Until the Final Verdict

by Christine McGuire

  “No, it wasn’t a myocardial infarction.”

  “If it wasn’t a heart attack, what killed him?”

  “I won’t know for sure until I get the blood-toxicology report. But when I do, the question might not be what killed him.” Nelson cleared his throat. “Have you and Katie moved in together?”

  “Not until after we tell Emma this weekend. Why?”

  “I might need to talk to you before next week.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  21

  DAVE GRANZ OPENED ONE EYE and squinted at the clock on the nightstand. “Hello.”

  “Dave, Morgan Nelson. I’m glad I caught you at home instead of at Kate’s.”

  “We’re going to tell Emma today, then we’ll figure out where to live. What’s up at seven o’clock on Saturday morning?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Sure, when?”

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  “I can’t get to my office that fast, make it an hour.”

  “How about I come to your house, then?”

  “I’ll have coffee waiting.”

  He slipped on a pair of faded Levi’s and Fila thongs, then rummaged through a dresser and pulledout a Harley-Davidson T-shirt with a bald eagle gripping lightning bolts in both talons. The front showed a biker with one leg over a candy-apple-red ElectraGlide. Arched over the biker’s head, the logo said, release your lightning, feel the thunder.

  He slipped the worn shirt over his head, filled a water pot and set it on a burner, ground fresh Sumatran beans and dumped them into paper filters, then placed the cones over two clear-glass mugs that he had preheated with hot tap water.

  After he brushed his teeth and made his bed, he tossed the remains of Friday night’s dinner with Kathryn—four almost-empty Chinese take-out cartons, three empty Corona Light beer bottles, and an empty pint of Baskin-Robbins chocolate chip icecream—into the garbage.

  The doorbell rang just as he finished pouring boiling water over the coffee grounds. When he opened the door, he found Nelson wearing a sweatshirt over wrinkled green surgical scrubs.

  “You’re a damn workaholic. Do you ever sleep?”

  “When it’s unavoidable. Can I come in?”

  Granz led him to the kitchen and handed him a steaming cup of coffee, then pointed at the leather sofa. “Let’s sit in the living room.

  “I’m not complaining, but I can’t recall the last time you came to my home. We’ll do better when it’s Kate, Emma, and me living together.”

  “The last time was when I brought you home from Quick Doc Box after that fiasco with Julia Soto.”

  Granz closed his eyes and reopened them slowly. “The morning after she accused me of raping her, andthey threatened to throw my ass in the slammer if I refused a suspect kit so they could gather evidence to hang me. Not one of my best days.”

  “Mine, either, but I knew you didn’t rape her.”

  “What if Kate hadn’t proven I didn’t?”

  “Wouldn’t have mattered.”

  “Besides Kate, you were the only person who believed me.”

  “I know you.”

  He studied his friend, who sipped silently at his coffee.

  Nelson stroked his chin with his fingers, started to say something, but stopped.

  “Something’s on your mind, Doc—spit it out.”

  “You and Katie being married makes it harder.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know how to say it, so why don’t I let this do the talking for me.” Nelson slid a folded sheet of paper out from under his sweatshirt, hesitated, then held it out wordlessly.

  Granz read it quickly, looked up, and reread it carefully. “This says Simmons died of a drug overdose.”

  “Digitalis, to be exact.”

  “Simmons murdered Hal Benton with digitalis to make it look like a routine heart attack.”

  “And it did, if any heart attack can be called ‘routine.’ Digitalis is one of the most potent heart medications ever developed, and one of the most lethal. It’s a fine line between a therapeutic dose that restores a heart to normal functions, and a fatal dose that induces palpitations, arrhythmia, and tachycardia, then total cardiac arrest and death within minutes.”

  “Heart attack symptoms.”

  “Yes, symptoms a physician might misdiagnose, like I did with Benton—if someone he trusted intentionally misled him.”

  “Someone like Simmons.”

  “Simmons was a damn fine physician. When he said Benton died of a heart attack, like a fool I didn’t question it.”

  “You had no reason to question it.”

  “Like hell! I didn’t even run a tox screen on Benton’s blood until I suspected that Simmons—someone I trusted—was lying to conceal his crime.”

  “Why would you have thought he was concealing something?”

  “Because it’s my job to suspect everything and everybody. I didn’t make the same mistake this time.”

  “We searched Simmons before he boarded the plane. He had no drugs on him, much less a stash of digitalis.”

  “That’s my point, Dave. He didn’t kill himself.”

  “So, you’re saying someone murdered him. But who? And how?”

  “Figure out how, you’ll know who.”

  Granz paused. “I don’t think I like where this conversation seems to be going, Doc.”

  Nelson shook his head and sighed. “Me, neither. Let’s go over the sequence of events again. You said the only time Simmons was alone was when Kate brought you the camera. How long did that take?”

  “Maybe ten minutes. She was anxious to get back to Simmons.”

  “How far was it from the first-class lavatory to your seats?”

  “We were in row six at the front of the coach section. There’s a partition between first class and coach . . . twelve or fifteen feet.”

  “Where was Simmons seated?”

  “The middle seat in our row.”

  “Could you see him from the lavatory?”

  “No.”

  Nelson set his coffee on the table in front of the sofa and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  “Ingested digitalis is absorbed into the bloodstream quickly.” His voice was soft, like he was thinking aloud, not talking to Granz. “That’s about right.”

  “What’s about right?”

  “The only time you, Kate, and Simmons weren’t together was when you were securing the lavatory. It takes about ten minutes for a massive digitalis overdose to induce symptoms that mimic a heart attack. Ten minutes after you leave Kate alone with Simmons, he collapses and dies from an apparent heart attack.”

  Granz froze, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “You’re implying Kathryn murdered Robert Simmons. Jesus Christ, she’s my wife!”

  “I know, and except for you, the only friend I have in the world.”

  “Then what the fuck are you doing?”

  “Restating the facts, hoping one of us will come up with another explanation. Help me out.”

  “Kathryn’s not capable of murder.”

  “Under the right circumstances, we’re all capable of murder.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “You can’t ignore the facts, and the facts say Kathryn may have murdered Robert Simmons.”

  Granz leaned back on the sofa, silent.

  “Dave?” Nelson prompted.

  “What th’ fuck do I do now, Doc?”

  “Your job.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  22

  THIS WEEKEND, their first as a married couple, Dave had hoped that he and Kathryn would share the happy news with Emma, then enjoy a special family dinner to celebrate.

  Now, he could barely force himself to drive to Kathryn’s condo, much less confront her with Morgan Nelson’s suspicions about Simmons’ murder. Worse, he knew he had to tell her he shared Nelson’s concern.

  So when he approached her condo complex, instead of pulling into the drive
way, he drove around the block four times.

  Finally, unable to put it off any longer, he parked in the carport beside her Audi A4. He switched off the V-8, folded the toxicology report, shoved it in his pocket, walked up the stairs, stood on the landing fora few minutes, drew several deep breaths, and punched the doorbell.

  “I’ll get it!” Dave heard pounding footsteps.

  The deadbolt slid open. “Dave! I knew it was you.” Emma was wearing pajama bottoms and a Holy Cross Middle School sweatshirt, a half-eaten bagel in one hand, a phone in the other.

  “Gotta finish dressing, we’re going to the mall. Mom’s in the kitchen.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and ran back to her bedroom, giggling at whoever was on the other end of the phone.

  “Who is it, Em?” Kathryn shouted.

  Kathryn stood barefoot at the sink, rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher. She wore Gap jeans and an open-necked blue shirt.

  She looked so pretty as his wife that it took Dave’s breath away, and he started to put his hands on her shoulders, but changed his mind and stepped back. “It’s me, Babe.”

  She shut the water off, dried her hands, and slipped her arms around his waist. “I told you to be here early so we could sit down with Emma before dinner, but ten A.M.’ s overdoing it a little.”

  “I know.”

  She smiled mischievously. “You looking for a little affection before lunch?”

  “No.”

  Startled, she leaned back to look at him. “Whatever’s on your mind, spill it.”

  He leaned against the counter and, not knowing how to broach the real issue, explained Nelson’s findings from Jemima Tucker’s autopsy instead.

  “If Keefe or Sanchez left the semen, one or both had sex with her just before or during her murder.”

  “Or immediately after.”

  “Yeah, that’s a possibility, too. Do we have probable cause to seize their blood for DNA comparison?”

  She walked around the breakfast counter, sat on a stool, leaned forward on her elbows and clasped her hands. “PC isn’t the problem. The judges are going to circle the wagons around one of their own—conflict out on Keefe, refuse to issue a warrant ordering Keefe to submit to a blood draw.”

  “Is there an alternative?”

  “Grand Juries can issue subpoenas ad testificandum to compel testimony and subpoenas duces tecum to obtain evidence, without probable cause—without even a firm basis for believing the subpoenas will prove the commission of a particular offense.”

  “Including blood samples?”

  “There’s conflicting case law, but yes, if the Grand Jury has good reason to believe a crime was committed, and also believes the blood samples will significantly aid its investigation.”

  “What if they lawyer up to quash the subpoenas?”

  “They have a legal right to contest them in court before complying, but I bet they won’t. Court hearings are public. By the time they were concluded, it wouldn’t matter whether one of them killed Tucker or not, their personal lives and careers would be destroyed.”

  “How soon can you convene the Grand Jury?”

  “The foreperson calls every Monday morning to ask if I have investigations for them. I’ll ask them to convene Thursday afternoon at the jail.”

  The county jail facility contained one secure courtroom, used mostly for arraignments and preliminary hearings for high-risk inmates, and to accommodate overflow from the main court building across the street. “Meanwhile, I’ll issue subpoenas for Keefe and Sanchez.”

  “Why the jail courtroom?”

  “So I can have the jail nurse standing by to draw their blood after they testify.”

  “Good idea,” Dave agreed. “Subpoena Bonnie Keefe, too. She disputes Sanchez’ alibi that he was having sex with her when Tucker was murdered. Let’s get her locked in under oath.”

  “Will do.” She stood. “Now I’ve got to take Em clothes shopping, then to the grocery store. She doesn’t know why, but she suspects tonight’s special—we’re buying fresh cracked crab, Brie, avocado, French bread, Riesling, and Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider for Em. Sound good?”

  “We need to talk before dinner, Kate.”

  “What’s going on? If I’ve done something to make you angry, tell me.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, as she always did when protecting herself. “Have you changed your mind about us? Are you sorry we got married? If you are, say so now, before we tell Emma.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. “I love you more than ever, Kathryn. The onlything I’ll ever be sorry about is that we didn’t have more years together.”

  “Then what?” She pulled back. “Let’s not start the rest of our lives together as a family angry or upset.”

  He pulled Simmons’ tox report out of his pocket and handed it to her. She read it twice.

  “This has to be a mistake, it says Simmons died from a digitalis overdose. Simmons didn’t carry drugs onto the plane, and he was never out of my sight.”

  “That’s how we saw it.” He described his earlier conversation with Morgan Nelson.

  Kathryn didn’t respond.

  “We looked at it from every angle we could figure,” he explained, “tried to imagine some other possibility, no matter how far-fetched. After Nelson left, I spent all morning thinking about who had both a motive and an opportunity to murder Simmons.”

  “And I’m the only person you came up with.” She sat down on a stool, her back rigid and her face tight. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “If you tell me you didn’t murder Simmons, Kate, I’ll believe you.”

  “I won’t dignify this with a denial, and I can’t believe you think I’m capable of murder.”

  “If you won’t deny it, how can I not consider the possibility?”

  Tears of frustration appeared in the corners of her eyes. She brushed them away angrily, smearing her mascara.

  He handed her a second piece of paper, hastily handwritten on Santa Rita County Sheriff’s stationery.

  “Your resignation?” she asked.

  “I don’t care if you killed the son of a bitch or not, he deserved it. I should’ve done it myself. I can’t investigate you, you’re my wife.”

  She tore the resignation into pieces and laid them on the countertop. Her hands shook and her voice quivered. “If you don’t investigate me, the Attorney General will. I need it to be you.”

  “If I keep it under wraps, especially now that we’re married, it’ll look like a cover-up, and that’d be worse for you.”

  “We have to keep the marriage quiet for a few days, give you time to eliminate me as a suspect.”

  “We can’t conceal it very long.”

  “It won’t take long. I wouldn’t expect you to lie about it if someone asks, just don’t volunteer.”

  “Okay, I suppose we don’t have any choice.”

  “What about telling Emma?”

  “We can’t tell her, then expect her to keep it secret. Let’s hold off until I clear up this mess.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  23

  “MS. FOREPERSON, are you ready to proceed?”

  “We are.”

  Mackay faced the elevated oak platform where retired bank manager Nicolina Giacomini presided from the judge’s chair. At the court clerk’s table beneath the bench, the secretary took roll and noted on his roster that a quorum of sixteen members was present. To her right, remaining jurors occupied the twelve jury-box seats and two alternates’ chairs in front.

  Inspector Donna Escalante waited outside to admit witnesses as they were called, but besides the jurors, only a court reporter was in the room with Mackay. She wore a classic suit—two-button tweed jacket with notch collar and a straight skirt withback slit. As always, she stood throughout the proceeding.

  She placed her hands on the sides of the podium. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for convening to
day. Two weeks ago tomorrow—on the evening of Friday, January eleventh—Superior Court Judge Jemima Tucker was killed in her chambers, here in the main court building. The Sheriff’s Crime Scene Investigators found no signs of forced entry to either the court building or to Judge Tucker’s chambers, leading investigators to conclude that Judge Tucker knew her murderer.”

  She paused and made eye contact with each person in the room, most of whom knew Tucker at least slightly from impaneling the Grand Jury, to impress on them the import of her words.

  “I asked you to convene for the purpose of conducting an investigation into Judge Tucker’s death. Specifically, I ask you to compel the testimony of three witnesses today: Jemima Tucker’s husband, Doctor Alejandro Sanchez; Santa Rita Superior Court Judge Reginald Keefe; and Bonnie Lee Keefe, local attorney and wife of Judge Keefe.”

  She paused while a few of the jurors took notes. “Murder is the unlawful killing of a human being with malice aforethought. The People believe that each of the witnesses who will be called to testify before you here today possesses critical information relevant to the investigation of Judge Tucker’s murder.”

  She waited until the jurors had finished taking notes, then announced, “The People call Doctor Alejandro Sanchez.”

  The sergeant at arms escorted Sanchez to the witness stand, where he raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth. His jet-black hair was neatly trimmed and combed straight back, he was clean shaven, and he wore an expensive, double-breasted, dark gray wool suit and lightly starched white shirt, with a solid black silk tie. He crossed his right leg over his left, looked at Mackay, and waited.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor. Before we begin, I would like to advise you that you are now appearing before a duly constituted Grand Jury which is investigating the murder of Jemima Tucker. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have been placed under oath and your testimony here today has the same force and effect as if you were in a court of law. Do you understand that?”