“Good flight in?” he asked after we’d been seated, him behind a massive, paper-laden desk, me in a chair on the opposite side.
“Yes, fine, a very nice airline. I’d never flown it before.”
“As good as any of them, I suppose,” he said in a growl. He was in shirtsleeves, the collar of his white shirt open, tie yanked down, black suspenders dotted with bright yellow sunflowers straining at what might have been weight lifter’s shoulders.
“It was good of you to come,” he said, “although as I told you when I called, I hope you’re not needed as a character witness at sentencing. I don’t intend for there to be any sentencing. Your friend Martha Kildare is innocent, and I’m committed to making sure the jury believes that.”
“As I told you, Mr. Nastasi, I was planning to be here anyway. I’m only sorry I missed the first few days of the trial. I’ll do anything to help Martha, and I share your hope that sentencing won’t be necessary. Whether I’m called as a witness or not, I’m here to lend Martha whatever emotional support I can.”
“Just seeing you in court will be a boost to her morale, Mrs. Fletcher. Do you mind if I call you Jessica? I’m Vince.”
“First names by all means.”
“I haven’t put you on the witness list because I’d like you in the courtroom. Potential witnesses are precluded from being in court until they testify. I may add you later. I don’t think the judge will deny me. We get along pretty good.”
“Add me? In case there’s a sentencing?”
“Maybe before that. The prosecution is trying to paint Martha’s marriage to Victor as one made in hell. I may need you to testify otherwise.”
“I really don’t know much about their marriage except that—”
He held up a hand. “We’ll get into that during my prep of you, if I do feel it’s necessary for you to take the stand. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for you to visit Martha in jail tomorrow. It’s a short court day; the judge has a meeting at three.”
“Fine. Thank you for all you’re doing for my friend.”
“I’ll level with you, Jessica. I always go into a murder trial confident that I’ll win for my client. This trial is no different. But there’s a lot stacked against Martha Kildare. Lots of things stacked against her.”
As he walked me to the reception area, where his young associate was poised to drive me to my hotel, Vince said, “You wouldn’t by any chance be out here covering this trial for a magazine, would you?”
“Heavens, no. Why do you ask?”
“Just that you’re a famous writer and all. I thought maybe you were writing about this case.”
“Actually, I had a query from a national magazine to do just that, but I declined. I could never write about a friend being charged with murdering her husband and facing possible execution or life in prison. No, I’m strictly a friend, and a concerned one.”
“Well, then, I’m glad you’re here. Martha Kildare needs all the support she can muster.”
“She has mine. Thank you for your courtesies.”
“My pleasure. See you in court tomorrow.”
I took the same seat I’d occupied before the recess and glanced over to where Martha sat at the defense table. Seven months of incarceration had taken their toll. She was pale and gaunt; her dull hazel eyes seemed sunken into her face, as though the skeletal support was crumbling. She saw that I was looking at her and managed a small, pained smile, which I returned, hopefully a smile that reflected more optimism.
The next witness was the hostess at the Winners’ Circle, a restaurant outside of the city. Martha claimed to have been at the restaurant during the time that Victor had been killed, which, according to the medical examiner, was between noon and three in the afternoon. The hostess, Anne McGinnis, was visibly nervous on the stand as the prosecutor led her through a series of questions. He wrapped up his direct examination with two questions.
“And you’re certain, Ms. McGinnis—no doubt at all—that the defendant was not in your restaurant on the day of the murder?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“Is it possible that you were distracted, that you were called away from your post at the entrance to the restaurant and simply didn’t see the defendant enter?”
“No, sir, that isn’t possible. We’re very busy at lunch. Dinner, too. But I’m very good with faces. I greet every customer who enters, and hand them off to my assistants, who show them to their tables. No, I do not leave my post—ever!”
How could she be so adamant? I wondered. Surely things would occur that would cause her to leave her position, if even for a few minutes.
Vince Nastasi pursued the same question during his cross-examination, but Ms. McGinnis held firm, never wavering as he attempted to poke holes in her testimony.
She was the final witness of the abbreviated day. The morning had been taken up by the testimony of various law-enforcement officers who’d been called when Victor’s body had been found, and by technicians who’d gathered and preserved evidence from the scene. The information, while circumstantial, had not been helpful to Martha’s case.
“Lieutenant, would you please tell the court where you found the murder weapon?” Fordice said.
“Yes, sir. One of the officers on the scene noticed what he thought might be a few drops of blood on the concrete around the swimming pool. We initiated a search of all the buildings on that side of the property. In the pump house we found a toolbox, which contained the wrench and other implements.”
“And you have since confirmed that the wrench was the actual murder weapon?”
“Yes, sir. An initial laboratory analysis confirmed that there was blood on the wrench and that it was the same type as the victim’s. A DNA test later confirmed that the blood came from Victor Kildare.”
“We’ll be hearing about those tests from forensic scientists later on,” Fordice said. “Since the murder weapon was found in the toolbox, is it safe to say that whoever murdered Victor Kildare was familiar with the property and the location of the toolbox?”
“Objection. Answer calls for an assumption on the part of the witness.”
“Sustained,” said the judge. “The jury will disregard the question.”
Fordice continued, “Lieutenant, will you please describe what other items were taken into custody from the scene?”
“We took the whole toolbox. We took some rags that were on a shelf.”
“Why did you take the rags?”
“In case one might have been used to wipe off the weapon.”
“And that turned out to be the case, didn’t it?”
“Yes. There were no fingerprints on the wrench, and we believe the murderer used one of the rags to wipe it down.”
“The toolbox and the rags. Was that all you took?”
“No, sir. We found a cell phone at the side of the pool that we later learned belonged to the victim. And a further search of the premises disclosed a pair of silver lamé gloves, of the kind typically used when playing slot machines.”
“And where did you find those?”
“Behind a piece of equipment.”
“Behind a piece of equipment?”
“Yes, sir. On the floor behind—I believe it’s the pump for the swimming pool.”
“Not the usual place you would expect to find slots gloves. And were those gloves tested as well?”
“They were, and there were also traces of the same blood on the gloves.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Your witness.”
In his cross-examination, Nastasi had been able to elicit from the policeman that the toolbox had been left in a location where anyone entering the pump house would have seen it.
I’d no sooner stepped out of the courthouse into the 105-degree heat of Nevada when a young man ran over to me. “I’m a producer for Court TV,” he said. “We’re covering the trial live.”
“I know,” I said. “I watch your channel often.”
“Would you sit for an interview, Mrs. Fletcher? Beth Karas would like to talk with you on-camera.”
“I really don’t know if I should,” I said. “I’m not here officially.”
“Please. Only take a minute. We’d really appreciate it.”
“All right,” I said, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to put in a good word for Martha.
Ms. Karas was a very attractive strawberry blonde. Because I do tune in to Court TV from time to time, depending upon the trial being broadcast, I was familiar with the faces of all its anchors and reporters. But I’d never met any of them. Ms. Karas greeted me graciously and indicated a chair next to her. I sat down, and a technician inserted an earpiece in my left ear and attached a tiny microphone to my blouse. As soon as the tech was out of camera range, Ms. Karas looked into the lens and said, “I have with me the noted mystery writer J. B. Fletcher, who’s attending the trial of Martha Kildare. Welcome, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Thank you.”
“I understand that you’re here because of a long-standing friendship with the defendant.”
“That’s right. Martha and I were friends for many years in Cabot Cove, Maine, where I still live. She is one of the sweetest, gentlest people I know.”
“Have you spoken with your friend since arriving in Las Vegas?”
“No, but I will a little later this afternoon.”
“Do you expect to be called as a witness, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“No. In fact, Mr. Nastasi said that—” I stopped myself. What Nastasi and I discussed was no one’s business, certainly not to be broadcast on national TV.
A voice with a Southern accent filled my ear: “Mrs. Fletcher, this is Nancy Grace in New York. You started to say that Mr. Nastasi indicated something about you possibly being a defense witness.”
I saw her picture on a small TV screen in front of me. She, too, was a familiar face, a former Atlanta prosecutor, attractive, vivacious.
“I misspoke,” I said. “I’m not scheduled to testify.”
“Any professional reasons for being here, Mrs. Fletcher?” she asked. “You are, after all, a noted mystery writer
and
someone who’s solved her own share of real-life murders.”
“That’s true. But I have no professional reasons for being here. I simply came to lend emotional support to a dear friend who is in very serious trouble.”
A few minutes later I was unplugged, thanked profusely for agreeing to appear, and in a taxi with blessed air-conditioning on my way back to the hotel. There I walked through the casino and took the elevator to my penthouse suite. Similar in style to the one in which Martha and I had spent a quiet hour the evening of her wedding, my suite, too, overlooked the huge artificial lake with fountains that erupted into a dramatic display day and night. The “dancing fountains,” Martha had called them when we’d drawn our chairs up to the picture window, sipped our tea, and watched the dazzling water show. I remembered how excited Martha had been to show me her lovely suite, and felt a little like a princess myself in such surroundings. The suite’s comfort and tranquil décor helped me forget, at least for a few minutes, the grim reason why I was in Las Vegas.
But that changed a half hour later when I left the Bellagio to visit Martha in jail, something I both looked forward to and dreaded.
Chapter Six
A taxi dropped me in front of the Clark County Detention Center, a nondescript downtown building. The blistering Las Vegas sun reflected off its cream-colored walls and poured through the square openings in the large pergola that partly shaded the tiled approach to the front door.
Visiting the local jail did not promise to be an uplifting experience. Then again, no jail is. I’d seen my share of them and found the pervasive sadness of lives lost to be demoralizing. For Martha, a woman whose life had been sheltered from deprivation, to find herself among the human wreckage of lives steeped in squalor, crime, and degradation must have been overwhelming.
I climbed the stairs, passing an elderly couple hunched over on a wooden bench outside, nervously dragging on cigarettes. A man in paint-splattered overalls dozed, leaning against the building, pale lines on his face where sweat dripped from his forehead and ran down his cheeks. I pulled the door open and held it for a mother and her teenage daughter, who were arguing about the younger woman’s attire as they left the building.
“I tole you they wouldn’t let you in to see him in that outfit,” the mother said as they walked past me. “Didn’t ya read the rules? Nothin’ low-cut. No skin showin.’ Now we gotta go all the way back home.”
The lobby was crowded, but mercifully cool. I waited in one of two lines in front of a long glass partition, behind which a uniformed policewoman and a civilian employee logged required data and distributed orange badges that identified authorized visitors.
I’d spoken with Martha several times since Victor’s death, the first time when I’d phoned to offer my condolences right after hearing the news of his “accident.” Media reports had indicated only that wealthy businessman Victor Kildare had died of an injury suffered at his swimming pool. His wife was said to be in seclusion. I knew that Martha would be distraught, and called only to leave a message. But she came on the line immediately when whoever answered the telephone told her I was calling from Maine.
“Jessica, I’m so glad it’s you.”
“I really don’t know what to say about Victor, Martha, except to tell you how sorry I am. And shocked. What a dreadful accident. He was such a vital, healthy man. You must be terribly distressed. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I can’t talk right now, Jessica. There are too many people here.” Her voice lowered. “But, Jessica, we must talk soon. The police think—”
I heard someone interrupt her. “Yes, of course,” Martha said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Martha, you started to say that—”
“I have to go, Jessica. I’m sorry. I’m so grateful you called. Please try to understand. I’ll call you as soon as I get a chance.”
She’d hung up before I could question her further. She’d never called me back and my calls to her went unanswered. I learned of her arrest the same way I’d found out about Victor’s death—through the media. Once Martha was in custody, it was difficult to reach her. I tried to find out who was representing her, but she switched lawyers several times. Finally I read of her pending trial and contacted the lawyer whose name appeared in the newspaper. And now I was in Las Vegas about to see her face-to-face.