Twisted Justice (11 page)

After setting the clock alarm for 6:45 a.m., Steve fell into a fitful sleep. He woke the kids at seven, and packed the car. By the time they ate breakfast at a Waffle House off the interstate, the kids were clamoring to call Laura. Climbing back into the car, Steve told them she was on call and promised he would call her later at the hospital.

“Dad, can we call Mom at home right now?” asked Kevin. “Maybe she hasn't left for the hospital yet.”

“Bet she's worried about us,” Mike added.

Steve drummed the steering wheel. “How many times do I have to tell you to let me worry about your mother? I told you I will call her later. You know how she is at the hospital. Now, no more talking. I need quiet to think.”

“I still don't see why we have to go all the way to Michigan,” Nicole whined. “Why can't we just go home?”

“I just told you why,” Steve said sharply. “It's time we spent time with my side of the family.”

“But what about Mom?” Natalie went on.

“Look, Mom'll come up as soon as she can,” Steve shouted. “Now I want you to stop whining and shut up! Mike, get me the map out of the glove compartment.”

They drove in silence toward Michigan. Just after ten, Steve stopped at a gas station in Dalton, just south of the Georgia-Tennessee border. While the kids used the bathrooms, he called his father from the phone booth. He wanted to let him know where they
were now, and when they would get there tomorrow. It was over a twenty-hour trip and they would take it in pieces. Unlike last night, Steve told himself, tonight he'd get more than a few hours sleep.

He went into the restroom and doused his face with cold water. Even with the air-conditioning on at full blast, he'd been sweating profusely.

“My children are missing.” Laura sat slumped over the bare metal interrogation table. It was after ten, almost two hours since they'd found her with Kim Connor. Her head ached. Her eyes burned. “Don't you understand? I was looking for my children.”

Why wouldn't they stop badgering her? First those policemen back at Steve's house. Then these two detectives who showed up at Steve's and led her off in handcuffs to police headquarters on Tampa Avenue. In a blur, she was fingerprinted, probed, and photographed. They took away her purse, inventoried the contents, made her sign something, and removed the shoelaces from her sneakers. She was still wearing a tee shirt and cutoffs, and the air-conditioning made her shiver as she tried to answer the onslaught of questions. It was all being tape recorded. They told her that. The room was a perfect square with enough room for only a small table and four ancient chairs. The walls were painted a darkish green, reminding her of bile, bare except for a smudged rectangular mirror. The lone light fixture in the center of the ceiling was yellowed and chipped, making the light dim and uneven.

Detective Randy Goodnuf, the younger of the two detectives, was in his mid-thirties with thin sandy hair surrounding a patch of scalp that looked jaundiced in the bad light. Too skinny, he seemed extremely tense, tapping his feet, checking his watch, twisting his navy blue tie as he paced.

Detective Ramiro Lopez, the senior of the partners by several years, was his opposite, sitting quietly across the table from Laura. Jet black hair feathered back from his tanned, smiling face, he exuded charm. Dressed in an expensively tailored suit, he looked
more like a successful Hispanic businessman than an aggressive homicide detective. Tonight the detectives led with Lopez's disarming charm, but as the night wore on, everyone's tone changed.

“With all due respect, Dr. Nelson, we do have a dead woman to deal with first,” Goodnuf snarled.

So far all they'd gleaned from the interrogation was a fragmented story. Found the body. Knew the victim. Was looking for her husband and children. Separated from husband. Wasn't her gun. Didn't own a gun. Didn't know who did own the thirty-eight that lay by the body. Blood on her hands from trying to assess the victim.

Lopez held up two fingers — the victory sign — to his partner. “Okay, Dr. Nelson,” he said, “we understand that you're concerned. I have two boys of my own. Now, your husband picked up all five kids early yesterday morning, while you were still asleep. Is that right?”

“Yes.” Laura nodded weakly.

“Where do you think he took them?”

“I don't know. I thought they might be at his apartment. That's why I went there. I left several messages on his answering machine.”

“Answering machine?” Detective Lopez's eyebrows shot up. “Uh-huh, we'll follow that up.”

“So where were you before you went to your husband's apartment?” Goodnuf pressed.

“Just a minute, Randy,” said Lopez. “Let's try to help Dr. Nelson with her kids first.”

Goodnuf stepped back. “I've had enough of this runaround.”

“My partner's getting restless,” Lopez said as he rose from his chair, rolling it back against the wall and stretching his legs. “Now where do you think Mr. Nelson might be?”

“I told you —”

“Name all the places he might take the kids,” Goodnuf snapped.

“I've tried,” Laura said, pressing her hand to her temple. “The
only place I can think is my parents' in Sarasota, but they would have called me.”

“We'll call them,” Lopez said. “Has your husband ever done this before? Taken the kids away?”

“No, never.”

Goodnuf frowned. “Do you think he'd try to leave the area with them? He could be almost anywhere now. It's been about forty hours — according to your story, that is.”

“I … I don't know. I guess so.” She paused. “No, I don't think so.”

“Dr. Nelson, who was close to your husband?” Lopez sat down again. “Who would he go to?”

“I just don't know. He lost his job and the only —” She stopped herself from saying that his closest friend had been Kim Connor.

“The only what?” Goodnuf demanded.

“I … I don't know.”

“Dr. Nelson,” Lopez said quietly, “does your husband have any relatives?”

“His father lives in Michigan.”

Certainly, Steve would not head there. She hadn't even considered that. They'd hardly had any contact with his father since his mother died five years ago. Jim Nelson was a nice enough man, but a passive one, refusing to travel, preferring his own company. Why would Steve take them there? Then she remembered that remark in the park only last Saturday. “Don't push me into a corner,” Steve had said. Had that been a threat?

“Okay, why don't you tell me where in Michigan, so we can check it out?”'

Laura recited the Traverse City address of Steve's father.

“Anybody else in Michigan?”

“No, we used to live in Detroit, but that was almost eight years ago. There's no one there.”

“Okay,” said Lopez with a reassuring smile, “we'll check that
all out. In the meantime we have to ask you some other questions. Before I do, I want to remind you again of your right to remain silent, to have an attorney present, and if you can't afford one, the court will appoint one.”

Laura was impatient. “I don't need an attorney. I'm a doctor. I was trying to help. I've already told you that.”

Lopez handed her a printed Miranda warning and recited it again slowly and completely for the benefit of the tape recording. “I'd like to ask you to sign this. Just a formality.”

She glanced at it and signed without hesitation. Anything to get out of here.

A slight smile crept across Lopez's face. “Okay, now. First, would you tell us again why you went to your husband's place tonight?”

Laura sighed. “Because I thought my kids might be there.”

“I'm tired of this bullshit thing about kids,” Goodnuf broke in. “Why did you kill Kim Connor?”

For the eleventh time during the interrogation, Laura denied killing Kim, but this time she also offered more. As she gripped the table with both hands she said, “My husband was having an affair with her. That's why we separated. I didn't know that Kim would be there. I called her apartment and she wasn't home, but I did not know that she was at his.”

Then Laura slumped back into the chair and let her head sink onto the table, oblivious to her own wracking sobs.

Lopez and Goodnuf exchanged a “got-it” expression. They had plenty of evidence and now they had motive. Enough to hold her for the D.A.

“So why don't you just tell us exactly how it happened,” Goodnuf pressed. “When you found out this woman was involved with your husband, you decided to track her down and kill her?”

“No,” Laura cried, “that's not true! I told you she was dead when I got there.”

“But only your prints were on the gun,” Lopez bluffed. The print results would not be back until the next day.

Lopez sat silent as Laura stared into his dark eyes, her face entirely pale. “That can't be possible. I want to call a lawyer.”

“Of course,” he replied.

“Just one more question you can think about on the way over to the county jail,” Goodnuf went on. “If you didn't kill her, who did?”

Greg Klingman strode toward the Hillsborough County Jail wondering what his client's story would be. Cliff Casey from Tampa City Hospital — for whom he'd done a lot of legal work — had told him that a woman doctor had been charged with murder and found with the actual weapon right beside her. She'd even volunteered a motive. How the hell had a smart woman like this, a doctor no less, had the recklessness to blabber to the police without legal representation? How foolish people could be when caught off guard. And then there was the question of the missing children; the woman was nearly hysterical about them. On the phone, she said she hadn't committed the murder, of course. But, the celebrity girlfriend of her celebrity husband? Greg could plead her, but she'd probably still do time. Tough with all those kids.

The Nelson arraignment would be early, somewhere around nine o'clock, and Greg wanted to talk to Laura in person, hear her tell her story again before anyone else did. No doubt she'd pay for her careless loose tongue the night before. Now that the D.A. knew about her husband's affair with the deceased, he'd want murder one, and he'd want it to stick.

Greg walked into the county jail at eight, having stopped for a bagel and coffee on the way to his office to clear any urgent issues of the morning. He wanted to get to the courthouse as soon as its doors opened at nine to find out who would hear Laura's arraignment, and when. Thinking he'd have some time to question Laura in a holding cell, Greg was surprised to find that she'd already been
transported to the courthouse. So he had no choice but to plead her innocent as she'd insisted on the phone.

At forty-two, Greg had sandy, prematurely silver-streaked hair, slate gray eyes, and a strong face slightly marred by a smattering of shallow pocks from adolescent acne. He was six feet tall with an athletic build just starting to show traces of a paunch, and dressed the part of a successful lawyer. Until he met his fiancée, Celeste Marin, eighteen months earlier, he'd been a popular Tampa Bay bachelor.

Arriving at the massive courthouse at the intersection of Madison and Jefferson, Greg passed through security and learned that the Nelson case was assigned to Judge Stanley Potter. Greg knew him well. A big man, just past middle age, tough by reputation, especially with frequent offenders, but even his critics had to concede his sense of fairness. Greg recalled with some relief that the judge had a daughter around Laura's age, and that she had six children. That might bode well for Laura, as well as the fact that she was a solid figure in the Tampa medical community.

Greg soon learned that her case was first on the docket. So the district attorney's office had given it priority, not surprising since it was a sure media event. Potter's court held to a tight schedule, which meant all Greg could do was accompany Laura as they led her in to enter her plea. His client wore cutoff shorts and a tattered T-shirt with a large stylized ‘M'. University of Michigan, Greg surmised. As her handcuffs were removed, he looked down from her messy, ponytailed hair to the worn and laceless sneakers on her feet. This plumpish, disheveled blonde in clunky glasses was a hotshot thoracic surgeon?

“The State of Florida vs. Laura Nelson,” permeated the silence as Greg and Laura stood together in front of Judge Potter's bench.

Assistant D.A. Sandra Mulloy had risen from her seat to state the charges. All eyes shifted from the defendant's table, where Laura sat listless, to the statuesque woman who turned toward the judge.

Sandra, independently wealthy and aggressive, was the dread of Tampa defense attorneys. About Laura's age and single, she had yellow blonde hair that framed a sharp, narrow face. The A.D.A. had made her reputation by taking a particularly tough stance against women. Typically assigned to middle-class female defendants, she rarely failed to win a conviction.

Sandra's confident voice addressed the judge as she ticked off the salient points of the case. Found with a dead body. Found a Colt thirty-eight next to her. Just minutes earlier, test results had confirmed that only her fingerprints were on the gun. Motive established. “The State enters the charge of first degree murder, your Honor.”

“Defense Council, how do you plead?”

Judge Potter turned his bulky, robed body toward Laura, waiting for a response on her behalf from her attorney.

As they rose, Greg whispered to her, “You're sure?”

Panic crossed Laura's face as she nodded. Terribly pale, she rubbed her hands, now free of handcuffs, together.

“The defendant pleads ‘not guilty,' your Honor.”

As Greg and Laura sat down once more, the judge scrutinized Laura before proceeding. “On the matter of bail —” he began.

“The State requests no bail, your Honor,” Sandra interjected. “The charge is murder in the first degree and the defendant is an obvious flight risk. As a doctor, she's had an ample income which would afford her the means to flee.”