“Inmate’s ID number?” the female police officer asked when I finally reached the glass partition.
I unfolded the slip of paper Mr. Nastasi had given me with Martha’s identification number and read it off.
“You’ll have to leave your handbag in the locker.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You have a driver’s license or other photo ID?”
I handed her my passport.
She looked up at me inquisitively.
“I don’t drive,” I said. “I’ve gotten used to carrying my passport for just such occasions.”
“Got a lot of occasions like this?”
“Not really,” I said, “but I was a Girl Scout. Boy Scouts aren’t the only ones who’re prepared.”
She laughed and pinned my passport on a pegboard behind her desk, exchanging it for an orange badge. “After you get rid of your bag, go through the metal detector.” She pointed to my right. “And wait till they call you.”
I walked to a bank of lockers and deposited my handbag in an open one, twisting the key in the gray metal door to lock it. Above the cabinet was a black sign with the rules to which the mother with the teenager had referred. In addition to the hours posted for “Social Visiting,” there was detailed information on “Sign-In,” “Allowable Items on Visit,” “Dress Code,” and reasons for “Denial of Visits,” chief among the long list, “Inappropriate Dress.”
Across the lobby, several workers set off the alarm as they passed through the gray metal detector trimmed with bright blue paint. I checked my pockets for anything that might trigger the machine before walking through the opening, and stood on the side, waiting for my name to be called.
“Mason, Abernathy, Fletcher, Gonzales.”
The orange badges were distributed and I joined those standing in front of a large glass door, framed in the same electric blue as the metal detector. I wondered if there was supposed to be a psychological reason for using this strange hue, or if some paint contractor had simply found an easy outlet for getting rid of an unwanted color by splashing it all over the county jail.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Officer Pirro,” our uniformed escort announced. “You will follow me, and not stop for any reason, unless I tell you to. If a prisoner is being walked through the halls, I may ask you to stand against the wall, out of the way, until I say it’s safe to walk again. You are to follow my instructions immediately. Anyone not following instructions will be ushered out and not permitted to return. Understood?” He looked from face to face for acknowledgment before pressing a button on the side of the blue frame. A guard inside responded to the signal, releasing the pneumatically controlled door, which sprang open with a hiss.
Officer Pirro walked backward, keeping his eyes on us. We trailed him down the hall to the elevator bay. “Visitors for Three B,” he called out when we entered the elevator. There were no buttons in the cab, only an intercom and a camera behind a protective glass panel.
“The elevator is controlled by the command center,” Pirro explained. “You can get on, but you can’t get off without me.”
“Prisoners coming up to Three B,” said a voice over the intercom. “Hold your visitors till they’re processed.”
The elevator arrived at the third floor. We got off and followed Pirro into the hall. “Stand against the wall, please,” he said.
We lined up quietly and waited. I could hear another elevator door open, and then three women shuffled past us, accompanied by a guard. Their wrists and ankles were manacled and connected to a chain belt, and they were tethered together by more chain. Their prison garb consisted of navy blue pants and matching smocks with CCDC stenciled on the back. On their feet were orange socks and tan flip-flops, the kind of footwear, I assumed, that would make it difficult, if not impossible, to run once the shackles were removed.
I studied the faces of prisoners as they passed. Even though it was hard to see beyond the heavy makeup or the lines of fatigue and taut expressions that marked their faces, they were very young, two of them barely out of their teens. With a whole lifetime of possibilities before them, they had made poor choices, only to end up in jail, looking weary and defeated. I hoped the experience would discourage them from repeating those mistakes in the future, but I knew that was a long shot. Once started on a path of crime, only a strong individual can break the pattern.
We watched the guard escort his charges through another pneumatic glass door that led to the women’s quarters, and waited while he unlocked the chains and turned his prisoners over to the unit guards.
Glass doors and windows allowed a clear view into the crowded women’s unit. A dozen cots were lined up in each of the two common areas flanking the guardroom, every one occupied. “Full house these days,” Pirro said of the crowded conditions. Meal trays had recently been distributed, and the women lounged on the cots or sat cross-legged while eating, or ignored the food altogether. I searched the faces for Martha and was grateful when I didn’t see her. Maybe she was lucky enough, or infamous enough, to be in one of the cells surrounding the common space.
Officer Pirro took us through the pneumatic door and up a flight of metal stairs to the visitors’ area.
“Please take a seat. We’ll be bringing up the inmates in a few minutes.”
We filed into a narrow room with a bank of booths on our left. A glass wall separated them from matching booths on the prisoners’ side. The partitions between the booths were covered in tan carpeting to muffle the sound, and trimmed in the vivid blue I was becoming accustomed to seeing. Stainless-steel disks perched on chrome columns secured to the concrete floor served as stools. Communication through the glass wall was either by telephone or intercom. I chose a booth with a telephone, hoping that device would provide a modicum of privacy.
Ten minutes later, the first inmate arrived, peering in each booth to find her visitor. One by one, the women took their seats on the cold stools and picked up the telephone receiver or pressed the intercom button. There was a buzz of conversation, not completely concealed by the partitions. Martha was the last one in. She slid onto the seat and lifted the phone, familiar by now with the routine.
“Jessica, thank you so much for coming. I’m embarrassed to be talking with you in such a place.”
“Martha, I tried to reach you many times,” I said.
“I know. Please forgive me. I was so humiliated to be in here, and then so depressed. I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone but my lawyer. God, it’s grim in here.”
“Are you all right? I mean, do they mistreat you?”
“No. It’s just that—” She started to weep, sat up straight, drew some deep breaths, and forced a smile at me through the glass. “I’m sorry. I haven’t cried for weeks, but seeing you...” She trailed off.
“No need to be sorry. Martha. I certainly understand.”
“I’m so grateful you’re here.”
“I wish I had something to offer, could say some magic word that would end this nightmare for you.”
“Yes, that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? A magic word. I’m afraid there isn’t one. At first I couldn’t believe anyone would think I could murder Victor, could murder anyone. I thought, There must be a mistake. It’s me, little Martha Ames from Canton, Ohio, cheerleader, starring actress in the senior play, then doctor’s wife, widow, and finally married to the most generous man in the world.” She inhaled deeply again. “But there was no mistake. They think I killed Victor. They say I hit him in the head with a wrench. And no one believes me when I say I didn’t, that I wasn’t even there when he died.” She shuddered. “I can’t thank you enough for being here, Jessica. I need your help desperately.”
“Whatever I can do. You know that.”
“You believe me when I say that I didn’t kill Victor, don’t you?”
“Of course I believe you.”
“Everyone in here claims they’re innocent. The guards think it’s a joke. But I swear to you I didn’t kill him.”
I nodded. I meant it when I said I believed her. For years I’d known this woman to be a kind and gentle person, certainly not someone capable of murder. But I also had to recognize that I knew virtually nothing of her life since she moved to Las Vegas and married Victor Kildare. My belief in Martha Kildare was based solely upon my faith in her, hardly the sort of thing that would help establish her innocence in a court of law.
Martha’s smile was rueful as she said, “The silly things we say that come back to haunt us. Can you believe the prosecution put on my hairdresser and manicurist as witnesses today?”
“Makes you hesitate to talk to anyone. What had happened to make you so angry?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Victor and I must have had a fight. We didn’t fight often, but when we did, they could become big blowups. He had a temper and didn’t like to be challenged. I was probably upset with him for leaving me alone so much. That’s what we argued about the most—his business travel. He could be so unreasonable and he was very much the chauvinist. That was a bit of a surprise to me after we were married.”
“What do you mean?”
“He really wanted me to be a stay-at-home wife. It would have been fine if he’d been around more. But I got bored and lonely when he was away. Jane was hostile, Oliver ignored me, and our housekeeper was busy all day. I wanted to work, and he was against it. I told him I didn’t want to be just another decoration in his life, pulled out for a business party or to play with when he dropped in. He didn’t like that.”
“I imagine not.”
“I don’t remember venting at the beauty parlor. I’m usually more circumspect than that. But if I arrived there right after one of our arguments, I could have said what they say I did. But I certainly didn’t mean it. You know how we say things like that and don’t mean it.”
“Yes, I know. What caused the police to focus in on you so quickly, Martha? Did they investigate other possible suspects?”
“Hardly at all. Nastasi says it’s a classic rush to judgment on the part of the authorities.”
“Well, we’ll just have to help Nastasi find the proof of that,” I said.
Martha looked at me for a long time. “I’m glad you believe me, Jessica. Two of my lawyers didn’t. They didn’t say it, but I could tell. That’s why I fired them.”
“I knew you’d changed lawyers. Every time I tried to contact you, and managed to reach the person I thought was your lawyer, you had moved on to someone else.”
“I can’t deal with anyone who thinks I’m a killer.” She shivered.
“Martha, what evidence do they have against you?”
“I am not a murderer.”
“I know that, but your attorney has to prove it to a jury, or at least make that jury decide that the prosecution hasn’t proved its case beyond a reasonable doubt. All it takes is one juror to come to that conclusion. You don’t have to share anything with me, Martha. Your attorney, Mr. Nastasi, is the one who—”
“Oh, no, Jessica, I want to share it with you. Everything!”
“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”
“Where shall I start?”
“Start on the day of the murder. When did you last see Victor? What kind of mood was he in? What kind of mood were you in?”
“Oh, Jessica, we were so happy.” She fought against another bout of crying. “At least, I thought we were.”
“I’m listening.”
Martha related the details of their last day together. Victor had been home a lot that month, and they were rediscovering each other, rekindling the sparks that had led to their marriage. Martha had convinced Victor that it was time for him to fly her to London for their honeymoon they’d never had, and he’d agreed. He regaled her with all the places he was going to take her and all the people he was going to introduce to her.
“He’d been spending a lot of time in the pool,” she said into the telephone connecting me to her. “He had a shoulder that was giving him trouble. His rotator cuff. Oliver had recommended swimming as a kind of physical therapy.
“On the day Victor died, I had a luncheon date with Jane. I felt I was making a lot of progress with her. She was no longer antagonistic, and had even come close to being friendly on several occasions. Victor was so pleased with that thaw in our relationship. He wanted us to be a happy family, even though his ‘baby,’ as he always called her, was twenty-nine. And I was excited that I was close to reaching a breakthrough with her.”
Martha went on to tell me that she’d driven to the restaurant where she and Jane had planned to meet for lunch. But Jane never showed up.
“I left the house a little before noon. The restaurant is on the other side of the city, a forty-five-minute drive, if there’s no congestion, but of course there was. I arrived at the restaurant around one and must have been there around an hour waiting for Jane. When it became obvious she wasn’t going to show up, I decided to leave. The city’s rebuilding a part of the highway and traffic was very heavy on the way back and it took me a long time to get home. When I saw all the police cars in the driveway, I pulled in behind them. At first we thought it was an accident, that Victor must have tripped, hit his head, and fallen into the pool. Not for a second did I think that anyone had killed him.”
“Wait a minute, Martha,” I broke in. “At the restaurant, did you have anything to eat or drink, and save the receipt?”
“No. It’s ironic, really. The waitress was so kind. She brought me a cup of coffee while I waited, then refused to charge me for it. We got to talking. She told me she had two daughters and was working to put them through college. We spoke about children and how hard it is when they grow up. You want to mother them, but that’s not what they want from you.”
“You told this to the police, obviously,” I said, interrupting her tale. “That would be your alibi for the time Victor was killed, wouldn’t it? I understand the medical examiner said he died approximately between noon and three in the afternoon.”
“Of course I told them, and I told all my lawyers, too. Mr. Nastasi sent an investigator to the Winners’ Circle—that’s the name of the restaurant—to talk to the waitress. But she was gone. The manager told him they have a lot of turnover among the staff. Anyway, the woman I remembered didn’t work there anymore. She had a Spanish accent and might have been from Mexico. So maybe that’s where she went, back to Mexico.”