Until the Final Verdict

by Christine McGuire

  Kathryn felt tears well up again, but willed them to stop, then leaned over and kissed her daughter’s cheek.

  “I know you are, Em, and you can’t imagine howimportant that is to me right now. But run along and get the food so I can make my call.”

  Kathryn had spent most of the day sitting alone in her car parked near the beach, unable to think of how to tell a young girl that her mother was a murder suspect. But she needed to break the news soon to avoid Emma hearing it first on the evening news or, worse, from a girlfriend who called to ask about it.

  She tried to contact Dave Granz several times, but he was out of his office. His secretary said she’d heard the news. She had just hung up from another unsuccessful attempt when Emma returned.

  They drove home silently. As she pulled the car into the driveway of her condo, Emma said, “Mom, there are some men in a car parked in front of our carport.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  The unmarked Ford Taurus backed into her parking space belonged to the DA Inspectors’ motor pool. When the two men in the car spotted her, they started to open the doors.

  Kathryn zipped into an empty parking space, shut off the engine, and climbed out.

  “Take the food inside, Em, I need to talk with these men for a minute.”

  “Mom, I’m scared.”

  “They’re from my office, honey.” Kathryn gave Emma a hug. “Everything’s all right, I promise. But please go inside now.”

  Kathryn watched until Emma was inside, then turned to face DA Chief of Inspectors James Fields and Neal McCaskill.

  McCaskill had buttoned his coat against the cold, causing his jowls to hang over the collar.

  Stocky and dark with a face that bore the aftermath of teenage acne, Fields wore only a suit that was damp and wrinkled. The right sleeve of his coat was gathered and tucked into itself where his right hand had been before a bomb blew up a courtroom and his hand years before. After months of intense rehabilitation that taught him to shoot left-handed, he had been restored to full duty as a DA Inspector. One of Kathryn’s first acts as DA was to appoint him Chief of her Inspectors Division. He had rewarded her with quiet competence, dogged determination, and fierce loyalty.

  McCaskill walked ahead of Fields, stopping with his pudgy face just inches from Mackay’s. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Robert Simmons.”

  “You can’t arrest me without a warrant.”

  “I have a warrant. I think Judge Keefe rather enjoyed signing it.”

  She looked at Fields. “Is this for real?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  McCaskill grabbed her upper arm. “Turn around, Mackay.” He looked at Fields. “Cuff her.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mac, that’s not necessary.”

  “DA’s policy. She’s a felon.”

  She struggled to break free. “You bastard, let me go,” she demanded.

  “You’re not going anyplace except Blaine Street.” McCaskill sneered at the mention of the women’s detention facility. “Now, turn around so he can cuff you, or I’ll do it myself.”

  She turned her back. Fields snicked the handcuffs loosely on her wrists, then opened the front passenger door of the car and helped her sit.

  “What about my daughter?”

  McCaskill held the passenger door open and leaned inside. “Fields’ll book you into jail. As soon as I get back to my office, I’ll send Child Protective Services to take her into custody.”

  “Dammit, wait with her! She’s only twelve years old. You can’t leave her alone.”

  “Should’ve thought of that before you murdered Simmons.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  28

  MACKAY WAITED until Fields started the engine. “You can’t let some CPS worker show up and take Emma into custody. She’ll be terrified.”

  “I know.” Fields pulled the car out of the driveway, drove around the corner, then stopped at the curb, switched off the engine, and pulled a key ring from his pocket.

  “Had to get out of McCaskill’s sight. Turn around so I can take off those damn cuffs.” He unlocked the handcuffs and dropped them on the seat, then picked up his cell phone. “I’ll call Dave to pick Emma up.”

  “I tried a few minutes ago. He didn’t answer.”

  “Then I’ll call Shirley, have her drive Emma to our house.”

  “No, if you and your wife get involved, McCaskillwill fire you, and I need you there on the inside. Let me call Ruth. She can take Em upstairs to her place before CPS shows up.”

  Fields handed her the phone. After more than ten years of being called on short notice, Ruth wasn’t surprised when Mackay was called out, and, as Emma’s self-appointed surrogate grandmother, she welcomed the opportunities. Ruth suggested that Emma spend the night with her, and Mackay gratefully agreed without saying why.

  She handed the phone back to Fields. “I . . . Thanks.” It came out as a partial sob. “I’m sorry.”

  “If you need to cry, go ahead.”

  “If I start crying I won’t make it through this.” She drew a deep breath, blew it out forcefully and straightened her back. “Let’s get it over with.”

  “Not yet.” Fields opened the glove box and pulled out the hidden radio mike. Maybe I can raise Dave on the squawk box. “S-O One, this is D-A-I One.”

  A metallic voice crackled back through the cheap under-dash speaker: “Granz.”

  “Go to C channel.” Fields rotated the radio knob to switch to a scrambled channel.

  Momentarily, Granz came back on. “What’s up, Jim?”

  “Dave, I have Kathryn Mackay in custody.”

  “You what!”

  “McCaskill got Keefe to sign a warrant and arrested her for Simmons’ murder. I’m transporting her to jail.”

  “That son of a bitch! Put Kathryn on.”

  Fields handed the mike to Mackay.

  “You all right, Babe?” Granz asked.

  “Except for being scared, I think so. I tried to call you all day.” She paused. “I’m sure glad to hear your voice.”

  “I had no idea this was coming, that asshole McCaskill never said a word about it. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

  Fields shouted toward the mike, “Where are you now?”

  “Just entering the Santa Rita city limits.”

  “What should I do? McCaskill ordered me to book Kathryn, then be at the DA’s office to poly Keefe at six o’clock.”

  The radio was silent for several seconds before Granz responded. “Take the long route to the jail. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes and handle the booking myself.”

  “Commute traffic’s pretty heavy. See you in half an hour.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  29

  FIELDS PARKED NEXT TO GRANZ ’ BUICK behind the women’s detention facility on Blaine Street, switched off the windshield wipers, and killed the engine. Aclosed-circuit camera followed them up the broad, floodlighted concrete ramp that led from the wet parking lot to the rear of the building. He stopped at the top of the landing.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  He nodded, and punched a button. A buzzer sounded and the deadbolt slammed open to release the spring-loaded metal security door that accessed a small concrete room. Fields dropped his Glock 9mm pistol into a built-in drawer, slid it shut, pocketed the key, and punched a second button.

  When the inner door opened, Dave Granz walked over and put his arms around Mackay. She held him for several seconds, then pulled away. “Can we get this over with? If I’m going to jail, I need to get used to it.”

  “You aren’t going to spend any time in jail.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “By the time my detention officer fingerprints you and takes your photograph, your bail will have been posted. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

  “McCaskill didn’t give me time to arrange bail.”

  “Course not. But I know a bail b
ondsman. It’s taken care of.”

  “The bail schedule’s half a million. Where’d you come up with the fifty-thousand-dollar deposit?”

  “Put up my house. Where’s Emma?”

  “At Ruth’s.”

  “Good, she doesn’t have to know about this. Let’s get it done and go home.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  30

  “WHERE DO MURDER SUSPECTS usually sit?” Reginald Keefe’s laugh emphasized his nervousness.

  “Anyplace they want.” Fields booted up the LX Polygraph Software on his Lafayette LX3000 computerized polygraph and connected the Compaq Presario laptop.

  “I can move my equipment wherever you’re most comfortable.”

  “No place would be comfortable.” Keefe glanced around the conference room-law library that connected the DA’s inner offices to the second-floor hallway. Twelve chairs surrounded the blond oak table, one at each end and five on either side. He sat at the head of the table.

  “I came directly from court.” He loosened his gray necktie, unbuttoned his shirt collar, and ran his fingers over his five o’clock shadow. “It’s been a long, unpleasant day.”

  “I’ll make it as fast and tolerable as possible.”

  “I’ve never taken a lie detector test before.”

  “I have, during my certification training, and I know what an ordeal it is. That’s why I’ll explain everything as many times as you want, so you understand exactly what’s happening.”

  “When does the test start?”

  “Already did. This part’s the pre-interview, when I explain things and answer your questions.”

  Fields slid his machine to the end of the table and sat down, then handed Keefe a piece of paper. “A copy of the questions. You’re entitled to know exactly what you’ll be asked.”

  “Before you ask?”

  “Right. I’ll ask the questions on that paper, and only these questions, in exactly the order they’re listed. There’ll be no surprises. No trick questions. We’ll rehearse the questions and answers as many times as you want, so you get used to them, before the machine is attached.”

  Keefe read them carefully. “Why so few questions?”

  “Professional guidelines limit a polygrapher to no more than sixteen questions during an examination. In your case, that many aren’t necessary.”

  Keefe pointed at the machine. “Explain those wires, tubes, and other gizmos.”

  “When a person is asked a question about a specific event, such as Judge Tucker’s murder, he consciouslydecides to tell the truth or lie. If he’s truthful, his body goes about its normal biological business. But, a decision to lie induces anxiety that changes various autonomic functions.”

  “Like?”

  “Sweat-gland activity increases; muscles twitch; the heart can skip a beat; blood volume changes; blood pressure increases or decreases. Sensors measure changes that the polygraph records, and plots on a graph.”

  “I have high blood pressure, and being nervous probably caused it to shoot through the roof.”

  “You’d be abnormal if you weren’t nervous. But it won’t affect the test, or make you look guilty, because my analysis will take that into account.”

  “Explain the analysis.”

  “I use a software program called AP Polyscore 4.0 to evaluate your charts against known biological patterns, based on algorithms developed by Johns Hopkins University. It takes into account your baseline responses, which I’ll establish at the start of the test by asking you a few easy questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “Your name, age, what you do for a living, and so forth.”

  “How reliable is this?”

  “The federal government and several independent universities studied almost three hundred specificissue investigations like this one. The accuracy rate exceeded ninety-five percent.”

  “It’s the five percent I worry about. How can I be sure you interpret my responses correctly?”

  “Good question. At the end of the test, you can explain any questionable or unusual responses. If you’re still concerned, you should engage a polygrapher of your own choosing for a second opinion.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Do you want to go over any of the questions in advance, or rehearse before we start?”

  “No, they’re what I expected. Let’s get on with it.”

  Fields stood and grabbed a pair of rubber tubes. “If you’ll unbutton your shirt, I’ll attach these pneumos—sorry, that’s jargon for pneumograph tubes—to your chest and abdomen. They’re actually tiny, specially designed bellows that detect changes in respiration rate and involuntary muscle movement.”

  When they were hooked up, he slipped two metal fingerplates over the tips of Keele’s left ring and index fingers.

  “These GSRs connect to a galvanograph that measures galvanic skin response and changes in resistance to electrical currents caused by increased sweat-gland activity.”

  Keefe fidgeted and watched quietly.

  “Are you all right?” Fields asked.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Last is the blood pressure cuff like the one your doctor uses when he gives you a physical.” He wrapped it around Keefe’s right biceps and tightened the Velcro, then plugged the wires into the cardiosphygmograph to record blood pressure and pulse rate.

  “That’s it,” Fields said. “Ready?”

  “Get on with it.”

  “I’ll read each question slowly, exactly as they appear on your copy. After each of your answers, I’ll wait ten seconds before asking the next question. Remember, sit still, breathe normally, and answer all questions only ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ ”

  Fields picked up a pencil. “Is your name Reginald Keefe?”

  “You know it is.”

  “Yes or no, Judge.”

  “Yes.”

  Four graph lines scrolled across the screen and Fields checked off question 1.

  “Are you fifty-two years old?”

  “Yes.”

  Fields watched the graphs, and checked off question 2.

  “Are you employed as the presiding Santa Rita County Superior Court Judge of the criminal courts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been a judge for more than ten years?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you practiced, prepared, or been coached in techniques that might enable you to defeat the purpose of this test?”

  “No.”

  “Were you acquainted with Judge Jemima Tucker?”

  “Yes.”

  Fields studied the graphs, made a note on the paper, and checked off question 6.

  “At any time, did you engage in sexual intercourse with Jemima Tucker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you engage in sexual intercourse with Jemima Tucker on Friday, January eleventh, of this year?”

  “Yes.”

  Fields studied the graphs, scribbled another note, and checked off question 8.

  “Did you kill Jemima Tucker?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who killed Jemima Tucker?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know why Jemima Tucker was killed?”

  “No.”

  Fields scrutinized the graph lines after each of the last three questions and answers, but made no notes before placing check marks beside questions 9, 10, and 11.

  “Thank you. Now, I’ll ask each of the questions a second time. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Fields repeated, and Keefe answered, each of the eleven questions three times while Fields ran three complete sets of graphs. Then he removed his test equipment from Keefe’s body, shut down the laptop, and stowed the polygraph machine in an aluminum attaché case.

  “Thanks again, Judge,” Fields said. “I’ll write up my report immediately, and have a copy to you within twenty-four hours.”

  “Do you need me to explain any of my responses to the questions?”

 
“No.”

  “Did I pass?”

  “I’m required to state my findings in writing to McCaskill, with a copy to you.”

  Keefe stood and buttoned his shirt. “We’ve known each other for years, Inspector. Haven’t I always treated you with respect in my court?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, show me the same respect. I was in love with Jemima Tucker. I had sex with her the night she was murdered, yes, but I didn’t kill her. Your test couldn’t have indicated that I had anything to do with her death, because I didn’t.”

  Fields looked at Keefe for several seconds. “My report will state that the test unequivocally indicates that you answered every question completely and truthfully, and that based on that test, it is my opinion that you neither killed Judge Jemima Tucker nor have any knowledge concerning the circumstances of her death.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  31

  “YOU HAD NO BUSINESS giving Keefe a polygraph last night before clearing it with me.”

  “I didn’t need your permission. Besides, your investigation was stalled. I figured it could use a jump start.”

  “You figured wrong.”

  “Your investigation turned up zilch in almost three weeks.”

  “You run the DA’s office, McCaskill. I’ll run my investigation.”

  “Starting when? Some looney whacks out a Superior Court Judge, then you and Mackay waste three weeks hassling Sanchez and Keefe, not to mention trotting off to Spain, diddling each other at taxpayers’ expense.”

  Granz leaned forward in his chair and pointed his finger. “Watch your mouth. I won’t take any shit off you.”

  “You’re the one who’d better watch himself. Point your finger at me again, I’ll bust you for threatening a prosecutor.”

  “You talk big.”

  “If you can’t handle the Tucker investigation, say so and I’ll call the Attorney General in to handle it for you.”