“When were you elected to that position?”
“November of last year.”
“How long have you been a peace officer?”
“More than twenty years.”
“Has all your law enforcement experience been in Santa Rita County?”
“Yes.”
“Describe that experience for the jury, please.”
“I was Sheriff’s Chief of Detectives before I ran for office, and a DA Investigator before that. Previously, I was a street cop—a Sheriff’s patrol deputy.”
“During your more than twenty years as a peace officer, has the prosecution ever called you to testify in court?”
“Many times.”
“On those occasions, did you meet with the prosecutors to discuss your testimony before testifying in court?”
“Yes.”
“Did you receive requests to meet and discuss today’s testimony with me before appearing?”
“Yes.”
“What was your response to those requests?”
“I refused to meet with you.”
“That’s right, you did, so let’s get right to the reason for those refusals. You’re acquainted with the defendant, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Describe your relationship to the defendant.”
Granz looked at Kathryn before answering. “She’s my wife.”
“When were you married?”
“The morning of January twelfth.”
“The day Doctor Robert Simmons was murdered?”
“The day he died.”
“Right. With whom does the defendant’s twelve-year-old daughter live while her mother is in custody on murder charges?”
“Me.”
“How did that come about?”
“It’s what Emma, Kathryn, and I felt was best, and what the juvenile court ordered, as you know.”
McCaskill turned to the bench. “In view of the witness’sbias resulting from his relationship with the defendant, permission to examine Sheriff Granz as a hostile witness.”
Keefe nodded. “Granted.”
“You’re aware that the defendant once had a romantic and sexual affair with Doctor Robert Simmons, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“You’re also aware that just days after Judge Jemima Tucker was murdered, the defendant claims she received an anonymous tip about Doctor Simmons’ whereabouts?”
“Yes.”
“You and she flew to Spain together to apprehend him, despite the urgency of the Tucker murder investigation?”
“If we hadn’t, my detective and her investigator would have been pulled off the Tucker investigation.”
“Because of Judge Tucker’s prominent position, didn’t you consider her murder a high-priority investigation?”
Granz leaned forward in the witness chair. “They’re all high-priority investigations, no matter who the victim is.”
McCaskill turned to Keefe. “Judge, please instruct the witness to answer the question rather than make a speech.”
“The witness is so admonished. Continue.”
“When you and the defendant arrived in Torremolinos, Doctor Simmons was in Spanish police custody, right?”
“Yes.”
“You interviewed Doctor Simmons?”
“Yes.”
“You consulted with the defendant before and during that interview?”
“Yes.”
McCaskill flipped through a yellow legal pad. “Your report says Doctor Simmons agreed to be extradited if the defendant agreed not to seek the death penalty, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“You recommended she make that agreement?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, you talked her into it, didn’t you?”
Dave hesitated. “We discussed it.”
“All right. Would you say that at first, she was reluctant to accept his offer?”
“I’d say so.”
“And after you discussed it with her, she finally agreed?”
“That’s right.”
“Was she reluctant because she wanted very badly for Doctor Simmons to die?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
“Uh-huh. You had a conversation with Chief Deputy Skinner, in her office, the day after you and the defendant returned from Spain?”
Granz shifted in the chair and glanced at Skinner, who sat at the prosecution table beside McCaskill.
“Yes.”
“During that conversation, did Ms. Skinner express surprise, and ask how you convinced her boss towaive the death penalty against Doctor Simmons?”
“She asked if I knew why.”
“Did you tell her that during your interview of Doctor Robert Simmons in the jail at Torremolinos, you talked the defendant into waiving the death penalty?”
“I didn’t talk her into it.”
“That wasn’t the question—I asked whether or not you told Chief Deputy Skinner you talked her into it.”
“I might have.”
“And that before you discussed it with her, the defendant was very reluctant to waive the death penalty, agreeing only after she talked with you at considerable length?”
“It’s possible I told her that.”
Griffith shook his head. “Didn’t you also tell Ms. Skinner that you became exasperated with the defendant and told her she couldn’t be Doctor Simmons’ judge, jury, and executioner?”
Granz turned his eyes to the defense table, hoping an objection would prevent him from walking into McCaskill’s trap, but he knew no help would come.
“Yes.”
“What did you tell Chief Deputy Skinner the defendant said in response to your admonition?”
Dave looked at Kathryn, closed his eyes, and reopened them slowly. “That she said, ‘Yes I can.’ ”
“Just two more questions, Sheriff. You and the defendant were married the morning following the conversation that you related to Chief Deputy Skinner, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And Doctor Robert Simmons was murdered later that same day?”
“He died later that same day.”
McCaskill stared at the jury for several seconds, then turned to the bench. “No more questions at this time.”
“May this witness be excused?” Keefe asked.
“No, Your Honor, I plan to recall this witness.”
CHAPTER
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53
“JESUS, DAVE, why did you tell Skinner about our conversation at Torremolinos?”
Kathryn, wearing her maroon jumpsuit, leaned forward on the jail watch commander’s desk, one hand under her chin, the other holding the phone.
“I forgot about that conversation until McCaskill brought it up. She was surprised you agreed to waive the death penalty and asked how I talked you into it. I had no idea at the time that she’d roll over on you.”
“I should hope not! How’d McCaskill find out?”
Granz shifted the phone to his left hand, lay back on the bed, and propped his head up on the pillows.
“Probably gave it up to McCaskill when the evidence against you mounted.”
“Where are you?”
“Vancouver, B.C.”
“Have you talked to the flight attendant yet?”
He shook his head, then realized she couldn’t see him. “No, by the time I cleared Customs, it was too late. I checked into the Wedgewood Hotel downtown. First thing tomorrow, I’ll try to hook up with her, see what she has to say.”
“Let’s hope it’s something good.”
“It’ll never repair the damage I did today. I’m sorry.”
“You couldn’t have known McCaskill would get his hands on your notes.” She changed subjects. “Emma’s at Ruth’s?”
“Yeah.”
Kathryn was silent for several seconds. “Hurry home. I’m lonely knowing you’re away.”
“I love you, Kate.”
“I know. Dave, I’m scare
d.”
“I’m going to clear this mess up somehow, and get you out of jail, Babe. I promise. You have to trust me.”
“I trust you, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but even you can’t get me out.”
CHAPTER
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54
“YOU ’RE UP EARLY, SIR. ” The Wedgewood Hotel doorman held the huge, arched glass half-door open and bowed deeply at the waist. He was young, tall, blond, handsome, and wore a tuxedo, a black top hat, and a brass name tag.
“Good morning, Carey.” A sudden icy wind rippled through the leafless trees behind the government center across the street. Granz shivered, zipped up his brown leather bomber jacket, and glanced up and down Hornby.
“Can I help you find something, sir?”
“I need to be at Air Canada’s offices when they open at eight o’clock.”
“On West Georgia.” Carey pointed. “About four blocks north, take a left, they’ll be on your right, second floor. Can’t miss ’em.”
“Thanks.”
“Looking for breakfast?”
“Just coffee.”
“There’s a great little coffeehouse at Hornby and Georgia. I work there weekends to help pay my UBC tuition.”
“UBC?”
“University of British Columbia. Criminology student. What do you do?”
Granz contemplated lying. “I’m a cop.”
“Really! Here on business?”
“Afraid so.” Granz stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and turned. “Thanks for the directions.”
“You bet.”
Human Resource Officer Jennifer Liu checked Granz’ badge and ID, then punched a few computer keys and shook her head.
“You’re too late.”
Granz slipped his badge case back into his pants pocket.
“What do you mean?”
“Andrea Lain’s flight left Vancouver at six this morning.”
“When will she be back?”
“Friday.”
“Damn! Excuse me, but it’s crucial that I see her today.”
Liu checked the computer screen again. “She’s flying to Fort St. John, Fort Nelson, turning around at Whitehorse, then back to Fort St. John at four o’clock this afternoon before starting her four off-days.”
She punched more computer keys. “If it’s reallyimportant, I could book you on Flight 8593 out of Vancouver at twelve-thirty this afternoon. You could wait in Fort St. John for Andrea to get back from Whitehorse.”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
“We put flight crews up at the Alexander Mackenzie Inn. I’ll call and make a reservation for you, then radio an in-flight message, ask her to page you when she gets to the hotel. What was your name again?”
“Sheriff Dave Granz, from Santa Rita, California.” He handed Liu his VISA card. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem. Good luck, Sheriff.”
Granz swung Liu’s office door closed softly.
“Luck, hell,” Granz muttered to himself. “We need a fuckin’ miracle.”
CHAPTER
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55
THE DIXIE CHICKS blasted from the Alexander Mackenzie Inn’s Wrangler Pub jukebox. Construction workers swigged happy-hour draft beer and watched the Edmonton Oilers trounce the New York Islanders on a big-screen TV while a crowd at the bar shot Liars Dice.
When the busboy rolled out the buffet table, Granz heaped chips, minitacos, and chicken wings on his plate and carried it to his table. He ordered a Labatt Blue, dipped a wing in ranch dressing, gnawed off the meat, and ate a second. Then the rest of them.
When the wings were gone, he inhaled the minitacos and swallowed a handful of peanuts, and dropped the shells on the hardwood floor just as the outside door opened.
A woman in an Air Canada uniform adjusted her eyes to the dark. When she spotted Granz she waved, and wove her way through the tables, stopping most of the men in midsentence.
“Hello, Sheriff.” In her early forties, Andrea Lain was a gorgeous blonde in a petite but ample package; pale blue eyes, perfect skin, bright red lips, and an overbite that came off as a pout.
She motioned to the bartender, slipped off her jacket, pretending she didn’t notice the eyes glued to her chest, and dropped into a chair beside Granz.
“Long day. Six takeoffs and landings. With Brit, I was usually in the air for six or eight hours at a stretch. Short hops are tough.” She extended her hand.
Granz shook it. “I appreciate your coming.” Her hand was soft and warm with graceful fingers and long, manicured red nails.
He finished the Labatt. The bartender handed Andrea a glass of white wine and pointed at Granz’ empty. “ ’Nother beer?”
“Sure.”
Granz tossed a fistful of peanuts into his mouth, wishing Kathryn were there to make him savor them. “I’d like to talk to you about the incident in January. It’s important.”
“My Calgary flight leaves in less than two hours. Besides, I told Mr. McCaskill everything I could remember.”
“I’d appreciate your repeating anything you still recall.”
“Worst flight of my career. First the drunk, then the heart attack. FAA now requires us to carry defibrillaters,and the flight crews are trained to use them. If we’d had one on that flight, we might’ve saved him.”
“You couldn’t have helped, Andrea. It wasn’t a heart attack.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simmons died of a massive drug overdose. He was murdered.”
“Murdered!” Lain stopped her wineglass halfway to her mouth.
“Didn’t McCaskill tell you?”
“No, but that doesn’t surprise me.” She set down her glass. “What an asshole. Excuse my language.”
“I’ve heard worse. When did he ask you to meet with him?”
“He didn’t ask, he ordered.”
“When was that, exactly?”
“The last weekend in January. He phoned me aboard a New York to San Francisco flight, ordered me to meet with him when we landed. Threatened to arrest me if I refused.”
“You’re sure about the date?”
“Absolutely. My husband and I—he’s a United pilot—scheduled our days off to visit the Wine Country. The bed-and-breakfast released our reservations when we didn’t show. We ended up at Knuckles Sports Bar at the SFO Hyatt. Wasn’t that bad, I’m a Niners fan.”
“Me, too, but you’re right about McCaskill, he’s a first-class jerk.”
“Why don’t you fire him?”
“He doesn’t work for me.”
“I thought you were Sheriff.”
“I am, why?”
“McCaskill told me he was investigating the death for the Sheriff’s Department. He had a badge, so I thought he was one of your deputies.”
“He wasn’t.” Granz did some quick mental math, reminding himself to check on when McCaskill was appointed DA.
“Who does he work for?”
“Himself. He’s District Attorney.”
Andrea frowned. “Ms. Mackay told me she was District Attorney.”
“She was.”
“But now McCaskill is? I don’t understand.”
Granz stopped peeling the label off the beer bottle and set it down with shaky hands. “Kathryn’s been accused of giving Simmons the drug overdose that killed him.”
“Accused by whom?”
“McCaskill was appointed to replace her as DA when the evidence—all circumstantial—pointed to her. He charged her with murder. If he convicts her, she could get the death penalty.”
“Did she do it?”
“What did you tell McCaskill, Andrea?”
She waited for an answer to her question, but didn’t get one. “Not much he didn’t already seem to know. He kept muttering to himself, even threatened again to have me arrested if my memory didn’t improve. He was looking for something, but I don’t know if he g
ot it.”
“I need to know exactly what you told him.”
“I really have to leave or I’ll miss my flight.” Sheglanced at her watch and stood. “He didn’t tell you he taped my interview?”
“He never told anyone he interviewed you at all, much less that he recorded it. I bet the son of a bitch destroyed the tape.”
She sat back down, dug in her purse, pulled out a minicassette, and slid it across the table.
“After he threatened to arrest me, I figured I’d protect myself. I had a recorder in my purse.”
“Can I listen to it?”
“Take it.” She stood again and put on her jacket. The construction workers stopped talking again, but she didn’t notice.
Granz dropped the tape into his jacket pocket, then pulled out a folded paper and handed it to her.
“What’s this?”
“A subpoena, just in case. Consider yourself served.”
She dropped it into her purse. “You sure a California subpoena’s valid in Canada?”
“The court in B.C. validated it,” he lied.
“Sure it did.”
She stood and extended her hand, and Granz shook it again, this time noting that her grip was firm and confident.
“Doesn’t matter,” she told him. “But, if you call me to testify, I hope you don’t screw up another romantic weekend for Joe and me. And I hope my testimony shoots that jerk McCaskill in the foot.”
“Me, too.”
CHAPTER
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56
IN HIS EARLY SIXTIES, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and tasteful slacks and a sport coat, Morgan Nelson’s kindly demeanor belied his status as a nationally renowned forensic pathologist and firearms expert. He settled into the witness chair and waited for McCaskill’s first question.
“What is your occupation?”
“I’m a forensic pathologist and toxicologist for the Santa Rita Sheriff-Coroner.”
“Describe your qualifying education and training for the jury.”
“I have a Master’s Degree in Microbiology from Saint John’s University, Doctor of Medicine from Boston University, and six years’ postgraduate training in pathology and toxicology. I completed a two-yearinternship at the University of Utah Hospital and residencies in Anatomic Pathology at Boston Hospital, Clinical Pathology at the University of California Medical Center, and Forensic Pathology with the Los Angeles County Medical Examiner’s Office.”
Until the Final Verdict Page 16