“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 displa
ying 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.”
Martha leaned over and whispered in Nastasi’s ear.
“So you saw her with the murder weapon in her hand?” Fordice continued.
“Yes, I did.”
“And did she know you’d seen her with the wrench?”
“Objection,” Nastasi called out. “The witness cannot know what the defendant is thinking.”
“Sustained. Restate the question, Mr. Fordice.”
“Did the defendant look at you while she was holding the wrench?”
“Yeah. She got all flustered when she saw me, and said she was just about to put it away.”
Fordice next did a smart thing: He raised the question of Smith’s criminal record, rather than allowing Nastasi to do it. Smith acknowledged having been twice convicted of assault, but claimed it was the result of his duties as a bouncer at various nightclubs in New York.
“This was prior to your being hired by Victor Kildare. Correct?” Fordice asked.
“Correct.”
“And that was twelve years ago. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Your witness, Mr. Nastasi.”
“Mr. Smith, did anyone other than Cindy Kildare see you when you went to her house to help her move furniture?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t meet anybody, if that’s what you mean.”
“So there are no other witnesses to place you at Cindy Kildare’s house?”
“Cindy knows I was there. She wouldn’t have been able to move her couch without me,” he said, laughing and looking at the jury.
“How far away is Cindy’s house from the Kildare estate? How long did it take you to drive there?”
“Objection!” Mr. Fordice shouted. “The witness is not on trial here, Your Honor. He has already established his whereabouts to the satisfaction of the police.”
“Sustained. Do you have any other questions for this witness, Mr. Nastasi?”
“Mr. Smith, isn’t it true that Mrs. Kildare, the defendant, complained to you that a nail was sticking up in the arm of the chaise? And didn’t she ask you to repair it?”
“I don’t have any such recollection.”
“You don’t remember her telling you that she scratched her arm on the nail?”
“No, sir.”
“And you don’t remember her asking you several times to repair the chaise.”
“No. I don’t remember that at all.”
Nastasi continued to question Oliver for a few more minutes. He brought up Smith’s criminal record again and established that the nightclubs in which he’d been employed as a bouncer were strip clubs. Other than that, there was little else to probe during cross-examination. Smith was excused and left the courtroom, smiling at Fordice and his assistants as he passed the prosecution table.
Following a fifteen-minute afternoon recess, Judge Tapansky told Fordice to call his next witness.
“Your Honor,” Fordice said, “there’s been a slight mixup in schedules. Our next witness is Kay Bergl from the state forensic lab. There’s been a miscommunication. Ms. Bergl was told she’d be testifying tomorrow. Therefore—”
“In other words, Mr. Fordice, your next witness isn’t here,” the judge said in a growl.
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“I’m responsible for moving trials along, Mr. Fordice. Not having your witness in place doesn’t help me do that. I suggest you get your act together and have her here first thing tomorrow.”
“Yes. sir.”
Judge Tapansky summarily dismissed the jury, got out of his chair, and stalked from the courtroom. The guard came to lead Martha away, but Nastasi asked him to wait. “Jessica,” he called to me. “The judge has agreed to hear us out about your joining the defense team.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Martha chewed her lip. “He doesn’t seem in a very good mood.”
“Not unusual, but his bark is worse than his bite,” Nastasi said, stuffing papers into his briefcase.
“I’m so afraid he’ll say no,” she said to me. “What will we do then?”
“Let’s see what he says and then decide.”
“Come on,” Nastasi said. “He’ll only give us a few minutes.”
Judge Tapansky’s chambers seemed surprisingly small to me. Maybe it was because he was such a big man. As his law clerk led us in, the judge was hanging his black robe on a coat tree.
“Thanks for seeing us, Judge,” Nastasi said.
Tapansky didn’t respond as he sat behind his desk and waved his hand toward matching red leather chairs across from him. Martha and I sat down. “Where’s Shelby?” he asked his clerk.
“Right here, Your Honor,” Fordice said, rushing in.
The clerk set up two folding chairs for Nastasi and Fordice and went to stand in the corner by the bookcase in case the judge needed his services. The guard assigned to Martha leaned against the closed door, arms folded, handcuffs dangling from his belt. With seven people crowded into the judge’s chambers, the atmosphere was charged. I found myself holding my breath, and made an effort to relax my shoulders and breathe.
The judge picked up a document from his desk, frowned as he quickly looked at the cover page, tossed it down, and asked, “So what’s this about Mrs. Fletcher wanting to be on the defense team?”
I felt Fordice stare at me, but kept my gaze on the judge.
“This is Jessica Fletcher, Judge,” Nastasi said.
“A pleasure,” Tapansky said. “I’ve read some of your books. I like them. You do good research. My wife—the late Mrs. Tapansky—liked your books, too. So why do you want to work with the counselor here?”
“Martha Kildare is a friend of long standing, Your Honor,” I said, looking at Martha and then back to the judge. “I came to Las Vegas from Maine to help her if I can. So far, all I’ve been able to do is offer to deliver a change of clothes to her in jail. I’d really like to do more, and I think I can help the defense team.”
Nastasi consulted his notes and added, “Besides writing best-selling murder mysteries, Judge, Mrs. Fletcher taught criminology at Manhattan College. She’s been personally involved in some complex and high-profile murders over the years. You point out that she does good research for her books. I think she can do the same for me in this case. She has the right instincts, is willing, and frankly, Judge, I can use all the help I can get.”
Martha started at Nastasi’s comment but kept silent.
“You’ll sit at the defense table?” the judge asked.
Nastasi answered for me: “I’d like her to be close by.”
“Mrs. Kildare, is this what you want, too?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Martha said, her voice trembling. “I haven’t lived in Las Vegas very long, and I have no family here and few friends. There’s my stepdaughter, of course, but Jane ... she ... well, she doesn’t think of me as her family. Mr. Nastasi is a fine attorney, of course. I appreciate all he’s done, but...” She shook her head, fighting back tears. “It’s very important to me, Your Honor, to have someone working with my attorney, someone in an official capacity, someone I know, someone who believes in me and knows what kind of person I am. Jessica has been so generous in comi
ng to Nevada to help me. I’d like her to be recognized for that, for her to be a legitimate part of my defense team.”
“How do you feel about this, Shelby? Any objections?”
“None, Your Honor.”
The judge turned his gaze on me. “Mrs. Fletcher, you’re in for a lot of work, but if you don’t mind, I don’t. You may serve on the defense team.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.
“Thank you so much, Judge Tapansky,” Martha said, standing up. She started to extend her hand to him, and pulled it back, not sure if such contact was allowed.
The guard pushed himself away from the door and opened it. Martha nodded at him, smiled at me, mouthed the word thanks, and followed him out.
Once Martha was gone, the tension in the room ebbed. Fordice snapped his chair closed and handed it to the judge’s clerk. “I’m glad to hear Vince say he needs all the help he can get,” he said, winking at Nastasi.
The judge pinned the prosecutor with a thunderous look. “We don’t kid around about a capital case, Fordice. You ought to know that by now.”
“Beg pardon, Your Honor.”
“You’ll be begging for a lot more if you don’t get yourself in gear. I won’t tolerate any disruptions in my court. You’d better have your witnesses ready on time in future or you’ll do without them. Understood?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Fordice said, abashed. He excused himself and made a hasty exit.
Judge Tapansky nodded at me and mumbled something. As we stood to leave, he said to Nastasi, “When you get to putting on your defense case, make damn sure your witnesses show up when scheduled. I get pretty upset when witnesses don’t show.”
“I never would have noticed,” Nastasi said, laughing.
“You going to that charity dinner at the Mirage tomorrow night?” Tapansky asked Nastasi.
“Yes. You?”
“Yeah. See you there.”
Nastasi and I left the judge’s chambers and walked through the empty courtroom out to the hallway.
“That wasn’t too difficult, was it?” I said.
You Bet Your Life Page 9