Ms. Karas was a very attractive strawberry blonde. Because I do tune in to Court TV from time to time, depending upon the trial being broadcast, I was familiar with the faces of all its anchors and reporters. But I’d never met any of them. Ms. Karas greeted me graciously and indicated a chair next to her. I sat down, and a technician inserted an earpiece in my left ear and attached a tiny microphone to my blouse. As soon as the tech was out of camera range, Ms. Karas looked into the lens and said, “I have with me the noted mystery writer J. B. Fletcher, who’s attending the trial of Martha Kildare. Welcome, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Thank you.”
“I understand that you’re here because of a long-standing friendship with the defendant.”
“That’s right. Martha and I were friends for many years in Cabot Cove, Maine, where I still live. She is one of the sweetest, gentlest people I know.”
“Have you spoken with your friend since arriving in Las Vegas?”
“No, but I will a little later this afternoon.”
“Do you expect to be called as a witness, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“No. In fact, Mr. Nastasi said that—” I stopped myself. What Nastasi and I discussed was no one’s business, certainly not to be broadcast on national TV.
A voice with a Southern accent filled my ear: “Mrs. Fletcher, this is Nancy Grace in New York. You started to say that Mr. Nastasi indicated something about you possibly being a defense witness.”
I saw her picture on a small TV screen in front of me. She, too, was a familiar face, a former Atlanta prosecutor, attractive, vivacious.
“I misspoke,” I said. “I’m not scheduled to testify.”
“Any professional reasons for being here, Mrs. Fletcher?” she asked. “You are, after all, a noted mystery writer and someone who’s solved her own share of real-life murders.”
“That’s true. But I have no professional reasons for being here. I simply came to lend emotional support to a dear friend who is in very serious trouble.”
A few minutes later I was unplugged, thanked profusely for agreeing to appear, and in a taxi with blessed air-conditioning on my way back to the hotel. There I walked through the casino and took the elevator to my penthouse suite. Similar in style to the one in which Martha and I had spent a quiet hour the evening of her wedding, my suite, too, overlooked the huge artificial lake with fountains that erupted into a dramatic display day and night. The “dancing fountains,” Martha had called them when we’d drawn our chairs up to the picture window, sipped our tea, and watched the dazzling water show. I remembered how excited Martha had been to show me her lovely suite, and felt a little like a princess myself in such surroundings. The suite’s comfort and tranquil décor helped me forget, at least for a few minutes, the grim reason why I was in Las Vegas.
But that changed a half hour later when I left the Bellagio to visit Martha in jail, something I both looked forward to and dreaded.
Chapter Six
A taxi dropped me in front of the Clark County Detention Center, a nondescript downtown building. The blistering Las Vegas sun reflected off its cream-colored walls and poured through the square openings in the large pergola that partly shaded the tiled approach to the front door.
Visiting the local jail did not promise to be an uplifting experience. Then again, no jail is. I’d seen my share of them and found the pervasive sadness of lives lost to be demoralizing. For Martha, a woman whose life had been sheltered from deprivation, to find herself among the human wreckage of lives steeped in squalor, crime, and degradation must have been overwhelming.
I climbed the stairs, passing an elderly couple hunched over on a wooden bench outside, nervously dragging on cigarettes. A man in paint-splattered overalls dozed, leaning against the building, pale lines on his face where sweat dripped from his forehead and ran down his cheeks. I pulled the door open and held it for a mother and her teenage daughter, who were arguing about the younger woman’s attire as they left the building.
“I tole you they wouldn’t let you in to see him in that outfit,” the mother said as they walked past me. “Didn’t ya read the rules? Nothin’ low-cut. No skin showin.’ Now we gotta go all the way back home.”
The lobby was crowded, but mercifully cool. I waited in one of two lines in front of a long glass partition, behind which a uniformed policewoman and a civilian employee logged required data and distributed orange badges that identified authorized visitors.
I’d spoken with Martha several times since Victor’s death, the first time when I’d phoned to offer my condolences right after hearing the news of his “accident.” Media reports had indicated only that wealthy businessman Victor Kildare had died of an injury suffered at his swimming pool. His wife was said to be in seclusion. I knew that Martha would be distraught, and called only to leave a message. But she came on the line immediately when whoever answered the telephone told her I was calling from Maine.
“Jessica, I’m so glad it’s you.”
“I really don’t know what to say about Victor, Martha, except to tell you how sorry I am. And shocked. What a dreadful accident. He was such a vital, healthy man. You must be terribly distressed. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I can’t talk right now, Jessica. There are too many people here.” Her voice lowered. “But, Jessica, we must talk soon. The police think—”
I heard someone interrupt her. “Yes, of course,” Martha said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Martha, you started to say that—”
“I have to go, Jessica. I’m sorry. I’m so grateful you called. Please try to understand. I’ll call you as soon as I get a chance.”
She’d hung up before I could question her further. She’d never called me back and my calls to her went unanswered. I learned of her arrest the same way I’d found out about Victor’s death—through the media. Once Martha was in custody, it was difficult to reach her. I tried to find out who was representing her, but she switched lawyers several times. Finally I read of her pending trial and contacted the lawyer whose name appeared in the newspaper. And now I was in Las Vegas about to see her face-to-face.
“Inmate’s ID number?” the female police officer asked when I finally reached the glass partition.
I unfolded the slip of paper Mr. Nastasi had given me with Martha’s identification number and read it off.
“You’ll have to leave your handbag in the locker.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You have a driver’s license or other photo ID?”
I handed her my passport.
She looked up at me inquisitively.
“I don’t drive,” I said. “I’ve gotten used to carrying my passport for just such occasions.”
“Got a lot of occasions like this?”
“Not really,” I said, “but I was a Girl Scout. Boy Scouts aren’t the only ones who’re prepared.”
She laughed and pinned my passport on a pegboard behind her desk, exchanging it for an orange badge. “After you get rid of your bag, go through the metal detector.” She pointed to my right. “And wait till they call you.”
I walked to a bank of lockers and deposited my handbag in an open one, twisting the key in the gray metal door to lock it. Above the cabinet was a black sign with the rules to which the mother with the teenager had referred. In addition to the hours posted for “Social Visiting,” there was detailed information on “Sign-In,” “Allowable Items on Visit,” “Dress Code,” and reasons for “Denial of Visits,” chief among the long list, “Inappropriate Dress.”
Across the lobby, several workers set off the alarm as they passed through the gray metal detector trimmed with bright blue paint. I checked my pockets for anything that might trigger the machine before walking through the opening, and stood on the side, waiting for my name to be called.
“Mason, Abernathy, Fletcher, Gonzales.”
The orange badges were distributed and I joined those standing in front of a large glass door, framed in the same electric blue a
s the metal detector. I wondered if there was supposed to be a psychological reason for using this strange hue, or if some paint contractor had simply found an easy outlet for getting rid of an unwanted color by splashing it all over the county jail.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Officer Pirro,” our uniformed escort announced. “You will follow me, and not stop for any reason, unless I tell you to. If a prisoner is being walked through the halls, I may ask you to stand against the wall, out of the way, until I say it’s safe to walk again. You are to follow my instructions immediately. Anyone not following instructions will be ushered out and not permitted to return. Understood?” He looked from face to face for acknowledgment before pressing a button on the side of the blue frame. A guard inside responded to the signal, releasing the pneumatically controlled door, which sprang open with a hiss.
Officer Pirro walked backward, keeping his eyes on us. We trailed him down the hall to the elevator bay. “Visitors for Three B,” he called out when we entered the elevator. There were no buttons in the cab, only an intercom and a camera behind a protective glass panel.
“The elevator is controlled by the command center,” Pirro explained. “You can get on, but you can’t get off without me.”
“Prisoners coming up to Three B,” said a voice over the intercom. “Hold your visitors till they’re processed.”
The elevator arrived at the third floor. We got off and followed Pirro into the hall. “Stand against the wall, please,” he said.
We lined up quietly and waited. I could hear another elevator door open, and then three women shuffled past us, accompanied by a guard. Their wrists and ankles were manacled and connected to a chain belt, and they were tethered together by more chain. Their prison garb consisted of navy blue pants and matching smocks with CCDC stenciled on the back. On their feet were orange socks and tan flip-flops, the kind of footwear, I assumed, that would make it difficult, if not impossible, to run once the shackles were removed.
I studied the faces of prisoners as they passed. Even though it was hard to see beyond the heavy makeup or the lines of fatigue and taut expressions that marked their faces, they were very young, two of them barely out of their teens. With a whole lifetime of possibilities before them, they had made poor choices, only to end up in jail, looking weary and defeated. I hoped the experience would discourage them from repeating those mistakes in the future, but I knew that was a long shot. Once started on a path of crime, only a strong individual can break the pattern.
We watched the guard escort his charges through another pneumatic glass door that led to the women’s quarters, and waited while he unlocked the chains and turned his prisoners over to the unit guards.
Glass doors and windows allowed a clear view into the crowded women’s unit. A dozen cots were lined up in each of the two common areas flanking the guardroom, every one occupied. “Full house these days,” Pirro said of the crowded conditions. Meal trays had recently been distributed, and the women lounged on the cots or sat cross-legged while eating, or ignored the food altogether. I searched the faces for Martha and was grateful when I didn’t see her. Maybe she was lucky enough, or infamous enough, to be in one of the cells surrounding the common space.
Officer Pirro took us through the pneumatic door and up a flight of metal stairs to the visitors’ area.
“Please take a seat. We’ll be bringing up the inmates in a few minutes.”
We filed into a narrow room with a bank of booths on our left. A glass wall separated them from matching booths on the prisoners’ side. The partitions between the booths were covered in tan carpeting to muffle the sound, and trimmed in the vivid blue I was becoming accustomed to seeing. Stainless-steel disks perched on chrome columns secured to the concrete floor served as stools. Communication through the glass wall was either by telephone or intercom. I chose a booth with a telephone, hoping that device would provide a modicum of privacy.
Ten minutes later, the first inmate arrived, peering in each booth to find her visitor. One by one, the women took their seats on the cold stools and picked up the telephone receiver or pressed the intercom button. There was a buzz of conversation, not completely concealed by the partitions. Martha was the last one in. She slid onto the seat and lifted the phone, familiar by now with the routine.
“Jessica, thank you so much for coming. I’m embarrassed to be talking with you in such a place.”
“Martha, I tried to reach you many times,” I said.
“I know. Please forgive me. I was so humiliated to be in here, and then so depressed. I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone but my lawyer. God, it’s grim in here.”
“Are you all right? I mean, do they mistreat you?”
“No. It’s just that—” She started to weep, sat up straight, drew some deep breaths, and forced a smile at me through the glass. “I’m sorry. I haven’t cried for weeks, but seeing you...” She trailed off.
“No need to be sorry. Martha. I certainly understand.”
“I’m so grateful you’re here.”
“I wish I had something to offer, could say some magic word that would end this nightmare for you.”
“Yes, that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? A magic word. I’m afraid there isn’t one. At first I couldn’t believe anyone would think I could murder Victor, could murder anyone. I thought, There must be a mistake. It’s me, little Martha Ames from Canton, Ohio, cheerleader, starring actress in the senior play, then doctor’s wife, widow, and finally married to the most generous man in the world.” She inhaled deeply again. “But there was no mistake. They think I killed Victor. They say I hit him in the head with a wrench. And no one believes me when I say I didn’t, that I wasn’t even there when he died.” She shuddered. “I can’t thank you enough for being here, Jessica. I need your help desperately.”
“Whatever I can do. You know that.”
“You believe me when I say that I didn’t kill Victor, don’t you?”
“Of course I believe you.”
“Everyone in here claims they’re innocent. The guards think it’s a joke. But I swear to you I didn’t kill him.”
I nodded. I meant it when I said I believed her. For years I’d known this woman to be a kind and gentle person, certainly not someone capable of murder. But I also had to recognize that I knew virtually nothing of her life since she moved to Las Vegas and married Victor Kildare. My belief in Martha Kildare was based solely upon my faith in her, hardly the sort of thing that would help establish her innocence in a court of law.
Martha’s smile was rueful as she said, “The silly things we say that come back to haunt us. Can you believe the prosecution put on my hairdresser and manicurist as witnesses today?”
“Makes you hesitate to talk to anyone. What had happened to make you so angry?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Victor and I must have had a fight. We didn’t fight often, but when we did, they could become big blowups. He had a temper and didn’t like to be challenged. I was probably upset with him for leaving me alone so much. That’s what we argued about the most—his business travel. He could be so unreasonable and he was very much the chauvinist. That was a bit of a surprise to me after we were married.”
“What do you mean?”
“He really wanted me to be a stay-at-home wife. It would have been fine if he’d been around more. But I got bored and lonely when he was away. Jane was hostile, Oliver ignored me, and our housekeeper was busy all day. I wanted to work, and he was against it. I told him I didn’t want to be just another decoration in his life, pulled out for a business party or to play with when he dropped in. He didn’t like that.”
“I imagine not.”
“I don’t remember venting at the beauty parlor. I’m usually more circumspect than that. But if I arrived there right after one of our arguments, I could have said what they say I did. But I certainly didn’t mean it. You know how we say things like that and don’t mean it.”
“Yes, I know. What caused the police to focus in o
n you so quickly, Martha? Did they investigate other possible suspects?”
“Hardly at all. Nastasi says it’s a classic rush to judgment on the part of the authorities.”
“Well, we’ll just have to help Nastasi find the proof of that,” I said.
Martha looked at me for a long time. “I’m glad you believe me, Jessica. Two of my lawyers didn’t. They didn’t say it, but I could tell. That’s why I fired them.”
“I knew you’d changed lawyers. Every time I tried to contact you, and managed to reach the person I thought was your lawyer, you had moved on to someone else.”
“I can’t deal with anyone who thinks I’m a killer.” She shivered.
“Martha, what evidence do they have against you?”
“I am not a murderer.”
“I know that, but your attorney has to prove it to a jury, or at least make that jury decide that the prosecution hasn’t proved its case beyond a reasonable doubt. All it takes is one juror to come to that conclusion. You don’t have to share anything with me, Martha. Your attorney, Mr. Nastasi, is the one who—”
“Oh, no, Jessica, I want to share it with you. Everything!”
“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”
“Where shall I start?”
“Start on the day of the murder. When did you last see Victor? What kind of mood was he in? What kind of mood were you in?”
“Oh, Jessica, we were so happy.” She fought against another bout of crying. “At least, I thought we were.”
“I’m listening.”
Martha related the details of their last day together. Victor had been home a lot that month, and they were rediscovering each other, rekindling the sparks that had led to their marriage. Martha had convinced Victor that it was time for him to fly her to London for their honeymoon they’d never had, and he’d agreed. He regaled her with all the places he was going to take her and all the people he was going to introduce to her.
“He’d been spending a lot of time in the pool,” she said into the telephone connecting me to her. “He had a shoulder that was giving him trouble. His rotator cuff. Oliver had recommended swimming as a kind of physical therapy.
You Bet Your Life Page 6