Until the Final Verdict

by Christine McGuire

  “And, as you previously testified, you don’t know when it disappeared from your office, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Griffith turned. “Thank you, no further questions.”

  Keefe looked at the prosecution table. “Redirect?”

  McCaskill stood but remained at the table. “Just a couple of questions. If the pathologists or lab techs wanted to get their hands on a large amount of digitalis, they wouldn’t need to rummage around in your office hoping to find some, because they have access to digitalis through their jobs, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the defendant wouldn’t, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nonmedical personnel wouldn’t, though, right?”

  “No.”

  “Doctor, did the pathologists, deputy coroners, or lab techs know you had a supply of digitalis in your office?”

  “No.”

  “But the defendant knew, right?”

  “I already said I told her.”

  “So you did. You have no reason to believe any of the pathologists or lab techs who work for you took that digitalis, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Given what you know today, only the defendant could have taken the digitalis, right?”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I admire your devotion to your friend, Doctor Nelson, but it is probable she took the digitalis, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “No further questions.” McCaskill turned to Keefe. “The People rest, Your Honor.”

  Griffith shoved his papers into his briefcase and slammed it shut. “I should’ve left well enough alone!”

  “I’m sorry for what I said, Roger, I didn’t mean it. I’m just scared. Please don’t be angry with me.”

  He sat beside her and put his hand on her forearm. “I’m not angry at you, Kathryn, I’m angry at myself. You aren’t thinking straight—hell, under the circumstances, who can blame you. But I’m conducting the defense, and I should know better. I had no business crossing Nelson. I caved in against my better judgment, and my client—you—suffered for my bad judgment.”

  “Nelson killed me, didn’t he? Literally.”

  “It’s not over until the final verdict is in.”

  “I watched the jurors. The final verdict is in and it’s not an acquittal, or life without parole.”

  “Kathryn—if you want a new lawyer, I understand. I’ll move for mistrial on the basis of incompetency of counsel, buy you some time.”

  “I know you’re not incompetent, but I don’t want more time in jail, and I don’t want you to move for a mistrial.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Grant me the favor I asked of you.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  60

  “SIT DOWN BEFORE YOU PASS OUT. ”

  Granz motioned to the old institutional metal chair in front of Lieutenant Aldridge’s cluttered desk in the jail’s office.

  “Bad day.”

  Griffith dropped his briefcase to the floor, flung his suit coat at the rack, loosened his tie, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Got a fuckin’ Excedrin headache, too, but no Excedrin.”

  Granz pulled a bottle of Tylenol PM from the center drawer and tossed it across the desk. “Looks like you need the rest.”

  “Thanks, Dave, I haven’t slept well all week.”

  Griffith took four pills. “You visiting Kathryn tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When you leave, put her on suicide watch.”

  Granz stared. “I thought Nelson testified today.”

  “He did, unfortunately.” Griffith massaged his eyelids hard with his fingertips.

  “That bad?”

  “Worse.” He described Nelson’s testimony. “Kathryn’s convinced the jury’s gonna convict.”

  “What do you think?”

  Griffith pulled a new half-pint of Wild Turkey out of his briefcase, twisted the top to break the stamp, took a swig, and gagged. “I think she’s right.”

  Granz frowned. “I didn’t know you drank.”

  “I don’t. Bought this on a whim, but it tastes like piss.”

  He screwed the top back on and handed it to Granz. “Toss it in the trash.”

  “Why do you think Kate needs to be watched?”

  “After Nelson testified, she asked me to help her kill herself when she’s convicted.”

  “Jesus Christ, Roger! You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  “She’ll spend fifteen years on death row waiting to be executed. Meanwhile, neither you nor Emma can get on with your lives. I might help if it comes to that.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  Granz lifted the minicassette from his shirt pocket and handed it to Griffith. “Besides, maybe it doesn’t have to come to that.”

  “What’s this?”

  “McCaskill interviewed the stewardess three daysbefore he was appointed DA. Flashed some Mickey Mouse badge, told her he was from the Sheriff’s office. Didn’t know she recorded it.”

  “You’ve listened to it?”

  “Yeah.” Granz shrugged. “No Perry Mason breakthrough, but it might open a crack you can stick your foot in.”

  “Wide enough to create reasonable doubt as to Kathryn’s guilt?”

  Granz shook his head. “Probably not.”

  “Enough to sway the jury against the death penalty?”

  “You may be able to argue ‘lingering doubt’ as a circumstance in mitigation. Listen to it yourself, then decide.”

  “The stew’s willing to testify?”

  “Yeah. After I listened to the tape, I called her in Calgary. She flew back to Vancouver. She’s standing by at the airport’s Hilton.”

  Griffith dropped the tape into his briefcase, then put on his coat. “I’m headed back to my office. I’ll listen to the tape on the way. If you’re right that it helps, she’ll be my first defense witness. Shit, she’ll be my only defense witness.”

  “You want me to call her, have her hop the next flight to SFO?”

  “Yes, just in case. What’ve we got to lose?”

  Granz picked up the phone and started dialing. “Not a damn thing.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  61

  “STATE YOUR NAME, please, and spell your last name for the court reporter.”

  “Andrea Lain, L-A-I-N.”

  She wore a conservative business suit, no makeup, her hair was pinned in a tight bun, and she had removed her red nail polish, but she was still beautiful. She sat erect in the witness chair, folded her hands in her lap, and made eye contact with Roger Griffith.

  “What is your occupation, Ms. Lain?”

  “I’m an Air Canada flight attendant.”

  “How long have you worked for Air Canada?”

  “Two months. I flew for British Airways for almost twenty years before that.”

  “On January fifteenth of this year, were you workingaboard British Airways Flight 287, from London Heathrow to San Francisco?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “What were your duties on that flight?”

  “I was senior flight attendant. It was my job to tend to the passengers, oversee the other flight attendants, supervise food and drink service, and respond to incidents the other attendants might encounter during the flight.”

  “Did any such incident occur during that flight?”

  “Yes.”

  “What.”

  “Well, first there was the drunk. I was serving drinks when a passenger got belligerent because one of the flight attendants wouldn’t give him another beer. He crashed into my cart, grabbed a couple of beers, ran into the lavatory, then passed out.”

  “Were Sheriff Granz and Kathryn Mackay seated in your section when that happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. Ms. Mackay was in a window seat, Sheriff Granz was on th
e aisle, and their prisoner, Robert Simmons, was in the seat between them.”

  “How did you know Doctor Simmons’ name?”

  “I was alerted to his presence prior to boarding.”

  “How did you know Robert Simmons was a prisoner?”

  “His right wrist was handcuffed to the armrest.”

  “You said you were serving drinks when a drunk passenger crashed into your cart, then ran into the lavatory?”

  “Yes. In fact, I was serving Sheriff Granz, Ms. Mackay, and Simmons at the time. Sheriff Granz ran to the lavatory and pounded on the door, then opened it with my key. Mr. Randall was passed out, so we dragged him out and buckled him into an empty seat. Sheriff Granz checked the lavatory, and found cocaine. Mr. Randall must’ve been doing drugs.”

  Keefe leaned over the bench toward the witness stand. “Don’t speculate, Ms. Lain, just stick to what you know.”

  “Sorry.”

  Griffith smiled. “No need to apologize, I do the same thing. What happened after Sheriff Granz found cocaine in the lavatory?”

  “He told me to keep everyone out, then had Ms. Mackay come to the lavatory.”

  “When Sheriff Granz rushed to the forward lavatory, did he take Robert Simmons with him?”

  “No.”

  “When Kathryn Mackay went to the lavatory at Sheriff Granz’ request, did she take Robert Simmons with her?”

  “No, she left him handcuffed to the seat.”

  “For how long?”

  Lain thought for several seconds. “At least five minutes, maybe longer.”

  Griffith looked at the jury. “Ms. Lain, you’re sure Ms. Mackay left Robert Simmons unattended for five minutes or more?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. When Ms. Mackay returned to her seat beside Robert Simmons, where were you?”

  “I was only gone for a few minutes before I returned to the cabin to reassure my passengers that everything was under control.”

  “You saw Ms. Mackay return to her seat?”

  “Yes, but when she returned, she sat in Sheriff Granz’ seat.”

  “I see. When you serve drinks, do you normally hand them to the passenger in the aisle seat, and let him or her pass the drinks to the other passengers in that row?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did Robert Simmons order to drink?”

  “A Diet Coke.”

  Griffith leafed through several papers and frowned. “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Did you see Ms. Mackay put anything in Robert Simmons’ Diet Coke when she handed it to him?”

  “She didn’t hand it to him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had poured Simmons’ Diet Coke just before Mr. Randall crashed into my cart. I set it down, but when I got back, he was drinking it.”

  “Who gave it to him?”

  “I don’t know, probably the man.”

  “What man?”

  “When I got back, a man was standing at my cart. Said he wanted to see what the commotion was about, and he wanted something to drink.”

  “Did you give him something to drink?”

  “He had already helped himself.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He was holding a Coke can.”

  “A regular Coke or a Diet Coke?”

  “Regular.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “Hispanic, elderly, short, a little overweight, gray hair, big mustache, bifocals.”

  “Could he have put something into Robert Simmons’ Coke drink without your knowledge?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But, it is possible?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Did anything else happen aboard that flight?”

  “I’ll say. Right after Ms. Mackay returned to her seat, Simmons collapsed.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Ms. Mackay shouted for Sheriff Granz to come, that Simmons was having a heart attack. She started chest compressions while I got an airway. Sheriff Granz administered CPR, but he was already dead.”

  “How long did Ms. Mackay try to revive Robert Simmons?”

  “Along time, fifteen or twenty minutes, I’d guess.”

  “Can you describe her emotional condition?”

  “Objection,” McCaskill shouted. “The witness can’t testify as to the defendant’s emotional state.”

  “Your Honor, the witness has been a flight attendant for more than twenty years and is trained by the FAAto make observations and handle in-flight emergencies.”

  “I’ll allow it,” Keefe ruled.

  “Ms. Lain?” Griffith prompted.

  “She was highly distraught.”

  “What happened when it was obvious they couldn’t revive him?”

  “We placed his body in an empty seat for the duration of the flight.”

  “Did anyone stay with the body?”

  “Sheriff Granz did.”

  “What about Ms. Mackay?”

  “She returned to her seat.”

  “What did she do for the rest of the flight?”

  “Cried.”

  “Thank you. One more question. Before Sheriff Granz spoke with you day before yesterday, in Fort St. John British Columbia, were you interviewed about the events aboard flight 287?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Last January.”

  “By whom?”

  “District Attorney McCaskill.”

  “Thank you. No further questions.” Griffith turned to the bench. “The defense requests a recess.”

  “It’s only ten-thirty. Do you have questions for this witness, Mr. McCaskill?”

  “Not at this time.”

  Keefe stared. “Very well, court is adjourned until one-thirty this afternoon.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  62

  “SHERIFF GRANZ IS IN A BRIEFING.”

  “Interrupt him.”

  “Well . . .” The receptionist’s name tag said LILY.

  “I’ll take the blame, Lily.”

  She punched the intercom.

  A tinny voice came back: “I asked you not to disturb me.”

  “Mr. Griffith says it’s urgent, Sheriff.”

  Griffith leaned over the reception counter, stuck his head through the security window, and shouted loud enough to be picked up by the speaker-mike.

  “Critically urgent, Dave.”

  He heard low voices followed by chairs sliding across the floor.

  “Send him in.”

  When Griffith finished summarizing the flight attendant’s testimony, Granz whistled. “The only helpful thing I heard on Lain’s tape was that Simmons was left alone for about five minutes.”

  “McCaskill didn’t ask the right questions, and she wasn’t volunteering.”

  Granz leaned back in his chair. “There wasn’t anything about an unknown man.”

  “She told me after her testimony that the guy looked weird, like maybe he was wearing a disguise.”

  “Why didn’t she say so on the stand?”

  “Said she wasn’t sure, it was just a feeling, and didn’t want McCaskill to go after her on it, and she wasn’t sure, it was just a feeling.”

  “Then there’s the Coke,” Griffith added.

  “Coke?”

  “Lain poured all three of you Diet Cokes.”

  “So?”

  “When she returned to her drink cart just before Simmons keeled over, the unknown man was standing there holding a regular Coke can.”

  “So?”

  “Nelson’s autopsy protocol report said Simmons had nothing in his stomach but carbonated water, soft-drink chemicals, and sucrose.”

  “Sugar.” Granz slid forward in his chair and leaned on his desk. “Diet Cokes use artificial sweetener, not sugar.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Randall’s disturbance was staged.”

  “It could be coincidence, but it sounds too
convenient.”

  “I’ve been a cop too long to believe in coincidence. We’ve got to find the man with the Coke can.”

  “How?”

  “Jeremiah Randall’s gonna tell us.”

  “You’ve got to find him first.”

  Granz flicked the trackball on his computer mouse to stop the screen saver and went on-line. He clicked on the California Department of Justice web site, logged in, opened the criminal records database, and called up a rap sheet.

  “Randall’s in custody at Soledad on a parole violation, awaiting trial on federal charges of interference with a flight crew and cocaine use.”

  “Won’t help unless you can drive to Soledad, talk Randall into cooperating, find the Coke-Can Man, and get them back by one-thirty this afternoon.”

  “Stall.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t give a shit, just buy me some time.”

  “I guess I could move for a mistrial.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “McCaskill concealed Lain’s interview in discovery.”

  “Keefe’ll never grant a mistrial.”

  “No, but he’ll split the baby.”

  “Split it how?”

  “Give me a continuance.”

  “For how long?”

  “If I kiss his ass, a day.”

  “Then, french kiss it. Tomorrow’s Friday, and that’d give me three days.”

  Griffith walked to the door of Granz’ office, thenturned, hand on the doorknob. “How long does it take law enforcement to get a Department of Corrections clearance for an inmate interview at Soledad?”

  Granz shook his head. “A week, more or less.”

  “Damn.”

  “I’ve got friends at CDC. I’ll pull a few strings, try to see him tomorrow.”

  “Can you get in that soon?”

  Granz picked up the phone. “I’d damn sure better, this may be Kathryn’s last hope.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  63

  GRANZ DROPPED EMMA AT SCHOOL, then threaded the Buick through heavy, early-Friday-morning commuter traffic. The weekend getaway to Monterey hadn’t started yet, so traffic lightened up, and was moving at the speed limit, by the last Española exit.