You Bet Your Life

by Jessica Fletcher

  I walked back to Nastasi’s office, disappointed but not disheartened. We were making progress, just not as fast as I wanted. Vince had asked to meet with Judge Tapansky in his chambers Tuesday morning, hoping to introduce into evidence a fax from Joyce Wenk recanting her deposition. After I’d told him what Seth had discovered, Vince had called a colleague in Bangor, Maine, who’d dispatched an investigator to Cabot Cove to get Mrs. Wenk’s retraction on paper.

  “Are we sure she’ll cooperate?” I’d asked. “She may be afraid she’ll be accused of perjury if she admits that she lied.”

  “We won’t ask her to say she lied,” Nastasi had said. “We’ll simply show her the value of being ‘mistaken.’ She can say she must have been mistaken, and that she recants the statements she made on tape, and in the deposition she signed earlier.”

  “And that will be enough?”

  “It should be. As long as we have her signature attesting to the fact that she was mistaken and no longer stands behind her previous statement, the judge should rule against the prosecution’s entering the original statement into evidence. And the jury will never hear the accusation. That’s the key. Once they hear something, you can’t expunge it from their minds, even if they later learn it was untrue. It’s better to quash it before it comes out.”

  When I returned to the office, Evelyn handed me three pink message slips, all from women claiming to be the Terry I was looking for. I settled in the conference room and started returning the calls. The first two callers were eliminated easily when they gave me last names that sounded nothing like Bencher. In addition, one couldn’t remember when she’d supposedly been in the Clark County Detention Center, and the other forgot Harriet’s name. The third caller was more promising. While she refused to give her last name, she was willing to meet with me if I provided lunch and her carfare downtown. I agreed, and she said she’d come as soon as she could.

  While I waited for Terry to arrive, I spent the time reviewing everything I knew about the case, including what Martha had told me about Terry B. and Harriet Elmsley. At noon, Evelyn knocked on the conference room door.

  “Do you mind if I set up for lunch now, Jessica?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Can I give you a hand?”

  “You can get the paper cups out of the cabinet behind you, if you like.”

  “Oh, Evelyn, I should have told you,” I said, pulling open one door after another till I found a long tube of stacked paper cups. “We may have an extra mouth to feed today.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I always order more than enough.”

  A young man carried in a cellophane-wrapped tray of sandwiches and salads, and a shopping bag filled with sodas and teas, and set them on the table.

  “I think your customer is already in the waiting room,” Evelyn said, signing the slip of paper the deliveryman handed her.

  I walked into the reception room and my heart fell. A painfully thin woman sat on the couch, nervously chewing on her cheek. “Terry” had short-cropped hair, not the long tresses the women in jail loved to play with, and though it was obvious she’d made an effort to neaten herself up, her clothing was threadbare and soiled.

  “My name is Jessica Fletcher,” I said, extending my hand to her. “Would you like to have lunch while we talk?”

  She wiped her hand on her side before she accepted mine, and followed me to the conference room. Her eyes lit up when she saw the tray of sandwiches.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Terry. Terry?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

  I opened the cellophane, filled a plate with a selection of paper-covered sandwiches, and set it before her. “Would you like soda or iced tea?” I asked.

  “Tea, please.”

  I poured her a glass of tea, and put the can beside it.

  “You said you’d pay my carfare, too. I’m not talking till I get my carfare.”

  “Will ten dollars cover it?” I asked, handing her an envelope I’d prepared in advance.

  She nodded vigorously, her mouth already full.

  Evelyn poked her head into the conference room. “Jessica, may I see you a minute, please?”

  “I’ll be right back,” I told my visitor.

  “Jessica, the guys are ready to come in for lunch. Can we put your guest in the library instead?” Evelyn asked.

  “I don’t think she’ll mind,” I said.

  We moved “Terry” into the law library, and I left her in peace while she devoured two sandwiches, the other two I’d given her already stuffed away in her pocket.

  “Would you like to talk now?” I I asked, taking the seat opposite her.

  “You know,” she said, finishing up the last drop of tea, and wiping her mouth on a napkin, “you’re a nice lady.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Most people don’t ever want to shake the hand of someone like me. You didn’t even flinch. And I know you know I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

  “I thought not.”

  “But you let me have lunch and carfare anyway.”

  I smiled and shrugged.

  “You’re good in my book, Jessica Fletcher. If I can ever help you, you just call on me. I’m not Terry, but I’ve had CCDC stenciled on my back plenty of times. I’ll ask around for you. Maybe I can find her.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Did you ever meet Harriet Elmsley when you were in the detention center?”

  “You can say ‘jail.’ I’m not sensitive about it. That’s what it is. I was in jail.”

  “Did you ever meet Harriet Elmsley when you were in jail?”

  “Yeah. Sure. A little con artist. Sweet as sugar, get you to do favors for her. Then she’ll turn you in as soon as she can get something out of it. If your friend trusted Harriet not to tell, she put her faith in the wrong one.”

  “Would Harriet make up stories about people?”

  “I’m telling you—if she stood to gain anything, she’d say anything, do anything, betray anyone. She’s out for number one and no one else. If she’s testifying against your friend, she’s getting something she wants.”

  “What do you think she would want?”

  “What everyone wants—money. Or if they’ve got her on something that’ll send her out to the prison in North Las Vegas, she’ll deal for less time. The Clark County Detention Center is no country club, but it’s a lot better than prison. I guarantee you that. Find out what they’re charging her with. That should give you an idea of what she’s getting.”

  Evelyn knocked on the door to tell me Vince wanted to see me. I walked my guest—it turned out her name was Genevieve—to the door and thanked her for the information.

  “So I take it this wasn’t the real Terry B., since you let her go,” Victor said when I entered the conference room.

  “No, but this woman did know Harriet Elmsley, and said she wasn’t to be trusted.”

  “Not good enough for court. We need someone Harriet talked to, someone who heard her admit she was going to lie on the stand.”

  “And if we don’t find Terry, or if we do and she says Harriet never confessed to her, what do we do then?”

  “The same thing we’re doing now. We keep slugging away at the witnesses, making the jury doubt them. I might have to put you on the stand to testify that you’ve been to the Winners’ Circle restaurant and saw the hostess leave her post.”

  “Of course. I’ll be glad to do that.” I said. “But I still think the best way to save Martha is to flush out the real killer.”

  “I’d like to hear Tapansky say ‘Case dismissed,’ too, but I’ll settle for an acquittal. I want to review your notes again from the strategy session this morning.”

  I pulled out my yellow pad and read aloud the information I’d provided earlier. We were getting down to the final deadline, our last chance to present convincing evidence that someone else, not Martha Kildare, had taken a wrench to her husband’s head. While I had strong suspicions, I still needed to fit in the final pi
eces of the puzzle.

  “I don’t see how we’re going to make use of that picture from your buddy’s wedding album,” Nastasi said when I completed my report.

  “I’ve been giving that a lot of thought,” I said, “and I think I know what to do with it.”

  I sounded more convinced than I felt.

  Chapter Twenty

  Harriet Elmsley had had a sad life. Orphaned at three and taken in by an unmarried uncle, she’d been sexually abused until she ran away from home at eleven. She’d survived by her wits and her ability to lie convincingly, ingratiating herself with sympathetic adults who would offer her a room and a meal, only to find the next morning that their silverware was gone and so was the charming runaway. The young woman had been in and out of juvenile detention on charges of petty theft, solicitation, selling drugs, and vagrancy. Her last arrest had been more serious. She was charged with grand theft auto for driving a Range Rover that belonged to a tourist from Texas. She said she borrowed the car from a friend. The tourist claimed she wasn’t a friend and that she’d stolen the car along with his wallet. Now eighteen, no longer a juvenile, she was looking at three to five years of hard time.

  We’d heard that she’d gotten a new lawyer. He’d worked out a deal with the prosecution to reduce the charge to petit larceny and, in exchange for a guilty plea, to sentence her to time served plus five years’ probation. But the deal hinged on her testimony against Martha. Desperate to stay out of prison, Harriet had agreed.

  Harriet wasn’t the only desperate person in court Tuesday morning. Prosecutor Shelby Fordice had been shaken by the recantation of Joyce Wenk’s deposition. We’d presented the signed retraction to Judge Tapansky in his chambers that morning, and he’d ruled the original taped deposition inadmissible.

  “Why is it inadmissible? Let me show the tape and let Nastasi present his retraction,” Fordice implored. “The jury has a right to hear what was said.”

  “She lied, Fordice,” Nastasi said, waving a piece of paper in the air. “I have a letter here from the camp director confirming she brought her son to Grand Lake Stream, over a hundred miles from Cabot Cove, on the day she said she witnessed Martha and Victor Kildare fighting. This isn’t a case of someone chickening out, changing her mind about testifying. She carried a grudge; she was getting even for an old complaint, and we caught her in the lie. If you present the tape knowing it isn’t truthful, that’s a serious breach of legal ethics.”

  “Don’t talk to me about ethics. You’re letting a killer get away with murder,” Fordice yelled, pointing to Martha, who cringed in her seat.

  Nastasi sat back in his chair, his hands folded over his stomach. “You’re whining, Fordice. You’ve got no case; that’s your problem.”

  “Gentlemen, please save the histrionics for the jury,” Tapansky said, although he seemed to enjoy the exchange. “What do you have left, Shelby?”

  “That tape was an important part of my case.”

  “Too late. I’ve already ruled it inadmissible. Who else are you calling?”

  “We’re putting Harriet Elmsley on the stand this morning. The defendant confessed to her that she killed her husband in a fit of pique,” Fordice said, ignoring Martha now.

  “And after that?” Tapansky demanded.

  “After that, we rest,” Shelby said, his nostrils flaring.

  “Hallelujah!” Tapansky said. “Let’s go.” He rose from his chair and led the way out of his chambers.

  I took my seat at the defense table next to Martha, and gave her hand a quick squeeze. Nastasi was on her other side.

  “Why does he hate me so much?” she asked.

  “Fordice?” I asked.

  She nodded miserably.

  “He doesn’t hate you,” Nastasi said. “He hates to lose. He’s got a job to do and he’s doing it. Buck up, Martha. I want you confident in front of the jury. No moping.”

  Martha straightened in her seat and lifted her chin.

  I looked around the courtroom. It was full of familiar faces, eager to hear the last witness and the summation of the prosecution’s case. The seating reminded me of Martha’s wedding, with the bride’s friends and family on one side and the groom’s on the other. Oliver, Chappy, Daria, and Jane sat in the first three rows behind Fordice’s table, establishing their allegiance with the prosecution. Tony and Henry sat in neutral seats in the middle at the back of the room. Two of Victor’s ex-wives sat as far from each other as they could get, Cindy on the right wall behind the prosecution table, Bunny all the way on the left. The only “family” member firmly behind Martha was Betsy. With Winnie pushing her wheelchair, Betsy had directed she be parked on the left side of the courtroom, close to the defense table. She leaned forward and said in a voice Martha could hear, “You go, girl!”

  Shelby Fordice, a deep frown creasing his forehead, conferred with his aides at the prosecution table, no doubt informing them of the judge’s decision on the Joyce Wenk videotaped testimony. I was convinced I knew what his original aims had been. Fordice had intended to build on the jailhouse confession to be presented by Harriet Elmsley. She was obviously not the most noble of witnesses, but Harriet would provide the nail and his plan had been that Joyce Wenk would hammer it in. Coming on the heels of Elmsley’s accusation, the condemnation from Wenk—a woman with no blight in her background, a devoted mother of a handicapped child, an impeccable witness from the defendant’s own hometown—testifying that the seemingly gentle Martha Kildare was in reality an unstable, violent woman, would have been a powerful stroke against Martha. But now Fordice was left with Elmsley alone. He would want to wring the most out of her testimony.

  “How long did you share a cell with Martha Kildare?” Fordice asked Elmsley after she’d sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  “I guess it was about two weeks, and then her lawyer got her put in PC.”

  “PC?”

  “Yes, sir, PC, protective custody. She got the cell all to herself then, and I had to move to the day room.”

  “And would you say that during the two weeks that you shared a cell, you became close friends?”

  “Oh, definitely. I really liked her. She was very kind to me, kind of like a mother. My own mother died when I was very young, and it was nice to find somebody who seemed to care about me for the first time in my life, and—”

  “Objection!” Nastasi called out. “Not responsive. We don’t need a whole biography.”

  “I don’t need your editorial comments either,” Tapansky said. “Objection sustained. Miss Elmsley, simply answer the attorney’s question without elaboration.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Miss Elmsley,” Fordice continued, “would you describe your relationship with Martha Kildare as close?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You were close friends?”

  “It was more like a mother-daughter relationship.”

  “But she talked to you about personal things.”

  “Oh. yes. We knew everything about each other’s lives.”

  “Did she talk to you about her relationship to her husband Victor?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did she say about Victor Kildare?”

  “She said he was very generous with money, but not with his time.”

  “Did she tell you about their arguments?”

  “Objection! Leading the witness.”

  “Rephrase the question, Mr. Fordice,” Tapansky said.

  “What did Martha Kildare tell you about her relationship with her husband?”

  “She said she loved him very much but that she felt ignored, that business was more important to him than she was. ”

  “And this upset her?”

  “Oh, yes. She was very upset about that.”

  “And what did she tell you she would do when she became upset with Victor?”

  “Well, normally she didn’t do anything. She said she’d complain and he would promise to be better.” .
<
br />   “But one time she told you about was different, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you please tell the court, in your own words, what the defendant, Martha Kildare, told you about that one time.”

  “She said that she and Victor had been fighting all day and that he told her he was going to go to the casino to get away from her nagging. She said she went and got her slots gloves and told him she was going with him and he told her no, he wanted to go without her. She said she got so mad, she picked up the first thing she saw and that was a wrench and she threatened that if he didn’t take her, she’d hit him over the head. She said he told her go ahead, you’re killing me anyway with all your complaints. She said she just saw red and raised the wrench and brought it down on him as hard as she could.”

  The courtroom had been silent throughout Harriet Elmsley’s testimony, the only sound the squeak of the rear door when someone entered the room. Martha had been watching Harriet with a pained look on her face. When Harriet spoke of Martha hitting Victor with the wrench, Martha shook her head sadly and a lone tear slid down her cheek.

  “She told you that she hit her husband with the wrench?” Fordice repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Um.”

  “Miss Elmsley?”

  “Uh, could you repeat the question?”

  Something had happened to break Harriet Elmsley’s concentration. She glanced nervously at the seats behind the prosecution’s table, and then over to the defense side. I heard a rustling sound behind me and turned. A young woman sat down behind Martha. She was small and dark and wore her thick hair in a long braid that hung down her back. She was staring at Harriet, her expression intense. Then her eyes met mine.

  Terry? I mouthed her name, not making a sound.

  A small smile played on her lips and she gave a sharp nod of her head.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “This is Beth Karas in Las Vegas. We’re on a long lunch break in the sensational homicide trial of Martha Kildare, the beautiful widow who stands to inherit millions of dollars from her dead husband’s estate, but only it she’s found innocent of his murder. The prosecution rested its case against her this morning, following damaging testimony by the final witness, Harriet Elmsley, who claims that the defendant confessed to the crime when they were celimates at the Clark County Detention Center. Now it’s the defense’s turn, and lead attorney Vincent Nastasi startled both the prosecution and the court by calling a surprise witness, apparently someone to refute Elmsley’s testimony.