“You’re right, you’re no threat. There are officers everywhere here.”
“I’d like to speak with you, Jane,” I said. “I won’t take up a lot of your time.”
“You’re not talking to her at all,” Daria said.
“Jane is an adult,” I said. “I’m sure she can speak for herself.”
“Go on, tell her, Jane. Tell her you don’t want to talk to her.”
“Mom, would you just calm—”
“You can talk to our lawyer,” Daria interrupted. “We don’t need to talk to a friend of the murderer.”-She pulled Jane down the corridor. “Don’t talk to her,” I heard her tell Jane.
I hadn’t expected to be greeted warmly, but Daria’s antagonism was a bit of a surprise. I briefly contemplated following them but decided instead to return to the trial proceedings.
I should talk with Jane privately,
I thought as I reentered the courtroom.
And I’ll need to talk with Daria, too, but not through her lawyer I can see we’re not going to be friends.
Friends! I realized with a start that I hadn’t seen Betsy since I’d arrived back in Las Vegas. Martha hadn’t mentioned her, and I wondered what had happened to their friendship. I hoped Betsy was healthy and hadn’t gone broke playing the slots. I made a mental note to look her up and see how she was doing.
When I reclaimed my seat in the courtroom, the Kildare housekeeper, Isobel Alvarez, was on the stand. A plump Hispanic woman I judged to be in her early sixties, she had a cheerful face and spoke excellent English, albeit with a pronounced Spanish accent.
She said she’d been Mr. Kildare’s housekeeper for almost thirty years, and took every opportunity during the prosecutor’s questioning to speak highly of her deceased employer. Mr. Fordice introduced into evidence photographs of the Kildare house and grounds, and a to-scale schematic of the interior. Mrs. Alvarez confirmed that the exhibits accurately reflected the home, and came down from the witness stand to point to where she’d discovered Victor Kildare’s body in the shallow end of the pool. She cried while recounting this, and was handed tissues by the court clerk.
The questioning of the medical examiner and the housekeeper by both sides took longer than anticipated, which visibly annoyed the judge. He constantly admonished Nastasi and Fordice to pick up the pace of their direct and cross-examinations. But with a series of sidebars at the bench, and trouble getting the audio-visual equipment to work, the morning was consumed before Nastasi could finish his cross-examination of Isobel Alvarez. A one-hour lunch break was declared. Martha was led from the courtroom, and the jurors were warned by Judge Tapansky not to discuss the case among themselves nor with anyone else, and not to read any news accounts or watch TV reports about the case. There was no doubt in my mind that any juror violating the judge’s warning would be dealt with harshly. This was a tough man, a no-nonsense jurist.
I looked for Nastasi as I left the courtroom but he was nowhere to be seen. I went outside and was immediately approached by two women who asked for my autograph. I obliged them, but was flustered at the request. I certainly didn’t expect to be singled out by autograph seekers. In a sense, it was offensive. A woman’s life was at stake, hardly a situation calling for autographs.
I looked over to where Court TV’s mini-mobile studio was set up and saw Nastasi being interviewed by correspondent Beth Karas; a dozen people looked on. I joined them and heard Nastasi say in response to a question, “The state’s case is purely circumstantial, no eyewitnesses, no forensic evidence except for fibers from a glove that could have come from any gloves like the ones Martha Kildare owned, and could have been worn by anyone. The police decided right away that Martha was the murderer; they never even bothered looking at other suspects, including a rogues’ gallery of Victor’s business associates who might have had reason to kill him.”
The anchor in New York, Rikki Klieman. a beautiful and bright former prosecutor and defense lawyer who anchored the cable network’s midday show,
Both Sides,
asked Nastasi about Martha’s lack of an alibi.
He replied, “Can anybody believe that hostess, Ms. McGinnis, when she claims she never leaves her post and would have remembered if Martha was there? Does she mean to say she never even goes to the bathroom? Come on. Give me a break. I know she was lying, and
you
know she was lying.”
Nastasi was thanked for his appearance and freed from his electronic tethers. He spotted me, took me by the arm, and hustled me to his office, followed by a few persistent members of the press to whom he threw pithy sound bites about the morning’s testimony. His secretary, Evelyn, had arranged sandwiches, salads, and drinks on a table in a small conference room.
“Victor, Martha wants a change of clothes for court tomorrow,” Evelyn said after we’d settled at the table.
“So bring ’em to her.” To me: “Evelyn’s been keeping Martha in clothes ever since the trial started. The only time prisoners can wear street clothing is for a court date, and they’re only allowed one set of clothes at a time.”
“I’m up to my neck trying to get this motion done, Vince,” Evelyn said.
“Pretty neck,” Nastasi corrected.
Evelyn sighed. “The point is—”
“Could
I
bring Martha a change of clothes?” I asked.
Nastasi’s face screwed up in thought. “I don’t see a problem with it. It’s really supposed to be a member of the family that does that, but technically Martha’s only relative here is Jane, and she’s declined to cooperate. In fact, I understand she hasn’t gone near the house since the murder.”
“Where is she living?” I asked.
“She spends part of her time with her mother in Henderson—I saw the mother with her in court this morning—and some time with a boyfriend over by the country clubs. In lieu of family, we’ve been sending Evelyn out to Martha’s house to get her clothing from Mrs. Alvarez.”
“I’d be happy to run that errand for you as long as it’s all right with Martha, and Mrs. Alvarez doesn’t object,” I said.
“That’s easily solved. I’ll talk to Martha this afternoon. If she agrees, Evelyn will notify Mrs. Alvarez.”
“Well, I’m glad that’s taken care of,” Evelyn said, picking up a can of soda and a plate.
“You’ll have to wait to call Alvarez, Evelyn. We’ve got her on the stand this afternoon.”
“I can call her later on, and leave a message at your hotel,” she said, addressing me.
“That sounds fine,” I said. “Thank you.”
She took a sandwich from the platter on the table and left us alone in the conference room, closing the door as she exited.
“It would be a lot easier if I were a member of the defense team, wouldn’t it?” I asked.
“I don’t think you need to join the defense team just to pick up a suit of clothes.”
“Could I join the defense team?”
He studied my face. “You’d have to be cleared by the judge.”
“What would I do if I worked with you?”
He shrugged and bit off a piece of tuna on rye. “You serious?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Well, first of all, you’d be expected to sit with the defense in the courtroom. You could visit Martha in jail anytime instead of being limited by the social visiting hours. Of course, it would also mean that you’d have to participate in defense strategy meetings and pretty much sign on for the duration of the trial. You couldn’t take off back to Maine when you got tired or bored.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever been bored in my entire life,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too full of myself, “and I’m pretty healthy, so fatigue is not a factor.”
“Why would you want to join the defense team, other than that Martha is an old friend?”
“That’s the chief reason, of course, and that I’m convinced of her innocence,” I replied. “And it’s not that I don’t have complete confidence in your handling of the case.”
Nastasi raised an eyebrow at me.
“I’d just like to contribute in a more tangible way than I have.”
“It’s an interesting idea. Why don’t we do this: I’ll check with the court to get a feel for the judge’s response to the idea, and you think it over this afternoon.”
“Fair enough.” I took a bite of my chicken salad sandwich and chewed slowly, wondering if I’d taken leave of my senses. I’m not a lawyer, not a licensed private investigator, not a paralegal, not even a law student. What would the judge think of this request?
“Very clever, Jessica,” Vince said, breaking into my reverie, “going out to the Winners’ Circle to see whether Ms. McGinnis told the truth when she said she never left her post. Did she? Leave her post?”
“She certainly did,” I said. “When I arrived, she was in the kitchen arguing with a chef. I had dinner. When I left, she was at the bar chatting with a customer. She never saw me.”
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and a small smile crossed his lips. When he came forward again, he said, “So you’d like to become part of the team.”
“If you think I could be of help.”
“You’ll testify to what you experienced last night at the restaurant?”
“Will I be allowed to if I’m in the courtroom every day sitting at the defense table?”
“I can work it out with Judge Tapansky.”
He leaned into the center of the table and pushed down a button on the intercom. “Evelyn, when you finish your sandwich, pull up the motion we used to add Cale Marx to the defense of the Squillante case. Run it again with Mrs. Fletcher’s name on it. Same justification we used for Marx. Have Tommy file it later today with Tapansky’s clerk.”
“You don’t want to wait?” I asked.
“Do you?”
I grinned at him and shook my head. “I’m ready.”
“By the way, Evelyn,” he shouted into the intercom, “Mrs. Fletcher will be joining us for the duration.”
Evelyn’s voice came on. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thanks,” I said. “What’s next, Vince?”
“Eat your lunch. Hang around the courtroom this afternoon. With any luck, you’ll be sitting with your friend tomorrow at the defense table.”
Chapter Nine
Nastasi continued his cross-examination of Isobel Alvarez after lunch.
That morning, when Fordice had gotten into Mrs. Alvarez’s perception of the state of the marriage between Victor and Martha, the housekeeper had indicated that Mr. Kildare was away from home a great deal, and that Mrs. Kildare often expressed her displeasure at his absence.
“Did you ever see Mrs. Kildare threaten to harm her husband?” Fordice asked.
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Alvarez replied. “She was not that kind of woman.”
Fordice had violated a basic rule of witness questioning, and he knew it—never ask a question when you don’t know what the answer will be. He recouped nicely, however, by shifting his line of questioning to the silver lamé slot machine gloves owned by the defendant. Yes, the housekeeper was aware of the gloves. She finished by saying that the day before the murder, Martha had been searching for them. Mr. and Mrs. Kildare were planning to go to the casino. “She said she didn’t want to go gambling without her good-luck gloves.”
“No further questions,” Fordice said, turning the witness over to Nastasi for cross-examination. Her comment that Martha was not “that kind of woman” had opened the door for Nastasi to delve into how Mrs. Alvarez perceived the defendant. She confirmed she’d never seen any signs of violence in the marriage, but did offer that she sometimes saw a look Martha’s eyes that disturbed her. Nastasi promptly asked the judge to strike the comment: “The witness isn’t in a position to judge people by looking into their eyes,” he said.
“Please don’t offer your opinions, Mrs. Alvarez,” Judge Tapansky said from the bench. “Just answer the attorney’s questions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No further questions, Your Honor,” said Nastasi, resuming his seat at the defense table.
Oliver Smith was the next witness to take the stand. He moved smoothly through the courtroom, took the oath to be truthful administered by the court clerk, and settled his bulky, weight-lifter body into the witness chair. He had a soft face with round cheeks, suggesting that some of the weight he carried was fat, not muscle. His expression was soft, too, nonthreatening, which might have led some people to believe he wasn’t tough, a fact contradicted by his multiple arrests and two assault convictions.
Fordice established Smith’s relationship to the victim and the defendant, then asked where Smith had been the afternoon of the murder.
“Helping Mrs. Kildare move furniture.”
“The defendant?”
“No. Mr. Kildare’s former wife, Cindy Kildare. His third. The one before the defendant.”
“Do you often help the former Mrs. Kildare with chores, Mr. Smith?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“With Mr. Kildare’s approval?”
“Yeah, that’s right. He kept in pretty good contact with his other wives.”
“You were there all afternoon helping Cindy Kildare move furniture?”
“That’s right.”
“Was anyone else with you and Cindy?”
“No. Just the two of us.”
“And she confirmed to the police that you were at her house during the time of the murder.”
“That’s right.”
Fordice shifted gears and asked about the wrench used to kill Victor, taking it from the evidence clerk and displaying it for Smith and the jury.
“That wrench was always kept in a toolbox by the pool pump and heater,” Smith said. “I used it a lot to tighten things up.”
“Did you ever see the defendant use that wrench?”
Smith thought for a moment before replying, “As a matter of fact, I did. A couple of days before she killed Victor.” He swiveled in his chair to look at Martha.
“Objection!” Nastasi said, jumping to his feet.
“Sustained,” the judge said. “The jury will disregard that comment from the witness.”
Under further questioning by the prosecutor, Smith recounted seeing Martha a day or two prior to the murder sitting by the pool, the wrench in her hand. “She seemed really mad,” Smith said. “She was banging the wrench on the arm of the chaise she was sitting on.”