brisk business, and the courtyard was an oasis. Statues of Buddy Christ, His sacred thumb raised in a sign of corporal encouragement, were lined up in the gift shop. None of it impressed Josie. She’d seen better churches, and had better sandwiches, but the company was blessed. It was a miracle that Faye had come all this way.
“She’s prettier in person. Her pictures don’t do her justice. Your client, I mean.” Faye pushed aside her sandwich.
“She’s a beautiful girl.” Josie rose long enough to throw away the paper plates and Styrofoam cups. When she sat down again she asked, “How much did you see?”
“Enough to know you didn’t lose any ground,” Faye answered. “You should be proud of yourself. You handled that witness well. You’re a regular Clarence Darrow.”
Josie cocked a grin. “That means a lot coming from you even if it is a line of bull.”
“Take it for what it’s worth. But when have you known me to lie?’ Faye reapplied her lipstick then dropped it in her purse. “Angie put the police reports in order for you. You’ll have a summary on your desk tomorrow.”
“Good. She’s been working hard. I’m sorry I’m taking up so much of her time.”
Faye’s attention was caught by the Biblical garden; sand and date palms were more interesting than talk of business and Josie took a minute to really look at her. Faye Baxter could have been one of the church ladies whose buses came and went as they checked God’s little L.A. acre. Everything about her was perfect – hair, make-up, clothes - but the years and loss of a husband had added weight to both body and soul. When Josie remained silent, Faye took a quick breath and smiled, seemingly embarrassed to be caught daydreaming. She put her elbows on the table, clasping her hands so that she could lean her chin against them.
“The prosecution seems to have dotted all their ‘i’s. What’s your case looking like?”
“I’ve got my own forensic people and an independent review of the autopsy. It contradicts the prosecution’s contention that Fritz Rayburn was alive when the fire started. What it really boils down to is, we say/they say. Klein’s got a lot of circumstantial evidence, and I’m going to have to make sure I knock down the building blocks.”
“Are you going to call the girl to the stand?” Faye asked.
“Hannah?” Josie said her name just to hear it. ‘The girl’ label grated on her ears, it made Hannah seem irrelevant. “I hope not, but I won’t know until Rudy wraps up. I want something proactive for the defense; something that jury hasn’t heard before. Maybe the police reports will have something tight I can use.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Faye assured her.
“You think?” Josie asked.
“I know.” Faye stood up and looked over her shoulder. Her nose crinkled. She pushed her glasses up and shook her head at the cathedral. “This place is ugly. It looks like a bunker. I’m not going to make this drive again so I might as well see what all the fuss is about. Come on, I’ll help you pray for inspiration.”
Faye laced her arm through Josie’s, only letting go when they crossed the threshold, walking up a wide, sloped, marble concourse that opened onto a cavernous, cold and calculated place of worship. A couple hundred million bought a hell of a lot of space, some incredible artwork, and a football field of marble that served as an altar. Massive organ pipes ruptured the wall fifty feet above the faithful. Christ was made of bubbled iron, his hands and feet deformed as he hung on a cross, stuck in the floor, earthbound instead of rising miraculously toward heaven. A wood throne was impressive, carved and detailed down to the dimples that would cradle the Cardinal’s holy cheeks. The Virgin Mary had been transformed from a veiled, long-suffering, courageous mother to a strange alien-like presence. Her hair was buzz cut, her face a collage of cultures, her gown less a garment and more a suit of armor.
Josie sidestepped into a pew. Faye crossed herself and knelt. Light filtered through paper-thin alabaster panels. There were no windows. Colossal, politically correct tapestries hung on one towering wall; the Stations of the Cross were missing. Pews were lined up stadium style for an unobstructed view of the pageantry du jour.
Today maybe fifty people milled about looking for God. Even Josie was curious. Where was His warmth, the love the faithful sought from the Supreme Being? There were no nooks and crannies for him to nestle in, nor any towering symbol of His might. God was MIA, leaving visitors to be awestruck by man’s creativity and cleverness. Not that any of this mattered to Josie. These were observations of an agnostic. Josie was thirty-three the last time she made a simple request of God; send Emily, her mother, home. It didn’t work. God didn’t listen so she didn’t bother trying now. She sat quietly and watched Faye, her eyes closed, her hands folded. Well, maybe He did listen a little. Something had brought Faye downtown, and Josie would be forever grateful. Closing her eyes, Josie took advantage of the quiet and calm while Faye prayed.
When Josie opened them again she was staring at a little girl walking backwards
instead of following her teacher down the center aisle. The teacher caught on and hustled the girl back ‘round until she was on the right path again. Josie cocked her head. Her eyes wandered to the blood-red marble altar. Faye got off her knees and slid onto the wooden pew next to Josie.
“I said a prayer for you. It is guaranteed you’ll come through this unscathed.” Faye smoothed her skirt. Josie wasn’t listening. Her brain had kicked up a notch. Not quite to miracle status but definitely to an epiphany mode. It wouldn’t have surprised her if a chorus of angels started singing and a shaft of heavenly light was surrounding her head. It had nothing to do with Faye’s prayers. This was pure inspiration.
I’d die if I couldn’t. . .
Josie sat up straighter and muttered:
“Hannah said she’d die if she couldn’t paint.”
“What?” Faye asked.
“Hannah said she’d die if she couldn’t paint.” The tips of Josie’s fingers lay lightly on Faye’s arm as if that would make her get it. “Faye, look at these people. They’re like sheep. They go down the center aisle, to the side, down the steps to the crypt and back up. They don’t touch anything. They don’t even talk out loud. They’re respectful. No, it’s more than that. They would die before they did harm to this cathedral.”
“And your point is?”
“That’s exactly what Hannah does,” Josie whispered excitedly, finally facing Faye. “She walks around her house on a specific course because that’s the only thing she has faith in, the only place she reveres. Hannah said she checked on her paintings every night. She has shown me that route. The paintings are the last thing she checks. Why? Because the entire house is as precious to her as this church is to these people – her studio is the sacristy.”
I tried to save them.
“Faye, I thought it was a figure of speech when she said she tried to save them. You know, like people swearing they’ll die if they don’t get to the gym.”
“But Hannah really meant it, is that what you’re saying?”
“Exactly. She would have to feel almost spiritual about her paintings if she was willing to put her hand into a fire. And, if she feels that way, then I bet she couldn’t have set that fire because there’s a divine significance to the material. There is a meaning attached to those paintings that is greater than the self. That’s how Hannah felt about her studio and that is the way these people feel about the house of God.”
Hostile Witness Page 12
