Expert Witness (18 page)

“Okay,” Liz stood up. “I appreciate the info. Gives me something to think about.”

Liz rounded the desk, gave Margie a hug, promised not to be a stranger, and went back down the hall to find Cuwin Martin. She wasn’t going to drive down again if she could help it. Before she left, Liz had one more question.

“Margie, does it say if he had any visitors while he was in prison?”

“A few.”

Margie held the printout. Liz took down the names: Hernandez’s mother, a woman named Cory Cartwright and Reverend Isaiah Wilson.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:

Christian Broadcast Complex, Orange County

Isaiah Wilson was kneeling on the marble floor, head bowed, hands clasped when Archer found him. Archer paused in the doorway of the small, unadorned, and darkened room before easing himself in. He stood against the wall and observed the man.

Wilson wore a dark, well-cut suit brightened by the starched white of his collar and cuffs and the sparkle of gold links in the French cuffs.  His hair was a tad long, luxurious and swept back as Archer had seen in his pictures.  His shoes were wing tips and, because he was kneeling, Archer saw that the soles and heels were new.  Archer didn’t feel an aura of spirituality the way he did when he walked into a Catholic church. There was nothing like a cathedral to make a guy feel humble but not insignificant. In this bare room Archer felt only the bare room. No icons - not even a cross - hung on the walls.  Isaiah Wilson was so lost in his prayer that it seemed he wouldn’t have noticed any of it anyway. But he did notice one thing; he noticed Archer.

“If you’d like to pray with me, you are welcome.”  He raised his head but did not face Archer immediately. Finally, he swiveled to reveal his profile, counted another beat and added, “If not, perhaps you could respect my prayer and wait in the lobby.”

“I don’t think this can wait,” Archer said, “even for God.”

Archer walked with The Reverend Isaiah Wilson down the hall, through the ornate lobby and into a studio. Wilson nodded to a cameraman, simultaneously raising a hand to someone Archer couldn’t see. The studio could have held three hundred people easy, but Archer knew there would be no audience.

“I am sorry to hear that Ms. Bates is missing. God works in mysterious ways.”

“You don’t sound particularly surprised,” Archer said.

“I have tried not to think of Ms. Bates over the years,” he said as he went about his housekeeping. “Duane, could you please bring the gladiolas in from the backroom?”

Somewhere, someone went to do his bidding. Archer heard crisp footsteps, doors opening and doors closing.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“In the courtroom.” Isaiah’s eyes met Archer’s and Archer was taken aback. The preacher’s gaze was piercing, and it wasn’t an affectation. If he were to tell Archer that he had second sight and that he could see deep into a heart and soul, Archer would believe him. The other thing Archer would have believed is that Isaiah Wilson would have little sympathy if he found a heart in pain or a soul in torment. This was not a man of great empathy.

“The last time I saw Ms. Bates she was embracing the man who raped and killed my daughter. She was smiling. She was victorious.”

The gladiolas arrived in a cut glass vase that Duane carried as reverently as if it held the blood of Christ.  The flowers reminded Archer of a funeral but his attention to them was fleeting. He refused to be put off by the trappings of this place.

“There’s been no contact? No interest in her?” Archer asked.

“I took note of her when I happened to see her written up in the press with one thing or another. I read an article that said she had adopted a young girl. A teenager.” Isaiah Wilson picked up a bible and walked with it toward a Plexiglas lectern. “At the time, I wondered how she would feel if that young girl went missing.”

“Probably the same way you did when your daughter disappeared.”

Those eyes flicked up. Archer thought he saw a tilt of the man’s wide thin lips, too.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Archer was the first to look away, and he did so without understanding why. A moment later he knew what it was. The look Wilson gave him was accusatory and righteous, and Isaiah was happy to hear bad news about Josie. Or was he pleased because Archer was there, and Josie’s disappearance wasn’t news at all? Perhaps he had been waiting for this moment, rehearsed for it, planned to have that cool attitude that said he was above this particular fray.

“Have you been in Hermosa Beach lately?” Archer asked.

Elegantly, Isaiah Wilson moved about his space, rearranging papers, opening his bible, and marking his place.  Finally, he stood behind the lectern, his hands resting lightly atop it as he gave Archer his undivided attention.

“I live in Orange County.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I know what your question is. I know what you want. You want me to tell you that I have harbored ill will toward Ms. Bates all these years. You want me to say that I blame her for standing between what was just and what is simply lawful. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t want to discuss your feelings,” Archer countered. “I don’t want to rehash old times.  Josie Bates and Erika Gardener are missing. They both had dealings with Xavier Hernandez. It is logical that I ended up on your doorstep, and it is logical that I ask if you know where one or both of them are.”

“And if I had anything to do with their disappearance?”

“There’s that.”

“The answer is no. I have not seen either woman. I do not know where they are. Ms. Gardener was a fine writer. She was an advocate for the families.”

“And Josie Bates?”

But in the end she is bitter as wormwood. Sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death, Her steps lay hold of hell. Let us ponder her path of life – her ways are unstable.  You do not know them.

Isaiah quoted the Bible solemnly, and then in what passed for a benign smile he added: “Proverbs.”

“You know where she is, don’t you?” Archer challenged.

“I do not, sir.”

“You know who might have done it, don’t you?”

“I do not, sir.”

“You know people who would like to see something bad happen to Josie, don’t you.”

“I do not, sir.”

“If you did, would you tell me?”

“I’m a man of God, am I not?”

“You’re the man who wrote the book on forgiveness and retribution. Which one would it be for Josie Bates?”

Archer was losing patience. Where did you go with someone like this? Someone who didn’t react, whose eyes didn’t shift, whose lips didn’t twitch?

“I suppose you’ll have to read the book,” Isaiah answered. Archer held the man’s gaze, not unaware that there was something going on behind them. “I suppose I should point out that ten years is a long time. Nothing I do could bring my daughter back, so why would I look for justice ten years after it was denied?”

“You think something happening to Josie would be justice?”

“I think whatever happens to Ms. Bates is of her own making, yes.” Isaiah was patient but Archer knew he didn’t have much time left.

“Did you know that Xavier Hernandez was released?”

“I received a letter.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I accept the system as it stands,” Isaiah said.

“Have you seen him?”

“No, and I doubt I will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’m sure,” Isaiah said.

“I’d like to look in your car, Reverend.”

Wilson stopped what he was doing. For the first time he seemed engaged and anxious. No, not anxious. The reverend was annoyed.

“And what would you be looking for?”

“I’m looking for a message from Xavier Hernandez.” The reverend raised an eyebrow.

“Reverend Wilson?” A young man came up beside the tall, older man. Archer looked at him and realized he was more than a tech guy; this one was a true believer. “We need to do sound checks.”

“Thank you, Richard,” Wilson said quietly.  The young man melted away and those eyes were on Archer again. “I’m sorry. I have nothing more to tell you, and I can’t ask you to stay. I do not preach to an audience.”

“No problem. I have a few things to do. Thanks for your time.”

There was nothing to be gained by pressing because this guy was cooler than the proverbial cucumber. Knowing he would have to go around the good reverend, Archer left him to preach to the camera and pray into a microphone.  Daniel Young had been right about Wilson. He had exploited an opportunity when it was presented, but at what price? It didn’t appear his heart had been hardened; it didn’t seem that he harbored any resentment.

With Isaiah Wilson lost in the bible lesson of the day, Archer turned and started for the door only to stop midstride as he caught site of the icon Isaiah Wilson prayed to. It was above the door, and in the preacher’s direct line of sight. It was not a cross but a picture of a long-suffering virgin: his daughter, Janey Wilson. Archer’s stomach lurched. A lot of people displayed huge, ornately framed pictures of their dead children, but this one was different; this one chilled Archer. Janey Wilson was not captured in a school photo, and this was not a picture of her near a lake or sitting by a tree in a happy moment. This picture was of Janey pale, pretty, young and dead. The morgue sheet was drawn up to cover her breasts, leaving her shoulders bare. Her eyes were closed and the bruises and swelling of her face evident. He could see the ragged wound where Hernandez had slashed her throat.

Slowly, Archer turned back toward the stage. Isaiah Wilson was lit with an ice-white spot. He stood straight, tall and avenging in his black suit. His silver hair glistened under the well-placed lights. His hands held his bible against his chest.

There wasn’t a lot that shook Archer, but that picture did. He had never much cared for Catholic holy cards, but at least those were some artist's rendering of beatific suffering; this was suffering and death at its harshest, cruelest, and most brutal. Isaiah Wilson seemed pleased, as if he found both satisfaction and amusement in Archer’s surprise and confusion.

“You’re welcome to look at my car,” Isaiah said again. “If you’ve seen everything you need to see here, that is.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:

An Outbuilding in the California Mountains

Josie’s fingers worked the knot in Erika Gardener’s bindings. Her shoulders hurt, her butt hurt, her head hurt, but she didn’t stop trying until Erika pulled her hands away and scooted back against the wall. The blond woman shook back her hair, and then did it again.

Josie stood, spread her legs and bent from the waist, stretching, trying to keep her muscles engaged, but they felt like jelly and she was light-headed. She cursed the drugs they had been given, the lack of food and water and the span of time she had lain unconscious in this heat.

It was getting harder to look at Erika because the woman was a mirror.  Josie knew her own clothes were dirty and sweat stained. Her hair was matted, too. Erika had worn make-up – Josie could still see flakes of mascara – but now she looked plain and tired the same way Josie did. The difference between them was that Josie was creating a strategy for escape, and Erika was just mad.

“You should have asked me,” Erika grumbled.

“What?” Josie put her back up against the bricks. She wanted to slide down to the ground but forced her knees to lock.

“You should have asked me before you dumped my water out.”

“I needed you awake.”

“I would rather be asleep. At least I wouldn’t be dying of thirst.” Erika picked at her skirt. It was cotton and tiered and had been expensive. She tired of her picking, rested her bound hands, and seemed to talk to them. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

“No. We’re not.”

Josie slid down the wall. Her knees were shaking. Awkwardly she swiped at her short hair, looked around the hut and thought there must be something she was missing.

“We’re not tied to a stake anymore. Pretty soon we’ll have our hands free.”

Erika tipped her head and licked her lips. She frowned. “And when we get our hands free, what are we going to do? Dig at the grout? That’ll take about forever.”

“We won’t have to. He’ll be back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. He has a plan, and he won’t stop until it’s done. Imagine what he had to go through to get us up here. Nobody who’s gone to that much trouble is just going to leave us. He wants something.”

“What?” Erika was more than annoyed.

Josie picked up the paper beside her. It was a plain white sheet with a photocopied picture from Xavier’s trial on it. Josie knew it was captured from a film clip. Still cameras had not been allowed in the courtroom, but the trial had been televised. At the time, Josie thanked her lucky stars for such exposure. It had been a PR coup. She had been so stupid back then. Still, she was grateful. She had something to use now because of those cameras. She shoved the paper in front of Erika again.