"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 particularly 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 something 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 transform
ed 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."
"That is nice, but what's it suppose to mean to a jury?"
"If Hannah's purpose in life was to paint, if the one place she felt safe and comfortable was her studio, then she couldn't destroy the purpose or the place without destroying her own life." Josie snapped her fingers. "I want Angie to get me as much information as she can on obsessive/compulsives: specifically the extremes of their behaviors regarding their environments. I want to know what kind of reaction they would have if that environment was disturbed, or destroyed."
Faye shook her head. "Forget it. The paintings and studio are gone and Hannah's still kicking. She didn't die because those things were destroyed."
"But," Josie said pointedly, "she didn't destroy them. They were destroyed. That's a whole different thing. She tried to put that fire out because she couldn't be responsible. It's a mental thing, not a physical thing. We call the physical evidence into question – no problem – and with the next punch we establish that Hannah is incapable of destructive behavior regarding her environment."
"That is a stretch, Josie." Faye was guarded but Josie was energized.
"No, it isn't. I can make that jury believe it and understand it. I've done it before. Say it with enough conviction, enough passion, get an expert to back you up, and it becomes real. I need to know how adaptable someone with Hannah's condition really is. That's the key to this whole thing."
Josie checked her watch.
"I've got to run. It's late. Have Angie start checking the literature and the experts the minute you get back. Rudy Klein may not have to prove Hannah had a motive for setting the fire, but I'm going to give them a hell of a reason why she never could have done it."
Josie sidestepped across Faye and was headed out of the Cathedral when she remembered something important. Rushing back to Faye, she leaned down:
"Thank you for coming. You may make me a believer yet."
Faye sat in silence looking at the curious, the sightseers, the true believers, and the bored school children as the sound of Josie's footsteps faded away. It was late. Time to go if she didn't want to hit traffic. Before she did, though, Faye Baxter got on her knees once more. She crossed herself twice. Faye had a terrible, terrible feeling that things weren't going to be as simple as Josie thought.
CHAPTER 16
"I don't know. I figure she did it but she'll probably get off. I mean she's rich, right? If you're rich you get off in Los Angeles." – Steven, 21, man on the street interview regarding Hannah Sheraton
In the four days that followed, the lab technician testified that the charred matches found in the debris of the Rayburn fire were damn near one of a kind or, at least, very unusual. Each matchstick was carved into a tiny octagon, the Chinese symbol for good luck was almost microscopically stamped on each shaft and the sulfur on the head was a neon rainbow of colors. The company that manufactured those matches was in Taiwan. They had a decent foothold on the East Coast but only a handful of customers on the west. The Coffee Haus in the Palisades Village was one of them. Hannah Sheraton was a regular at the Coffee Haus.
Josie asked the lab tech if the charred matches found on the first floor of the Rayburn house came from the box found in Hannah Sheraton's room. He could only be certain that the matches at the scene were exactly the same as those in the box found in Hannah's room. Josie asked if anyone could be sure they came from a particular box.
No, probably not, but . . .
Josie cut him off but a quick look at the jury told her she'd gained no ground. They liked the connections Rudy had already made with this witness. Rudy called the detective who searched the Rayburn home when it was determined it was a crime scene.
How many boxes of matches from the Coffee Haus had he found in the Rayburn home?
"Two," said the witness. "The Coffee Haus matches logged with my mark and entered as exhibit eleven were found in a foyer table that was situated between the front door and Ms. Sheraton's bedroom. The Coffee Haus matches logged with my mark and entered as exhibit twelve were found in Hannah Sheraton's bedroom, hidden beneath her mattress along with marijuana and a small stash of pills. There were no other matches of that particular brand found in the rest of the house."
"Did you conduct a thorough search of the Rayburn home including the wing that was damaged in the fire?"
"Yes, the house was thoroughly searched and no, I did not find a Coffee Haus box in the wing where the fire occurred."
"So you only found two boxes of those particular matches. One in a hall table near the defendant's room, the other hidden in Hannah Sheraton's room," Rudy asked.
"Yes," came the answer.
Rudy wanted to know about the other things the detective found hidden in Hannah's room. Josie objected. The question was overly broad. Rudy got more specific.
"What kind of pills did you find hidden in the defendant's room?"
"Vicodin. Prescription pain relievers."
"Were the pills in a prescription bottle?"
"No," came the detective's reply
"Did you find a prescription for Vicodin in Hannah Sheraton's name anywhere in the house?"
"No."
"Did you determine what bottle the pills in Hannah Sheraton's room came from?"
"Objection, Your Honor. Speculation. There is no way to know if those pills were taken from a specific bottle," Josie insisted.
"Sustained.
"Didn't you find a prescription bottle on the premises?" Rudy would connect the dots another way. "There was a bottle of the same medication in Justice Rayburn's bathroom."
"Was the bottle damaged?"
"The bottle was dirtied with soot and slightly melted, but the label was intact."
"And what did you conclude?"
"I found that a prescription for Vicodin had been filled for Fritz Rayburn the day before the fire. There were seven pills missing from the Justice Rayburn's bottle; six pills were found in Hannah Sheraton's room. The autopsy showed that Justice Rayburn had ingested one pill approximately five hours before he died."
"Did you find any fingerprints other than those of Justice Rayburn on the pill bottle?"
"We found a partial that matched Hannah Sheraton's right thumb."
The Witness Series Bundle Page 12
