Character Witness Read online

  CHARACTER WITNESS

  by

  Rebecca Forster

  Character Witness

  Copyright © by Rebecca Forster, 1997

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design, Rebecca Forster

  Smashwords Edition 1.0, October 2009

  PROLOGUE

  ''Got your basic cleaner in forty gallon drums.'' Arthur grunted as he grabbed one and rolled it toward the stainless steel cart. ''Bad stuff. Bad.'' He shook his head and gave the drum another twirl, held it against his substantial thigh and looked at the kid. ''This is gonna clean up any of the gunk you're gonna find, and you're gonna find some real gunk, kid, 'specially over there in that building that looks like a sausage. That's where you're headed, 'kay?''

  ''Absolutely. No problem. I can handle anything. You want me to do the windows, too?''

  Arthur rolled his eyes. This guy was green as green could be. ''You see any windows in that building?''

  Arthur grunted again and twirled the drum hand-over-hand. The drum toppled when he let it go and rumbled a tune while it settled down. Arthur glanced over his shoulder and saw the kid's anxious face. This kid was okay. A real go-getter. Arthur liked to help that kind along 'cause he didn't see many of 'em.

  ''You know this place gives you help on tuition for school if you want to do more than push a broom.'' Arthur lifted the top and sniffed the green crystals like a gourmet, dumped some into a small plastic lidded jar and attached it to the side of the kid's metal cart. He opened a smaller can and sniffed again. He jerked his head. ''This one's strong. You wear gloves when you get to them sinks, okay?''

  ''Okay. Sure. Whatever you say. I want to do it right.'' The black haired kid took his place behind the cart. It was almost as big as him. ''I know about the tuition. The benefits are real good, too. My sister works here. She started at the bottom, too. Now she's an analyst over in the space division. Tysco's been real good to her. Me, I'm going to do better than that. You just wait and see.''

  Arthur slapped the kid on the back, ''I wouldn't doubt I'll be seeing you in a suit one of these days. Just remember to treat the bottom folk like me good when you get up there on top.''

  ''You bet. You bet, Arthur. I'm going to be the best, but I'll never forget all this.''

  Arthur gave him one of those old evil eye warning looks that was filled with admiration. ''You ain't there yet, kid. 'Till you're some big manager you don't forget all what you gotta do here.''

  ''No problem. I got it straight. Dust the desks and the chairs, empty the wastepaper baskets, don't take anything from the desks or open the drawers. Dust the sills on the windows dividing the manager's offices from the main room. I get a break after two hours. I do the bathrooms next. Then breakfast after the next two hours. Then you're going to take me over to the cafeteria and we're going to dress that down before the office workers get here.''

  ''You got it my man.'' Arthur put his hand up. The kid high-fived him and beamed.

  ''See you in four, back here. First breakfast's on me.''

  They went their separate ways, the kid humming. He dusted with a flourish and waved at someone vacuuming way down a hall but, for the most part, he was alone and happy to be that way.

  While he worked, the kid checked out the drawings on the walls that showed the stuff Tysco manufactured. Stuff that helped feed people and stuff that helped educate people. The stuff that helped kill people he didn't think about. That was in a whole other section and special people cleaned over there. Besides, it was depressing to think a company this big, a company that would pay him to go to school, a company that had a credit union, could do anything that wasn't good and helpful and excellent. There was the space division, too, and that was exciting. Maybe when he'd paid his dues and learned enough he'd work in the space division like Verna. He'd make things that reached up to the stars. That would suit him. His ma always said he reached for the stars.

  Invigorated by the vision of his future, undaunted by the tasks that lay before him, the kid didn't even stop for his first break. Someday he'd run the whole shebang and someone would give a speech about how he'd been one heck of a janitor.

  Gently he swiped at a wedding picture on the last desk in the row and adjusted it just so. More pictures were stuck to bulletin boards. A big pink bow had been left on a desk. The calendars with funny sayings on them were all turned to the next day. The kid smiled at these testaments to the human face of this big, now dark, place. People were happy and busy here, and he wanted to be a part of it all.

  Stuffing his rag in the back pocket of his bright orange jumpsuit, the kid whistled and headed across the hall to the bathrooms. He couldn't remember which container held the floor cleaner and which for the toilette's and sinks. Making his first executive decision, he poured the crystals from the smaller pail into the sink and turned his face away just in case the stuff blew up or something. It sure smelled like it should. When nothing happened, the kid smiled, replaced the canister and pulled on the huge gloves that were meant for larger hands than his.

  Ten minutes later he looked back on a gleaming row of porcelain sentinels.

  ''Good job.'' He patted himself on the back then pushed open the stall door of the first john.

  One. Two. Three. Only six more to go. The kid was sure no one had ever done such a fine job.

  Grinning, he whacked open the fourth door and that was when his jaw dropped. He stepped back, embarrassed beyond belief. There was a guy on the john. A guy in a suit on the john. Oh Lord, a manager doing his business! The kid stumbled back until his butt was up against one of the newly cleaned sinks.

  ''Hey, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's my first day. I didn't think anybody would be here. . .'' The kid was sweating; his mind was going a mile a minute. It was an honest mistake. Sure, that's all it was. ''. . . I'll get out of here 'til you're done. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I really, really am. . . .'' He leaned forward as he started to walk out. But when he passed that stall, the one where the guy was doing his business, it dawned on him that it was awful quiet in there. Not like embarrassed quiet. Not like rude quiet. Quiet like scary quiet. ''Sir? Hey, Sir? Hey, are you all right?''

  He touched the door. It swung open again. The kid blinked, then froze. The stall door swung gently back with a mild little clunk and bounced against the locking mechanism. The kid swallowed. The place was way too hot. He was sweating bad.

  ''Sir?'' He called out once more.

  Mechanically the kid pushed the door open again.

  The man in the suit - the man sitting up so weirdly on the toilette - was dead.

  ''What kind of craziness is this, to try to fix something that isn't broken? You're not broken, and I'm not going to let anyone - not anyone in Los Angeles or Washington - try to fix you.''

  The thunderous applause made Carl Walsh feel like a God but no one would ever know it by his expression. Humble, a tad surprised, a bit delighted was how he looked. It was the expression of a man who was just saying what everyone else knew. He was one of the gang. He was just hanging out with the rank and file. He was a politician.

  Today the street corner where he planted himself was the Beverly Wilshire and the folks who'd stopped by for a chat were the three hundred members of the court reporter's union. Carl had been briefed on their concerns, tweaked the speech someone else had written for him, then convinced this group that he had what it took to fight Washington now that he'd conquered city hall. Not that Washington had a damn thing to do with their problems, but it made them feel important to think that.

  He called to them through the last spattering of applause.

  ''I know you feel like you're alone, and you don't like being told you're expendable. I understand that because I'm there everyday. I'm responsible f
or sorting out the many voices in the city the way you are responsible for sorting out the voices in the courtroom. No machine can do what I do, and no machine can do what you do!''

  This time he let passion come into his voice and was rewarded with whoops and hollers. He'd pushed all the right buttons without breaking a sweat. The courts were pushing for electronic recording. If that happened, the reporters would be out of a job forever. Court reporters made a lot of money. The judges didn't. There were more reporters than judges. Reporters could give more to his campaign coffers and there were more of them to cast a vote. So Carl Walsh talked to the court reporters union, not the judges association. It was simple arithmetic. Arithmetic was his friend.

  ''I'm asking for your support now, at the beginning of my campaign, not the end. You're not an afterthought. You, above all, know how important it is to keep the human touch in the business of law making. Make me your Senator from California and I'll keep the humanity in politics. Thank you for having me. Thank you for your support.''

  The woman at the head table was up and shaking his hand. He was looking her in the eye, when he pulled her close and turned to face a camera that was suddenly pointed their way. She was in seventh heaven. He couldn't remember her name. Only the most important names, dates and details were kept in his head. This moment he was busy scanning the crowd to confirm that no one on the A list was present. Buoyed by the good words, the pats on the back, Carl was grinning when he was pulled forward.

  ''Mr. Walsh.'' Another woman was tugging on his arm. ''This is Mr. Pullet, he heads the division -''

  ''Happy to meet you. What a great turn out.'' Walsh shook the man's hand heartily. ''I can't thank you enough.''

  Carl led the man away, escaping the dais and his hostess in one swift move. With a few well chosen words, a guy-to-guy slap on the back, Carl lost Mr. Pullet and fell into step with the two mountainous men who masqueraded as human beings. In reality they were his bodyguards, huge and ever-present. Carl could barely remember their names even though his very precious life rested in their hands. They would follow him to the ends of the earth. Right now, he just wanted them to walk him to the facilities.

  On his way he gave the high sign to two men who were headed his way and picked up his pace. Life was glorious. The spring in his step was meant to propel him into fast forward. Instead he collided with a man coming out of the restroom. The body guards reached for the mayor, the mayor grabbed the man and everyone righted everyone else.

  ''Oh, I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going. Stupid of me, really.''

  ''Sure, 'tisn't a problem. No problem at all,'' the other man assured him, and then they looked at each other.

  ''Gerry O'Doul!'' The Mayor laughed and even he, seasoned politician that he was, couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. ''How the heck are you?''

  I thought you were dead.

  ''Well, well. Look who I've run in to. Mr. Mayor, is it?'' Gerry chuckled.

  I'm glad you're so predictable.

  His gentle voice, the last whisper of an Irish brogue that Carl Walsh's father swore - with grudging admiration - was put on for the jury, hadn't changed. It was the only thing about Gerry O'Doul that hadn't. ''What's this I hear about you leaving us for Washington? We'll be calling you Senator, then, I suppose.''

  ''I sure hope so.'' Carl's smiled broadly. Gerry, still kicking, took Carl back to a time when he proudly watched his father and dreamed of the wondrous things he would do when he grew up. Carl sighed. Never in a million years did he dream he would do some of the things he had done. The business of the city had class in Gerry's time; Gerry still had it. Carl knew he did not.

  ''Wouldn't your father be proud of you? Why I remember when we used to stand against one another in court - me at the defense table, he the prosecutor. We made fine enemies, we did.''

  ''You think I could ever forget? I was weaned on those stories. We had many a dinner where the name Gerry O'Doul was taken in vain.'' Carl chuckled. ''My dad used to talk about you often before he died.''

  Gerry tilted his head and leaned a little closer to Carl. Memories were such a lovely connection, so useful. Gerry was happy to see that he could still connect with the handsome, more practically connected Carl Walsh.

  ''Did he, now? So long ago, 'twas; so many are gone now. Things change so quickly don't they, Carl? One minute you're surrounded by great friends and great enemies, the next you're alone.''

  Gerry's eyes misted. Carl Walsh reached out and put his hand on the old man's shoulder. Something flashed. Gerry turned into it even though the photographer's intent was to capture Carl doing his thing. It went off again and Gerry didn't miss a beat. He brought back the misties for an encore. ''So he talked about me? That's lovely, sure 'tis.''

  ''Absolutely.''

  The crowd around Carl had diminished, but people still hung on the periphery of his space in an ill defined circle waiting for his ear. A cell phone rang and someone handed it to Carl. He took it and simultaneously nudged Gerry along to the semi-privacy of the anteroom.

  '''Scuse me a second.''

  Gerry waited patiently, reading the signs of a happy man and noticing that Carl was trying very hard not to appear too happy. He couldn't have chosen a better time to bump into his old friend's son.

  ''Good news?'' Gerry asked the minute the phone was snapped shut.

  Carl nodded, no longer beaming.

  ''First term city budget was down by three percent. This term, twelve percent.'' Strangely Carl didn't look Gerry in the eye. How surprisingly modest he was.

  ''If that 'tisn't wonderful. That's what it's all about, making a difference.''

  ''I'm going all the way no matter what, Gerry.'' Carl seemed to be talking to himself, but Gerry wasn't quite ready to be discarded. He put his hand on the younger man's arm.

  ''Success is powerful, Carl. Just remember, it doesn't always bring what you expect,'' Gerry warned paternally.

  ''Then again, sometimes it does,'' Carl bantered back. He rejuvenated himself with that thought. ''Listen, I've got to. . .'' he held his hands toward the men's room.

  ''Of course. So ungracious of me,'' Gerry laughed and took a step back.

  ''Don't rush off, I've got a half hour or so before my next appointment, we'll have some coffee.''

  ''No, no, no. I'm running, too, I'll have you know.'' Gerry was proud as punch but kept a tight rein on his excitement. ''I'm taking on a new associate. O'Doul & Associates is going to be back in business, Carl.''

  ''That's great. Just great. Got the old fire lit again, huh?'' Carl shook Gerry's hand heartily. ''Well, you just let me know what's happening. Maybe I can ride your coat tails, get some good press standing next to Gerry O'Doul.''

  ''Be happy to oblige, Mr. Mayor. Happy, indeed. I'd be especially proud if we could be seen shaking hands on a bit of the city business before you're off to conquer Washington.''

  ''Gerry, you never change. My dad always said once you set your sights on something you were dangerously tenacious. He also said you were so smooth when you saw an opening that nobody saw the bite coming.''

  ''Your father was a smart man. I'll ask for only a moment, Mr. Mayor, to try to convince you O'Doul & Associates is fit as a fiddle and ready to perform. You've got the business. Last I read it was almost thirty-six police officers alone who were being sued by the citizens of your fiscally well run city.''

  Carl Walsh cocked a wry grin, knowing it was useless to try to deflect Gerry's advances. Sidestepping had never worked with his father either.

  ''Call my office for an appointment. But I'm not promising. Shay, Sylvester & Harrington is still the city's firm of record. I'd hate to get on Richard's wrong side. Even for you, Gerry.''

  ''I wouldn't either.'' Gerry's, voice lost some of its twinkle, his eyes darkened just a shade. He recovered nicely. ''Besides, I'm a little long in the tooth to cause Richard any trouble. He might even find it amusing that I'm mentioning this at all. Crumbs, is what I'm looking for, Carl. If you don't ask, you'
ll never know what you might have had.'' He raised his hand, the signet ring he'd worn since the day he graduated law school flashing as they parted company. Gerry shot back a last reminder, ''Crumbs, is all, Carl.''

  Gerry walked sprightly out of the Beverly Wilshire alone, a small, content smile on his face. There was change in the wind. A second chance had come his way, and Carl Walsh had a big '2' emblazoned on his forehead. Poor boy didn't have a clue what was about to hit him.

  Behind him, Carl was watching. Gerry O'Doul had a spring in his step that a man half his age would envy. Carl allowed himself one small sound that he thought underscored the surprising pleasure he felt at seeing Gerry and being reminded of his father. Actually, it sounded more like a noise to ward off evil spirits. Carl Walsh felt as if someone had just walked over his grave. The phone rang again. He flipped it open and turned away from Gerry O'Doul's retreating figure.

  ''Yes?'' He listened. ''Of course. Of course, I'm thrilled.'' He listened a bit longer and responded as he knew his caller wanted him to. ''I can't thank you enough. We're a great team. Nothing can stop us now. The election is in the bag.''

  Carl flipped the phone closed, thought of the man on the other end and wished he was more like Gerry O'Doul.

  Then Carl Walsh changed his mind and thanked his lucky stars he wasn't.

  ''You're three o'clock is here, Mr. Jacobsen.''

  ''Show him in.''

  Richard Jacobsen laid his fine hands on the desk as his eyes darted over the office. Everything was in order: there was good news to tell, the future looked bright, the billing statements were on target, and, of course, the relationship with this particular client could not be paralleled.

  The door opened.

  Richard rose to greet the handsome young man with dark hair. He had the look of someone on the way up. Richard had always admired that look. He only wished he had had it as a young man. He could have gone so much further, so much quicker. But what was a little time? Richard, a firm believer in fate, knew that it was better this way. The look of success may have made him stand out sooner but his history, and those he had fatefully encountered in the last few years, put him light years ahead of his more comely peers. Money. Power. Prestige. Richard Jacobsen had all this city had to offer and soon he would make the country his business. She had always wanted this for him and he appreciated her sacrifices that had made all this possible.