Free Hostile Witness by Rebecca Forster

probe.
    “Do you know my mom really well?”
    “I did a long time ago.”
    “Did you know she gave up being a pro volleyball player so she could have me?”
    Josie inclined her head.  Josie didn’t care about that little bit of fiction, but she noted the point of it:  Hannah the child wanted to be life-changingly important to her mother. That was something Josie understood better than anyone on earth.  In Hannah’s case she probably had been, just not the way she thought.
    “So, are you sure Kip isn’t going to do something for me?” Hannah suddenly demanded.
    “Yes, I am.”
    Hannah nodded.  Her fingers were tapping. Twenty. Then her left hand covered her right and stroked the mottled skin. Twenty.  Josie’s muscles tightened in annoyance. It was hard to watch, this lack of self-control.
    “There’s another question.” Hannah said finally.  “I want to know if you think I’m crazy?”
    Josie eyed her coolly and answered honestly.
    “I don’t know.  I haven’t talked to your doctor.”
    “I mean from what you’ve seen? Counting and touching stuff.  Do you think that’s crazy?” The tapping began again.
    “No, that doesn’t fit the legal description of insanity if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “Are you sure?” Restless and troubled, Hannah’s hands moved a mile a minute.
    “Why would you want me to think you’re crazy, Hannah? Why would you want anyone to think that?” Josie asked, trying to read between Hannah’s lines.
    “Because if I was crazy they couldn’t say I murdered Fritz, could they?”
    Josie finally got it. This girl was thinking ahead, figuring ways to get herself out of this predicament. Her permutations were flawed, but Josie found the exercise to be extraordinarily clear headed for someone so young.
    She had done the same thing when her mother disappeared; planned her own destiny, planned how to find Emily.   In the end Josie failed to find her mother and learned that destiny had a will of its own.  If nothing else, Josie understood and empathized with Hannah Sheraton. When she spoke again, Josie committed herself more deeply than she intended.
    “Hannah,” Josie said evenly. “I want you to listen to me very carefully.  I can review the information the District Attorney has, and try to get the charges dismissed. If I can’t make that happen, you will be indicted for murder. Then you’ll have a choice: plead guilty, plead to a lesser charge, or we can fight.
    “If we fight don’t think for me. Don’t try to beat this system on your own because it can’t be done.  Knocking on wood and twirling your hair doesn’t constitute an insanity defense. Do you understand that?”
    Hannah listened, thinking hard, weighing the worth of Josie’s advice against that of other adults she knew. Finally she made a decision.  Slowly she brought her hands from under the table, unbuttoned the cuffs on her jumpsuit and deliberately rolled up her sleeves - ten rolls each. Twenty in all.
    Hannah held up her arms. At first Josie’s eyes were drawn to her hands. Then she saw what Hannah was offering. On the delicate skin of her forearms was a web of scars and welts, red scratches and deep cuts, some viciously fresh. Josie took a deep breath and forced herself not to look away.
    “Does this count for crazy?” Hannah asked, holding out what she considered to be her ticket to freedom.
    “No, Hannah.  It doesn’t count for crazy.” Josie whispered.
    Hannah’s expression changed, the hope drained away, the light in her eyes dimmed. She didn’t seem as much disappointed as sadly accepting. Lowering her arms Hannah rolled her sleeves down, buttoned the cuffs, buried her hands beneath the table and started knocking the underside again.
    One, two, three. . .ten. . .twenty.
     

7
     
    Archer: “So? How’d it go?”
    Josie:  “She needs help.”
    Archer: “And?”
    Josie:  “Bail hearing’s tomorrow.”
    Archer:  “You going to be there?”
    Josie: