Hostile Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  “Hannah, stop. Stop.” Josie yanked her hands away and fell back in the chair. She put one hand to her temple and closed her eyes. She wanted to close her ears. There it was: the truth. Hannah had been there. Hannah had struck him. Hannah probably set that damn fire and whatever was in her sick mind just wouldn’t let her admit it. Josie opened her eyes again, dropped her hand, and leaned forward. “Listen to me, Hannah. I’m your attorney. I have to tell you when it’s time to give up.”

  “But it’s not time,” Hannah cried. Desperately she tried to control her anger, her good hand scratching at the bandages on her wounded arm. Josie grappled with her until she had Hannah’s hand in both of hers. Finally, nose-to-nose, Josie begged:

  “Then help me believe that. Did you say you wished Justice Rayburn were dead?” Josie relaxed her grip. She lowered her voice. They were both breathing hard. “Did you?”

  Hannah blinked and sat straight up. She clasped her hands and pounded them into her lap as she whispered:

  “I didn’t mean it. I wanted him to leave me alone. That’s what I told him that night. I told him he had to leave me alone. He said he wouldn’t and I pushed him. I . . . I could have hit him. I know I pushed him. . .I told him. . . .”

  Tears came out of her eyes, not in drops but in sheets of moisture that shimmered over her beautiful bronze skin, washed down her cheeks, and fell onto her skirt. Once begun, Hannah couldn’t seem to stop crying. It was as if she had saved it up all her life.

  “Hannah. What am I suppose to say to that jury? Fritz Rayburn spent time and money trying to get you the help you need. Kip heard you say you wished his father were dead. You were in Rayburn’s bedroom. His pills were under your mattress. Now you admit that you hit him, or pushed him, or whatever. How can I convince that jury that you meant anything else except to harm Fritz Rayburn?”

  “No. No. No. It wasn’t like that. I swear.” Hannah sniffed, she sobbed, and she put her hands on Josie’s knees. Her eyes were red rimmed and the green iris’s sparkled bright. “Fritz was going to hurt me. I had to stop him. Don’t you see?”

  “Hannah, please.” Josie didn’t want to hear her fantasies.

  “He would sneak up and tell me what he was going to do and then he’d show that little knife to me. He said it was his favorite knife to cut with. That old one. I just wanted to take it away and hide it.”

  “Hannah, deal in reality.”

  “Wait, wait,” she pleaded, her hands patting Josie’s knees, babbling on. “I didn’t lie about the pills. He gave them to me because I would need them someday, when he did something that really hurt. And I was afraid. I kept those pills because I never knew when he would come after me, or when I’d start feeling something. He was happy when I was afraid. If I wasn’t afraid Fritz wouldn’t think it was fun anymore. If he couldn’t hurt me, it wouldn’t be fun. I practiced cutting on myself so it wouldn’t hurt if he did it.”

  Hannah was crying again and sniffing. The words poured out as she tried to coax a smile of faith out of Josie. Josie took her client’s hands and put them together to keep them quiet. She spoke quietly, but firmly. It was time to end all this. Hannah had to admit the truth.

  “Hannah, if all this happened why you didn’t tell someone?”

  “Who was going to believe me? Who was I going to tell?”

  “Your mother,” Josie answered. “She probably would have killed him.”

  Hannah bolted upright. She shut her eyes and shook her head violently.

  “No. No. No.” She said harshly. “Fritz said he knew exactly how to hurt her. He told me that all the time. That’s what he said. I know how to hurt your mother. I couldn’t let him do that.” Hannah’s eyes searched Josie’s face looking for hope, for help. It wasn’t there. “You have to believe me. I’ve never told anyone except for you. Josie, please, please. Look, I’ll show you.”

  Hannah shot up, pushed back her chair and frantically gathered up her long skirt. There was too much fabric and Hannah lost hold. Finally she had pulled it to her waist. Josie saw it all: her agitation, the bandaged arm, the healing hand, the wild eyes that saw something Josie didn’t. This child was so near broken Josie wondered if she could ever be put back together.

  The plain-faced clock ticked away a minute and a half before Hannah turned back to Josie, a triumphant smile on her tormented face. She tugged at her skirt and stuck out her leg forcing Josie to look.

  “Oh, Hannah.”

  Josie’s stomach turned at the sight of the final hurt on Hannah Sheraton’s body. Running from thigh to hip was a raised and puckered scar, near white on her beautiful dark skin.

  “I just wanted him to leave me alone. That is why I was in his room. That is why I pushed him, that is why that man saw us arguing,” Hannah said quietly.

  Hannah’s young face was bright with hope. Slowly Josie got out of her chair and knelt on the cold hard floor. She reached out but couldn’t bear to touch Hannah’s skin.

  “You want me to believe Fritz Rayburn did this to you? You want me to believe that a California Supreme Court Justice was a sadistic monster?”

  Hannah nodded but Josie didn’t see. She’d fallen back on her heels, her arms at her side. This changed everything. Hannah was certifiable. She had no grip on reality and Josie’s heart broke.

  Hannah let her skirt fall over her legs, and then crouched down in front of Josie and changed everything again.

  “I can prove it. I know about other people. I know what he did to them. I’m not the first person he hurt, Josie. I’m just the last. Aren’t I the last?”

  There, on the floor of that cold, small, windowless room Hannah Sheraton told her stories until the bailiff opened the door and told Josie it was time to begin again.

  21

  “This one is over.” - Maeve Clark, reporter, to herself.

  Josie learned how to hold her breath when she was ten. Not just hold it for a minute, but hold it as if it was a matter of life or death.

  The first morning they were in Hawaii, before the boxes were unpacked, Emily Baylor-Bates bundled her daughter into their old car and drove off the base to find an adventure.

  Two hours later, Emily and Josie picked their way down a bluff through a light tropical rain toward a stretch of white beach, blue water, and waves that curled on to each other. Laughing, meeting the waves head on, Emily ran into the water. Josie went after, apprehensive, but so anxious to be her mother’s daughter. Emily turned her back. A wave caught her and lifted her up. She reached out her hands calling to Josie over the roar, moving further into the bright blue water, moving away from Josie.

  Josie, smaller and more vulnerable than Emily, was buffeted by the waves. It took all her might to stand her ground. One hit her. Another came. A third slapped her down, dragging her into a whirlpool of sand and water. Josie was twisted head over heels, her small arms flailing, until she didn’t know which way was up, or where down was. She hit the sand hard. Salt stung her shoulder where it was scraped bloody by shell and rock. Over and over again Josie was tumbled and dragged on the rocky bottom only to be sucked back up into the churning, crystalline bubble of water. She was suffocating. Death was around the corner. There was no savior in sight. She wanted her mother. Where was her mother, Josie wondered, as Hannah fought for her life?

  Just when Josie was sure she couldn’t hold her breath one minute longer, just when she was sure she was going to die, the ocean threw her up on shore. Lying on the sand, gasping for air, Josie looked up. Emily was dancing in the waves, oblivious to everything but her own pleasure.

  Hannah Sheraton had been like Josie. She had held her breath as she tumbled through the beautiful treacherous waters of the Rayburn house while Linda and Kip danced outside the surf and Fritz dragged her under the tide of his sickness. Linda hadn’t saved her, but Josie would. She was convinced that Hannah’s story was not a fantasy. The girl knew too much, gave too many names, and was too specific as to Fritz Rayburn’s particular habits. By the time the court reconvened Josie knew
what she had to do. She had to believe in Hannah unconditionally.

  Mired in her outrage, guarding against the slippery slope of skepticism, Josie stood rigidly behind the defense table; eyes forward as she controlled her breathing and planned her attack. Josie didn’t realize Linda was near until she heard her voice.

  “You can’t keep me out of that room,” Linda hissed. “I’m her mother.”

  Josie looked at Linda, unmoved by such outrage. It was too little too late. Josie stepped to the bar, close enough to smell Linda’s expensive perfume, to see the little scar on the side of her lip twitch.

  “I can do what I damn well please,” Josie assured her coldly.

  “You’re going to kill her. I told you that in the beginning. It was just a matter of time before she went nuts. Tell the judge now. Tell him you want to talk to the prosecutor about a plea.”

  Josie looked at the empty jury box. She could hear Linda’s voice but Josie’s mind was elsewhere. Her entire defense would have to change now and she wasn’t clear what direction it would take. Self-defense? Battered woman’s syndrome? All Josie knew was that Linda hadn’t just ignored her daughter’s pain; she had inflicted it on Hannah with her selfishness. Finally, she looked at Linda.

  “You are disgusting. Did you think I wouldn’t find out what Rayburn was doing? Why didn’t you tell me up front? What was there to protect? Your husband? Your reputation? It would have all been so different if you just told me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Linda snapped, but she’d gone pale. She took hold of Josie’s arm. “What are you going to do? What did Hannah tell you?”

  “You’ll know when everyone else does,” Josie growled. “Now let go of me and sit down, or I swear I’ll make this worse for you than it needs to be.”

  “Josie, I don’t know what Hannah told you. . .”

  But Josie had turned her back. People were watching. Linda sat down, pulling herself tall, squaring her shoulders. Behind her, spectators were filing in, wondering about Hannah and judging Linda. Linda hated judgment. How could they know anything about her life? How could these people – the press, the spectators, the vacant faced bailiff and clerk, the jury and even the judge himself – presume to think they knew anything about Linda, or the way she had raised her daughter, or the things she had to do to survive? It sickened Linda Rayburn to think that anyone felt superior to her – even if it was only their perception.

  Linda threw back her head, turning just as Rudy Klein walked past. He fixed his eyes on her until he pushed through the swinging gate of the bar. Unnerved, Linda’s chin dropped and her hand went to her throat. There was something in those eyes of his that put her off as sharply as if he had poked her with a stick; as if she was a rock he was trying to turn to see what crawling things were underneath.

  Then the judge was seated, the court reporter’s hands were poised above her machine, and Kip was being called back to the stand for Josie’s cross. Kip stopped to touch Linda’s hand. That was all it took to put her on the right track again. The end was too close to let anything knock them off course. Finally Kip seemed to understand that.

  Judge Norris instructed the jury to attend to the matters at hand and gave Josie the nod. Standing in front of Kip Rayburn, Josie clasped her hands low, planted her feet and led with her strength.

  “Mr. Rayburn, isn’t it true that your father, Justice Fritz Rayburn, abused you?”

  The silence lasted exactly five seconds before the buzz started.

  What did she say? Did I hear that right?

  “Objection, Your Honor!” Rudy called out, on his feet, as pale as his witness. “This is outrageous and beyond the scope.”

  Josie was quick and fierce. Her head snapped toward the bench for only as long as it took to explain herself.

  “Goes to credibility, Judge.”

  “Request a sidebar, Your Honor,” Rudy demanded.

  Norris crooked a finger, simultaneously calling for quiet, threatening to clear the courtroom if he didn’t get what he wanted. Josie went reluctantly, unwilling to take her eyes off Kip Rayburn. She wanted him to feel the depth of her disdain. Norris covered the microphone on the bench and leaned forward. Rudy went first. He was so incensed Josie feared he would combust.

  “Your Honor, this is outrageous. Ms. Bates will have a chance to present her case but to abuse this witness with histrionics is blatant sensationalism and demeans this court.”

  “Oh please,” Josie shot back in disgust. “You opened the door. This witness has testified to the kind nature of Justice Rayburn. He has painted a picture of a selfless man bent only on helping my client and that is, quite simply, untrue according to my client. I should be allowed to explore the character of the victim since the prosecutor is holding that character up to scrutiny. ”

  “She is right counselor,” Norris ruled.

  “Then limit the scope, Your Honor,” Rudy pleaded. “Allow Mr. Rayburn to testify only to what he experienced in regard to the defendant.”

  “Your witness is already on the record regarding his insights into Justice Rayburn’s treatment of my client. If you limit me, I will have no way of discrediting his testimony without him admitting to perjury. Please, Your Honor. This girl deserves every opportunity to prove her truthfulness.”

  Norris hesitated. This case had taken a turn that would whip public interest to a frenzy and that worried him. He was already hearing the sound bites, the debates, and the speculation that would erupt on talk shows and in the press. A California Supreme Court Justice had gone from saint to sinner and it was clear Josie Baylor-Bates was going to milk this for all it was worth. Still, he had a job to do. Much as he hated to, Norris would let this play out.

  “Overruled, Mr. Klein. Step back.”

  Rudy went back to his corner, unnerved by the ruling. He was barely seated when Josie closed in on Kip Rayburn. The man looked gray. His hair seemed to have thinned. He seemed to have wilted inside his suit. Then she saw a spark deep in his eyes. Kip wasn’t afraid. He was examining the predator and the nature of her attack in order to protect himself. That meant only one thing. Hannah hadn’t lied.

  “Mr. Rayburn. I ask you again, when did your father, Fritz Rayburn, start abusing you?”

  “I am not going to answer that.”

  “Your Honor, permission to treat as hostile.” Josie never took her eyes off Kip Rayburn as she circled and left him open to the jury’s scrutiny.

  “So directed.” Norris instructed.

  Josie inclined her head in thanks. She could now demand his answers, insist on the truth, pound at his responses until she was satisfied her client had been well served.

  “Do you need the question read back, Mr. Rayburn?” Josie asked.

  Kip let his eyes linger on Josie for a minute. His expression was condescending. His gaze wandered to Linda. Josie could feel the minute their eyes locked. Methodically he surveyed the spectators and the jury. Finally, disdainfully, Kip Rayburn answered the question.

  “My father never abused me, Ms. Bates.”

  “Did Justice Rayburn use a wooden paddle on you when you were eight?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you were twelve did your father cut your right index finger so deep that it exposed the bone and took twenty-seven stitches to close it up?”

  “That was an accident. He was trying to show me how to whittle,” Kip said.

  “With a carving knife, Mr. Rayburn?” Josie asked disdainfully.

  “You had to be there, Ms. Bates,” he answered.

  “And on your ninth birthday did your father lock you in the closet with a. . .”

  “This is ridiculous.” Kip Rayburn muttered. One hand went to his mouth; the other was cocked back on the arm of the witness chair.

  “Mr. Rayburn, you are directed. . .” Judge Norris began but Kip had other ideas.

  “No. I will not be directed to talk about things that are personal. The way my father and I dealt with one another is no one’s business. Th
is isn’t about me. It’s about her.” Kip tossed his head toward the empty defense table.

  “Fine,” Josie stepped forward. “Then tell us this, Mr. Rayburn, did your father abuse Hannah Sheraton?”

  “Of course not,” Kip snorted.

  “Verbally?”

  “No.”

  “Emotionally?”

  “No.”

  “Did he touch her, Mr. Rayburn?”

  “Only in the way a concerned old man would touch a child he cared about.”

  “Did he physically discipline her?” Josie snapped.

  “He disciplined her within reason,” Kip shot back.

  “Did that include burning her with wax from a candle, Mr. Rayburn?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Wax. Hot wax on her thigh. Hot enough to burn through a summer skirt. Did your father do that?”

  “No! I mean, how would I know? I didn’t monitor my father’s behavior.”

  “Considering the way your father disciplined you, don’t you think you should have watched how the great Justice Rayburn interacted with the defendant?”

  “Hannah was a big girl. . .”

  “So you’re saying that your father only abused small children. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. Do not twist my words. You cannot twist them to suit you. Hannah was the one who abused my father. Hannah was the one. . .”

  Josie threw herself back into the courtroom, her arms raised in disbelief.

  “Hannah was fourteen when she came to live in your home and barely fifteen when your father first took an interest in her. We’ve all seen her. She weighs one hundred pounds, and you want to tell this court that she was the one who abused. . .”