Provence - To Die For (31 page)

“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 sprung open with a hiss.

Officer Pirro walked backwards, 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 the 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, it takes a strong individual to 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 of them 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 visitor’s 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 and picked up telephone receivers or pressed intercom buttons. 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 that you’re here.”

“I wish I had something to offer, 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. I thought, there must be a mistake. It’s me, little Martha Ames from Canton, Ohio, cheerleader, starring role 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. They accused you of saying you wanted to kill Victor. What had happened to make you so angry with him?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. Victor and I must have had a fight. We didn’t fight often, but when w.e did, they could become big blowups. He had a temper and didn’t like to be challenged. I was probably upset with him for being away so much. That was what we argued about the most. 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 being alone all the time—especially after his daughter Jane moved out. 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. My lawyer says it’s a classic rush to judgment on the part of the authorities.”

“Well, we’ll just have to help him 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 proven 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 ...”