Privileged Witness Read online

  Josie laughed at herself. This was a picture, for God's sake, not a Rorschach test and the clock was running. She had come for clothes and she was going to get them. But when Josie walked into the bedroom she was taken aback. It was almost a carbon copy of the bedroom in the penthouse except for the three formal portraits. Those were nestled into subtly lit architectural alcoves on the far wall. Matthew's portrait was on top, the McCreary's wedding portrait in the middle and beneath that, Michelle's. Suddenly, clearly, Josie understood Matthew's loss and realized that it was Grace's, too. The love and admiration for her sister-in-law was so obvious, Josie couldn't imagine that Grace McCreary had anything to do with the death of . . .

  ''Did you find what you were looking for?''

  ''Jesus!'' Josie started, turning so fast she lost a grip on her purse. Tim Douglas walked across the bedroom, picked it up and handed it to her.

  ''At least I know you're not going to whack me with this thing,'' he said.

  ''Did you ever hear of knocking? Maybe hollering to let me know you were here?'' Josie groused.

  ''Did you ever think that leaving a door partly opened may make someone think something was wrong?''

  ''Pretty brave to walk in when you thought there was a problem.''

  ''Not really,'' he laughed. ''I saw your Jeep outside. I thought I'd see what you were doing before I announced myself.''

  ''Is spying in your job description?''

  Josie tossed her purse on the bed and opened Grace's closet without waiting for an answer. Thankfully, her back was to Tim Douglas or he would have seen that even she, the woman who lived in sweats in the off hours, was dazzled. Shoes sprouted from floor to ceiling in custom made shelves. To the right were day suits, to the left bare, couture gowns. Straight ahead, peignoirs: lacy things with flowing skirts that would make any woman look like Venus.

  It was the last that was most interesting since there seemed to be no man in Grace's life. Perhaps, Grace McCreary was one of those rare women who dressed to please herself. Or, there was someone waiting in the wings who wanted to see how all this played out before they came forward. Maybe he was married. Maybe he was unsavory. Maybe. . .

  Aware of Tim Douglas's scrutiny, Josie walked into the closet, stopped speculating and took a beige suit. A patterned blouse. A pair of bone pumps. She kept talking as she tossed them on the bed.

  ''I'm getting some clothes for Grace. There's a bail hearing in an hour.''

  Tim wandered to the bed. He picked up the sleeve of the blouse. ''I don't think she'd like this one.''

  ''And the reason you know this is?''

  ''Because it's my job to pay attention. Grace never wore patterns when there might be a photographer around. She said patterns are distracting.'' Tim blinked behind his glasses, embarrassed, feeling the need to explain. ''I figure someone's bound to have gotten wind of this by now. Photographers might be in the courtroom.''

  ''Is part of your job to make the candidate's wayward sister look good?'' Josie smiled wryly.

  ''No. I just think she deserves a fair shot. Grace is very careful with her appearance.''

  Tim Douglas's point was well taken. Josie exchanged her first choice for a plain blouse, giving him the once over when she came out. He still looked slightly disheveled despite the good haircut and respectable suit. He still had that soft look of a man who knew he would always be a bit player so he didn't dress for starring roles. He was older than she first imagined, but not by much. Grace's age. No ring. Married to the candidate and the cause.

  ''So, what are you doing here?'' Josie asked as she opened Grace's dresser drawers, finding what she wanted in the fourth one.

  ''I was hoping to find some files Grace and I was working on. Some statistics on the foster children program.'' Tim put his hands in his pocket. Josie gave him no more than a glance as she looked in the drawers for fresh lingerie, jewelry, stockings. Tim kept talking. ''It's the cornerstone of Matthew's campaign. He believes you can't make changes in education until there are changes in the way we treat children. You know, expecting too much of them too fast, throwing them out of the system before they're ready, lack of parental supervision, poor foster care programs.''

  ''Really?'' Half listening, Josie gathered up Grace's under things and put them with the suit.

  ''Did you know that when foster kids are eighteen they're just cut loose from the system? No back-up. No money. Nothing.''

  Josie opened another drawer, thought for a second, then swung her head toward Tim.

  ''Look, it's not that I don't appreciate the political primer but right now I don't care if Matthew wants to put a Mercedes in every garage. I'll just be happy if he shows his face in court, okay?''

  Tim's head moved up. Not really a sign of agreement, more an indication that he'd been put in his place.

  ''Sure. Understood.'' Tim nodded, the reprimand accepted. ''He's going to be in court today.''

  ''That's good,'' she muttered, picking an old wooden box out of the drawer. Inside there were a few pins, earrings fashioned out of small diamonds and delicate gold. All very feminine. Very tasteful. A young girl's jewelry that would have suited Grace better than ostentatious show of wealth she preferred. Josie was about to put the box back when she saw two unframed photographs pushed back in the drawer.

  One was very old: square, black and white, scalloped edges. There was a woman holding a baby in her arms, a toddler leaning up against her leg. A man stood tight in with the little group. No one smiled but they all managed to touch one another. Josie didn't have to wonder who these people were: Matthew and Grace and their long dead parents. The other one showed a middle aged man who seemed surprised to be the subject of a photograph. He was in an office, half turned to the camera. It was more recent than the first.

  ''Tim, is Grace seeing anyone?'' Josie replaced the pictures and put the box on top. ''An older man?''

  ''I don't think so. She was always working,'' Tim answered. ''But you should ask her.''

  ''I'll do that,'' Josie muttered. She gathered up the clothes and headed to the door. ''I've got to go.''

  For a second Tim Douglas stood in her way, his mouth open, the rosy red apples of his cheeks even rosier. His eyes were darker than she had remembered, his presence some how more imposing. Josie cocked her head giving him a minute to say what was on his mind. He didn't take it. Instead, he stepped aside then followed Josie out the front door.

  ''Can you use your key to throw the deadbolt? My hands are full.''

  ''You got it.'' He turned his back to her.

  They said goodbye on the sidewalk. Josie went on to the courthouse, Tim back to campaign headquarters. When they both found themselves stopped at the same traffic light, Josie glanced his way and gave him a perfunctory smile. When she touched the brim of her baseball cap to adjust it, Josie Bates found herself bothered by something more than the bail hearing to come. She was bothered by what hadn't happened at Grace McCreary's place.

  Tim Douglas hadn't retrieved the file's he'd come to find. In fact, he hadn't even looked for them. And Josie hadn't heard the deadbolt because it hadn't been thrown. Tim didn't have a key. He had gone to Grace's because he knew Josie was there and that was very interesting.

  CHAPTER 15

  At least Tim hadn't lied about Matthew.

  He was front and center in the courtroom. No cadre of personal attorneys or political advisors waiting at his beck and call. Josie handed Grace's clothes to the bailiff so Grace could dress out, claimed the defense table and now stood quietly talking to him. He listened with his arms crossed, his expression dutifully sober.

  ''Have you talked to them?'' Josie raised her chin toward the three reporters in the courtroom.

  Matthew looked up and then away again when he made eye contact with the woman from the AP.

  ''I told them there was no doubt that Grace's arrest was a mistake and thanked them for their concern.''

  ''Good. Keep it at that.'' Josie scrutinized them with interest. Two she recognized, the third w
as a mystery. All in all, it wasn't a bad draw. There were no television cameras and nothing identifying the third man as a broadcast journalist.

  ''Easier said than done,'' Matthew muttered and ran a hand through his hair, shifting his weight, sighing from the heart. ''My opponent was on the morning shows bright and early lamenting Grace's arrest and wondering how I was going to hold up under the pressure of a trial. God, he was talking as if Grace was Lizzie Borden.''

  ''I saw some of it. Only one national show picked up a sound bite so it looks like we skated to some degree.'' Josie offered her empty assurances, making them because they were better than nothing. If the D.A. stuck to his guns then a special circumstances charge would put all of them in the national spotlight and that was the last thing Josie wanted. ''Refer legal questions to me, keep your comments short and we'll be good to go. . .'' Josie's voice trailed off. Matthew sat up then followed her gaze to see what – or who – had caught her interest.

  Detective Horace Babcock acknowledged them with a courteous look as he unbuttoned his jacket, tugged on his trousers and sat down on the aisle seat of the last wooden spectator pew. It was curious to see him at a bail hearing where he would have no input. Matthew put his fingers to his eyes. His head bowed. He took a deep breath and then looked at her wearily, as if she was his last hope.

  ''I'm sorry, Matthew. I know there's no way to make any of this good but I promise I'm not leaving without Grace. Okay?'' Josie touched his arm and looked into his eyes so that he could see her resolve.

  Matthew nodded. He took her hand thoughtlessly only to tighten his grip when he could think of no words to express his gratitude. His hand was warm, his confidence in her was great and suddenly Josie realized how high the stakes really were. She eased her hand from beneath his, centered herself and faced the bench.

  The court clerk was at her desk, the bailiff was calling the court of Judge Davenport to order. The prosecutor was waddling up the aisle with a grin on her moon face. Josie was in lawyer mode when, in that second before she began to work, she heard Mathew say a quiet thank you and that made put Josie on notice that Matthew McCreary's faith and fate rested in her and only her.

  CHAPTER 16

  Grace appeared, escorted by the bailiff and Matthew was forgotten. Her hair was impeccable, her make-up, though minimal, was dramatic, the beige suit fit like a glove and her hands were cuffed in front of her. The emerald ring and Mabe pearl earrings were gone, left with her jailers for safe keeping.

  As the bailiff released Grace and guided her to the defense table Josie put her shoulders back and smiled. But Grace looked beyond her to Matthew as if he would make everything right. Then Grace's eyes – those unfortunate eyes – were on Josie.

  ''You okay?'' Josie asked.

  Grace nodded. The women faced the bench and the judge who called his court to order with a ‘good morning' and an invitation for them to begin.

  ''P.J. Vega for the prosecution. And good morning to you to, your honor.'' The deputy district attorney greeted the judge cheerily then, with a flourish, settled her large self into the small chair.

  ''Josie Baylor-Bates for the defense, your honor.''

  Davenport nodded and considered them for a moment. What Josie had in height, P.J. had in breadth. Josie looked like she would fight to the death; P.J. would kill with kindness. Josie glanced at her opponent, determined she wasn't harmless then looked back to the judge, sure of only one thing: P.J. Vega's good humor was that of someone who already thought she had won.

  ''Does the defendant waive the reading of the complaint?'' Davenport put his old sharp eyes on Josie.

  ''Yes, your honor, we. . .''

  Josie never managed to tell the judge what the defense wanted because P.J. Vega was waving a finger in the air, a stack of turquoise and silver bracelet's sliding down the slope of her arm as she got to her feet.

  ''Your honor, if I may.''

  ''You may, but only if you have something of import to say, Ms. Vega.''

  ''Indeed, your honor. I would like to apologize for wasting the court's time this morning. We will be requesting the minimum bail at this time The District Attorney himself, after careful review the facts upon which this case was brought, and knowing that Ms. McCreary has voluntarily turned over her passport, does not believe the defendant to be a flight risk and an excessive bond is neither necessary or advisable.''

  ''Fine with me,'' Davenport concurred and with a word that the defendant could post bond he set a stunned Grace McCreary free.

  ''Your honor,'' Josie said quickly. ''Am I to understand that the district attorney is dropping the murder charges against my client?''

  ''Ms. Vega?'' Davenport bounced the ball to the prosecutor.

  ''No, no judge, we are not,'' P.J. laughed and her tummy jiggled under the tent of her dress.

  ''Well, then, the defendant may post bond and I would like also like to get you on the calendar for a preliminary hearing,'' the judge said.

  ''We may be proceeding directly to the grand jury, your honor,'' P.J. advised. ''So can we get back to you on those dates?''

  Davenport looked over his spectacles. While it was clear he had a soft spot for P.J. Vega, he also had a calendar to juggle.

  ''When does the grand jury meet, Miss Vega?''

  ''In three days, your honor.''

  ''Fine. Three weeks on the preliminary hearing. If you fail to get an indictment from the grand jury and wish to proceed then I've got you covered. Acceptable to you, Ms. Bates?''

  ''Yes, your honor.''

  Josie answered without a hint that she was surprised. This was a far cry from the Friday night's drama of handcuffs and special circumstances. The reporters were closing their notebooks. Matthew and Grace McCreary would rate a big headline and a small article. Grace turned gratefully into her brother's embrace as Judge Davenport dismissed them.

  ''We're done here. Have a nice one, ladies.''

  Disconcerted, Josie put her hand out to get Grace's attention yet before she could speak P.J. Vega was tapping her on the shoulder with a stout finger and flashing a white-toothed grin.

  ''Got a minute? Make it worth your while,'' she suggested playfully as if she didn't know Josie would have blocked the courtroom doors before she let P.J. get away without an explanation.

  ''Sure,'' Josie answered, poker face intact.

  ''Bring your client,'' P.J. suggested and then raised her chin. ''Him, too, if you want.''

  Without a second glance at any of them she waddled down the aisle trailing the scent of good perfume, good humor and a deal.

  Josie watched her go only to find her eye caught by Horace Babcock's. Obviously unhappy, he broke the connection and followed P.J. out the door. The cops weren't in on the deal that negated all their hard work and that meant Josie wasn't P.J. Vega's only adversary.

  CHAPTER 17

  P.J. Vega's office was very pretty.

  Actually, the office wasn't pretty, the things in it were: pink pens, pastel posters and pillows embroidered with messages that encouraged her to make the most of the day or believe in herself. P.J. needed no cajoling in that department. She believed in herself just fine, thank you very much. On top of that, the District Attorney thought she was pretty spectacular, too. Her reputation had preceded her when she joined the Long Beach District Attorney's Office after a stint up north. Many a defense attorney who faced P.J. listened to her wax poetic about the accomplishments of her children, basked under the glow of her smile and figured her for a push over.

  They couldn't have been more wrong. P.J. was tough as nails.

  She had crossed the San Diego Border between Mexico and the United States in vitro. Her mother, eight months pregnant, had been smashed into a false bottom of a truck along with six other people by a coyote. He had taken their money then left them along the edge of the 405 when the truck broke down. P.J.'s mother had gone into labor in the stifling heat. She was close to giving birth when her terrified companions finally broke through the floorboards and fled. P.J was
born bloody and slightly premature but bouncing and healthy. Her mother had not been so lucky. She died in her hiding place and P.J., a United States citizen, was sent through the system.

  One of the lucky ones, she was taken into a middle class Hispanic family to be raised in a houseful of adopted and foster children. P.J. took the family name Vega because no one knew what her mother's had been. Her foster parents had been written up in the Los Angeles Times on half a dozen mothers' day and a couple of times on father's day. The family had turned out three doctors, two teachers and three lawyers. P.J. was the most tenacious of them but she was also smart and good humored. She didn't take loss personally. If God had saved her, given her a family who loved her, a chance to make her way in the world in a respected profession then, by golly, she was going to happily do no less than her best to give back.

  Giving back for P.J. included taking care of her own six children, a husband disabled after a construction accident and righting society's wrongs. Today, she said she wanted to right a wrong the District Attorney's office had committed and, as far as Josie was concerned, it all smelled to high heaven.

  ''Look, I've talked it over with the District Attorney and there are a few things that he thinks we can agree upon. First, some of the facts of this case are open to interpretation. . .''

  ''Which means,'' Josie cut in, ''that you don't think you can convict on murder one.''

  P.J. blessed Josie again with her smile and then ignored her.

  ''He believes that, given Ms. McCreary's high profile in the community. . .''

  ''Ms. McCreary has no such profile,'' Josie reminded her and she was again discounted as P.J. forged ahead.

  ''. ..and might soon be part of a national political campaign, there is a danger of creating an atmosphere in which justice cannot be served if we overreach in our efforts to bring this matter to closure. What we want to do is to be just for everyone, Mr. McCreary,'' she nodded at Matthew, ''including your wife. We are very cognizant that this is a painful and distressing situation for you.''