Privileged Witness (12 page)

''Susan. Sit down. Down.''

Josie touched her client on the next pass and was immediately sorry. Susan O'Connel shrank away, unable to differentiate between help and hurt. Embarrassed, she muttered ‘sorry' and sat primly on the edge of a worn chair, her hands beside her, palms down on the cushions, ready to push off, to run for her life if necessary.

''Look, now isn't the time to quit. If you go back to that man you're as good as dead,'' Josie argued.

''But it's different now because I know why Kevin is angry,'' Susan insisted, warming to her logic. ''Josie, it would have been one thing if we just won enough to keep me living until I could get a job but, that jury gave me everything Kevin has. Everything he worked for.''

''And your point is?''

Josie moved to the far end of the couch into the shade. It was hard to look at Susan O'Connel in the sunlight. The glare that came through the window made it impossible for Josie to even pretend the woman was still pretty. Her nose was flat and misshapen. The nerves at her temple had been damaged, her right eye didn't move. A long, ragged scar ran across her neck, a souvenir from a bout with Kevin when he thought slashing her throat would teach her a lesson. After each incident Susan O'Connel had refused to press charges, fearful that doing so would make her husband angrier still. She was terrified until she met Josie and Josie wasn't about to let her knew found strength of purpose waiver now. Second guessing was understandable but it was also a luxury neither of them could afford. Susan's job now was to stay the course and Josie's was to get to Grace McCreary's place. Unfortunately, Susan wasn't on the same page. She still squabbled.

''But if we ruin him then he'll never stop coming after me. Don't you see?'' Susan insisted anxiously. ''You've already proven you've got power over him and he'll know that if he hurts me again then you'll take him back to court and. . .''

''It doesn't work that way, Susan,'' Josie interrupted. ''The civil case is over. You have a judgment. No judge in the world will be sympathetic if you go back to Kevin and he hurts you again. And Kevin isn't going to be grateful that you let him off the hook. You know that,'' Josie insisted. ''Susan, think. The fact that we beat him in court is enough to make him crazy. If you let him know you pity him he'll see that as an opening. Let me find the assets, get the money and you can go anywhere you want.'' Josie cajoled softly before lowering her voice even further. ''You know there's no going back, don't you?''

''I do,'' Susan whispered miserably.

''Good,'' Josie said, satisfied a tragedy had been averted. ''Good. So, you're going to be okay?''

Josie was on her feet the minute Susan nodded. She was too anxious to be away from this dreary place and a problem that had already been solved. Those with the higher stakes got the attention and Grace McCreary was top of the list. Yet, turning to say her good byes, seeing a tear slipped from Susan O'Connel's paralyzed eye, Josie was ashamed that she had been so quick to dismiss her.

''Let me get you a cup of tea before I go,'' Josie offered, knowing to linger was slight penance for putting Grace above Susan.

Susan shook her head and wiped the tear away. When she looked up, Josie saw that the fear and uncertainty were still there but there was still a good deal of determination.

''No. That's okay. Why don't you go to work. I could use that money if I'm going to Wisconsin.''

''I didn't know you had family there,'' Josie said as she gathered her things.

''I don't,'' she laughed sadly. ''I just like the sound of it. Wisconsin. I'll buy a little house and when I die I'll leave all this money for women who need help. People will say ‘who knew that crazy old woman had all that money?'.''

''Sounds like a plan.'' Josie put a hand on Susan's shoulder. ''But it's going to be a long time before you kick off. Hold on just a little while longer.'' Satisfied Susan's frail courage was getting stronger, Josie took off.

When the door closed, Susan stood in the middle of her shabby little apartment trying to imagine what it would be like to live in Wisconsin. When she couldn't, she went to the window and shaded her eyes from the early morning blaze of the sun. On the street below she saw Josie's Jeep pull out fast and she knew she was lucky to have an attorney like her. Josie would make everything alright. Susan O'Connel let that thought run through her head like a mantra. Unfortunately, the words stopped as she noticed something on the street.

A big, expensive car was driving down after Josie and that was odd. The cars on this street were usually old, second-hand jobs that either stayed put during the day or came and went on the nine-to-five schedule of working people. This car hadn't really been parked at all. This car had been stopped near the fire hydrant, not so much parked as waiting. Maybe the driver was waiting for Josie to come out of the building. Maybe the driver was waiting to see where she had gone inside the building.

Susan's heart beat fast and heavy in her chest; her palms were wet with perspiration. Suddenly it was hard to breathe because the scar on her throat throbbed. Then Susan had a thought that almost paralyzed her. Maybe the person in the car was Kevin. Maybe Kevin had been waiting until Josie left. He would park somewhere else and come back. He was coming back now. Up the stairs. To the third floor.

Susan backed away from the window trying to remember everything about the car but only sure of one thing: a man was driving. That man could be anyone. That man in the dark car could have been checking directions or taking a rest or he could be coming for her.

Susan O'Connel sank to the floor and pulled her knees up to her chest and watched the door of the little apartment, her sanctuary, her cell. Maybe this was where she would die; maybe she would never see Wisconsin.

The place where Grace McCreary lived was expensive and understated.

A white stucco wall encircled the property broken by a hand carved wooden gate. Beyond lay a well kept fringe of grass and a serene garden. Impatiens spilled from their beds onto the flagstone walk. Lilies' held their heads up in the patches of sun; ferns thrived in the shade. This was a private, luxurious space, one that lent itself to anonymity.

Eight units of stucco and glass shared four footprints. Front doors did not face one another; windows were set at discreet angles. No one need know who you brought home or even if you came home. Grace lived in number 6 and Josie had the key.

The door swung open and Josie entered a place cocooned in poignant solitude. Josie's own home had felt that way before Hannah but she doubted it had ever been quite like this. While Josie's house was a work-in-progress; Grace's was finished to perfection. The furniture was exquisite, the art on the walls were important pieces. Everything was clean – almost untouched. Yet there was also a devotion evident that surprised Josie.

Everywhere Josie looked there were personal pictures. The largest – a five-by-seven of Matthew - sat on an exquisite coffee table carved out of a single piece of rosewood. Others were positioned on the wall of bookshelves. Beside the deep, soft chenille sofa was a low antique table piled with books on art and politics. A pictorial of sisters was on top.

Josie ran her hand over it then opened it to the fly leaf. I couldn't love you more. The inscription was signed with a flourished M that touched Josie. Michelle McCreary, it seemed, was sentimental where Grace was concerned. Josie couldn't remember a single personal photo in the penthouse but at least she had taken the time to welcome Grace as a sister. Josie put the book down and perused Grace's pictures. The frames were expensive and freestanding. It was as if Grace wanted to be able to move them on a moment's notice, rearrange her life depending on her mood, banishing those who weren't in favor, paying homage to those who were. Grace was queen and the pictures were courtiers.

Josie touched one, then another, unable to help comparing herself to the women in Matthew's life. Maybe she was more like Michelle than Grace. The few photographs Josie had were hidden away. She had a small album that belonged to her father that she couldn't recall ever opening. There was no reason to remember people who no longer existed – or at least no reason to remember them everyday. Thinking of them only opened old wounds and raised questions that had no answers.

Josie bent down and looked at a picture of the younger, happier Matthew and Grace. Grace seemed more beautiful with her wide smile and her long hair; Matthew was full of youthful promise. Grace's jeans were tight. She wore a man's dress shirt over a tank top and held Matthew by the waist. His arm was around her shoulders. They were smiling at each other as if there was no one else in the world.

Another one.

Grace beaming at the camera, the look in her eye playfully, asking for the photographer's approval. She was so young. Thirteen? Fourteen?

And another.

Matthew sunning himself in the mountains. Grace behind him, hungry for his attention. Matthew growing into a handsome man; Grace a needy young woman. Josie picked up that picture and wondered if this was why she and Matthew didn't make it. While Josie was truly alone in the world, Matthew's missing link wasn't missing at all. Grace had always been out there somewhere.

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.