Until the Final Verdict (8 page)

T
HIS WEEKEND,
their first as a married couple, Dave had hoped that he and Kathryn would share the happy news with Emma, then enjoy a special family dinner to celebrate.

Now, he could barely force himself to drive to Kathryn's condo, much less confront her with Morgan Nelson's suspicions about Simmons' murder. Worse, he knew he had to tell her he shared Nelson's concern.

So when he approached her condo complex, instead of pulling into the driveway, he drove around the block four times.

Finally, unable to put it off any longer, he parked in the carport beside her Audi A4. He switched off the V-8, folded the toxicology report, shoved it in his pocket, walked up the stairs, stood on the landing for
a few minutes, drew several deep breaths, and punched the doorbell.

“I'll get it!” Dave heard pounding footsteps.

The deadbolt slid open.
“Dave!
I knew it was you.” Emma was wearing pajama bottoms and a Holy Cross Middle School sweatshirt, a half-eaten bagel in one hand, a phone in the other.

“Gotta finish dressing, we're going to the mall. Mom's in the kitchen.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and ran back to her bedroom, giggling at whoever was on the other end of the phone.

“Who is it, Em?” Kathryn shouted.

Kathryn stood barefoot at the sink, rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher. She wore Gap jeans and an open-necked blue shirt.

She looked so pretty as his wife that it took Dave's breath away, and he started to put his hands on her shoulders, but changed his mind and stepped back. “It's me, Babe.”

She shut the water off, dried her hands, and slipped her arms around his waist. “I told you to be here early so we could sit down with Emma before dinner, but ten
A.M.'
s overdoing it a little.”

“I know.”

She smiled mischievously. “You looking for a little affection before lunch?”

“No.”

Startled, she leaned back to look at him. “Whatever's on your mind, spill it.”

He leaned against the counter and, not knowing how to broach the real issue, explained Nelson's findings from Jemima Tucker's autopsy instead.

“If Keefe or Sanchez left the semen, one or both had sex with her just before or during her murder.”

“Or immediately after.”

“Yeah, that's a possibility, too. Do we have probable cause to seize their blood for DNA comparison?”

She walked around the breakfast counter, sat on a stool, leaned forward on her elbows and clasped her hands. “PC isn't the problem. The judges are going to circle the wagons around one of their own—conflict out on Keefe, refuse to issue a warrant ordering Keefe to submit to a blood draw.”

“Is there an alternative?”

“Grand Juries can issue subpoenas ad testificandum to compel testimony and subpoenas duces tecum to obtain evidence, without probable cause—without even a firm basis for believing the subpoenas will prove the commission of a particular offense.”

“Including blood samples?”

“There's conflicting case law, but yes, if the Grand Jury has good reason to believe a crime was committed, and also believes the blood samples will significantly aid its investigation.”

“What if they lawyer up to quash the subpoenas?”

“They have a legal right to contest them in court before complying, but I bet they won't. Court hearings are public. By the time they were concluded, it wouldn't matter whether one of them killed Tucker or not, their personal lives and careers would be destroyed.”

“How soon can you convene the Grand Jury?”

“The foreperson calls every Monday morning to ask if I have investigations for them. I'll ask them to convene Thursday afternoon at the jail.”

The county jail facility contained one secure courtroom, used mostly for arraignments and preliminary hearings for high-risk inmates, and to accommodate overflow from the main court building across the street. “Meanwhile, I'll issue subpoenas for Keefe and Sanchez.”

“Why the jail courtroom?”

“So I can have the jail nurse standing by to draw their blood after they testify.”

“Good idea,” Dave agreed. “Subpoena Bonnie Keefe, too. She disputes Sanchez' alibi that he was having sex with her when Tucker was murdered. Let's get her locked in under oath.”

“Will do.” She stood. “Now I've got to take Em clothes shopping, then to the grocery store. She doesn't know why, but she suspects tonight's special—we're buying fresh cracked crab, Brie, avocado, French bread, Riesling, and Martinelli's Sparkling Cider for Em. Sound good?”

“We need to talk before dinner, Kate.”

“What's going on? If I've done something to make you angry, tell me.”

“I'm not angry.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, as she always did when protecting herself. “Have you changed your mind about us? Are you sorry we got married? If you are, say so now, before we tell Emma.”

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. “I love you more than ever, Kathryn. The only
thing I'll ever be sorry about is that we didn't have more years together.”

“Then what?” She pulled back. “Let's not start the rest of our lives together as a family angry or upset.”

He pulled Simmons' tox report out of his pocket and handed it to her. She read it twice.

“This has to be a mistake, it says Simmons died from a digitalis overdose. Simmons didn't carry drugs onto the plane, and he was never out of my sight.”

“That's how we saw it.” He described his earlier conversation with Morgan Nelson.

Kathryn didn't respond.

“We looked at it from every angle we could figure,” he explained, “tried to imagine some other possibility, no matter how far-fetched. After Nelson left, I spent all morning thinking about who had both a motive and an opportunity to murder Simmons.”

“And I'm the only person you came up with.” She sat down on a stool, her back rigid and her face tight. “That's ridiculous.”

“If you tell me you didn't murder Simmons, Kate, I'll believe you.”

“I won't dignify this with a denial, and I can't believe you think I'm capable of murder.”

“If you won't deny it, how can I not consider the possibility?”

Tears of frustration appeared in the corners of her eyes. She brushed them away angrily, smearing her mascara.

He handed her a second piece of paper, hastily handwritten on Santa Rita County Sheriff's stationery.

“Your resignation?” she asked.

“I don't care if you killed the son of a bitch or not, he deserved it. I should've done it myself. I can't investigate you, you're my wife.”

She tore the resignation into pieces and laid them on the countertop. Her hands shook and her voice quivered. “If you don't investigate me, the Attorney General will. I need it to be you.”

“If I keep it under wraps, especially now that we're married, it'll look like a cover-up, and that'd be worse for you.”

“We have to keep the marriage quiet for a few days, give you time to eliminate me as a suspect.”

“We can't conceal it very long.”

“It won't take long. I wouldn't expect you to lie about it if someone asks, just don't volunteer.”

“Okay, I suppose we don't have any choice.”

“What about telling Emma?”

“We can't tell her, then expect her to keep it secret. Let's hold off until I clear up this mess.”

“M
S.
F
OREPERSON,
are you ready to proceed?”

“We are.”

Mackay faced the elevated oak platform where retired bank manager Nicolina Giacomini presided from the judge's chair. At the court clerk's table beneath the bench, the secretary took roll and noted on his roster that a quorum of sixteen members was present. To her right, remaining jurors occupied the twelve jury-box seats and two alternates' chairs in front.

Inspector Donna Escalante waited outside to admit witnesses as they were called, but besides the jurors, only a court reporter was in the room with Mackay. She wore a classic suit—two-button tweed jacket with notch collar and a straight skirt with
back slit. As always, she stood throughout the proceeding.

She placed her hands on the sides of the podium. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for convening today. Two weeks ago tomorrow—on the evening of Friday, January eleventh—Superior Court Judge Jemima Tucker was killed in her chambers, here in the main court building. The Sheriff's Crime Scene Investigators found no signs of forced entry to either the court building or to Judge Tucker's chambers, leading investigators to conclude that Judge Tucker knew her murderer.”

She paused and made eye contact with each person in the room, most of whom knew Tucker at least slightly from impaneling the Grand Jury, to impress on them the import of her words.

“I asked you to convene for the purpose of conducting an investigation into Judge Tucker's death. Specifically, I ask you to compel the testimony of three witnesses today: Jemima Tucker's husband, Doctor Alejandro Sanchez; Santa Rita Superior Court Judge Reginald Keefe; and Bonnie Lee Keefe, local attorney and wife of Judge Keefe.”

She paused while a few of the jurors took notes. “Murder is the unlawful killing of a human being with malice aforethought. The People believe that each of the witnesses who will be called to testify before you here today possesses critical information relevant to the investigation of Judge Tucker's murder.”

She waited until the jurors had finished taking notes, then announced, “The People call Doctor Alejandro Sanchez.”

The sergeant at arms escorted Sanchez to the witness stand, where he raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth. His jet-black hair was neatly trimmed and combed straight back, he was clean shaven, and he wore an expensive, double-breasted, dark gray wool suit and lightly starched white shirt, with a solid black silk tie. He crossed his right leg over his left, looked at Mackay, and waited.

“Good afternoon, Doctor. Before we begin, I would like to advise you that you are now appearing before a duly constituted Grand Jury which is investigating the murder of Jemima Tucker. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“You have been placed under oath and your testimony here today has the same force and effect as if you were in a court of law. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“That means that you have an obligation to tell the truth in the proceeding or you could subject yourself to a possible prosecution for perjury. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Finally, you are advised that under the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution of the United States, and also under Article I of the California Constitution, that you have a privilege against self-incrimination. That is to say, you do not have to answer any questions which may tend to incriminate you, or subject you to punishment for any crime, and that you can refuse to answer any such question, stating that the answer may tend to incriminate you. Do you understand?”

Sanchez uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “Yes, I understand.”

“If you have retained counsel, the Grand Jury will permit you a reasonable opportunity to step outside the room to consult with counsel if you do so desire. State your name, please.”

“Alejandro Sanchez.”

“What is your business or occupation?”

“I'm an emergency room physician at Española Community Hospital.” Sanchez' voice was barely audible.

“I realize this is difficult, Doctor, but please speak loudly enough for the reporter to record your answers.” Mackay softened her voice. “You were married to Jemima Tucker?”

“Yes.”

“Would you characterize your marriage as happy or unhappy?”

“I don't know how to answer that.”

“Were you aware that your wife had consulted with a divorce lawyer?”

“My attorney told me not to answer questions about my relationship with my wife.”

“As I previously stated, the Grand Jury is investigating the murder of your deceased wife. Are you refusing to answer questions about your relationship on the grounds that
truthful
answers would tend to incriminate you?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Well, Doctor, that is the only grounds for refusing to answer my questions without being held in contempt of court.”

“I'd like to consult with my attorney.”

Mackay and the jurors waited for several minutes. When Sanchez returned, Mackay repeated the question.

“On advice of counsel, I refuse to answer,” Sanchez stated.

“Very well. You told us that you work in the emergency room at Española Community Hospital. What hours do you normally work?”

“It varies. ER doctors rotate monthly. We generally work twenty-four-hour shifts starting at noon one day and ending at noon the next.”

“Were you working last January eleventh?”

“Yes, I went to work at noon.”

“And worked straight through until noon the next day—Saturday, the twelfth?”

“That's correct.”

“During your twenty-four-hour shifts, do you normally eat your meals on the hospital premises?”

“I . . . Yes, normally.”

“On the evening of January eleventh, did you eat dinner at the hospital?”

Sanchez uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “On advice of counsel, I refuse to answer.”

“All right. Do you recall meeting with Sheriff Granz and me on the Sunday immediately following your wife's death?”

“Yes.”

“During that interview, did you tell us that you left the hospital for a little over an hour at about six o'clock, during which you were engaged in sexual intercourse with Bonnie Keefe?”

“On advice of counsel, I refuse to answer.”

“Are you aware, Doctor, that Ms. Keefe has denied being with you that evening?”

“No! I . . . On advice of counsel, I refuse to answer.”

“Is there
any
question I could ask you having to do with your wife, Jemima Tucker, or January eleventh that you would
not
refuse to answer, Doctor?”

“Probably not.”

“Thank you, Doctor, you are dismissed. However, under penalty of contempt, you must appear before this Grand Jury at some later time, if requested to do so. Inspector Escalante is standing by outside to escort you to the jail nurse, who will take a sample of your blood.”

When Sanchez left, Giacomini asked, “Ms. Mackay, how should we interpret his refusal to answer your questions?”

Mackay partially turned to face the jury box. “Good question. The Fifth Amendment privilege not only extends to answers that would in themselves support a conviction under California law, but likewise embraces those that would furnish a link in the chain of evidence needed to prosecute the murderer of Judge Tucker. I apologize for being so formal, but that is the proper legal terminology. In everyday vernacular, it means that a truthful answer might furnish, or lead to, evidence that could be used against him.”

“It doesn't necessarily mean he killed her, though, right?”

“That would be up to a trial jury to decide, if he were charged with murder and prosecuted. Are there any other questions?”

The jurors all shook their heads. “The People call Judge Reginald Keefe.”

Keefe was neither cooperative nor intimidated. As soon as he was sworn, he sat in the witness chair and glared a challenge at Mackay, who advised him of his rights exactly as she had Sanchez. He stated that he understood.

“State your name, please,” she directed.

“Reginald Keefe.
Judge
Reginald Keefe.”

“You are a Santa Rita County Superior Court Judge?”

“You know the answer to that question.”

“Please answer for the record.”

“I'm a Superior Court Judge.”

“Were you acquainted with Judge Jemima Tucker?”

“Of course.”

“How long had you known Judge Tucker before her death?”

“Ten years, maybe longer. I was already a judge when she was appointed to the bench, I believe it was ten or eleven years ago.”

“Eleven. How
well
did you know Jemima Tucker?”

Keefe started to speak, then stopped. “As well as one can know a colleague with whom he works and consults closely over many years. She was a gifted lawyer and jurist.”

“Did you meet with Judge Tucker privately, in her chambers or yours?”

“Where else would we meet?”

“Is that a ‘yes'?”

“Yes.”

“Did you meet with Judge Tucker in her chambers or yours before court convened in the morning, during lunch breaks, or after normal working hours, when court staff had gone home?”

For the first time, Keefe's gaze wavered. He glanced down and picked an imaginary fleck of lint off his trousers, then looked up. “Sometimes.”

“Frequently?”

“Is this going someplace, Ms. Mackay? I was forced to cancel my afternoon calendar to appear before the Grand Jury. I am pleased to cooperate, but this isn't the only matter that requires judicial attention.”

Mackay ignored the sarcasm, but before repeating the question, said, “For the record, yesterday you sought an ex parte stay of this Grand Jury investigation, which was rejected by the presiding judge, citing confidentiality of these proceedings. I suggest you cooperate more fully, Judge, or you'll find yourself in front of that same judge facing a contempt hearing.”

The witness hesitated briefly, then answered, “I suppose one might say we met frequently.”

“Daily?”

“Sometimes.”

“More than once a day?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is it common for judges to meet privately in chambers every day?”

“You'd have to ask the other judges.”