Until the Final Verdict (9 page)

“I shall. So, you knew Judge Tucker well, at least as a colleague. Did you know her well in any capacity other than as a colleague?”

Keefe stared at Mackay. “Be specific.”

“Did you socialize?”

“There are only a dozen judges in the county. For reasons I'm sure are apparent to you, judges rarely socialize outside their own small circle. My wife and I socialized with Judge Tucker and Doctor Sanchez on many occasions, as we did with all the judges and their spouses.”

Mackay nodded and placed her hand on her chin, as if thinking of the next question. “Did you and Judge Tucker socialize in private, just the two of you, either on or off the court-building premises?”

Keefe stared for several seconds, straightened his tie, interlaced his fingers and clenched them in his lap, then cleared his throat. “I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that my answer might tend to incriminate me, as I shall refuse to answer any more questions pertaining to my professional or personal relationship with Jemima—Judge Tucker.”

“You are aware that Fifth Amendment rights can only be asserted as to testimony on a question-byquestion basis, and not as a blanket refusal to answer questions before they have been asked?”

“I am aware of that, Ms. Mackay, but it would save a lot of time.”

“The grand jurors and I prefer to hear each of your responses. Perhaps I will stumble across a question about your relationship with Jemima Tucker to which you
don't
think a
truthful
answer would incriminate you.”

Keefe leaned back in the witness chair and folded
his arms over his chest in defiance. “Then, go ahead. Ask your questions and waste our time.”

“Thank you.” Mackay looked at the court reporter. “Please read back my last question.”

She unfolded several sheets of tape. “‘Did you and Judge Tucker socialize in private, just the two of you, either on or off the court-building premises?'”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that my answer might tend to incriminate me.”

“On Thursday, January tenth, the day before she was killed, did you and Jemima Tucker walk to lunch together across the footbridge from the park to the theater? And, during that walk, did you and Jemima Tucker kiss twice?”

Keefe blanched visibly, then he rose from his chair. His face turned red, and spittle accumulated in the corners of his mouth. “Dammit, that's enough! Don't you have any respect, any common decency? Jemima's dead, for God's sake!”

Mackay saw tears form in Keefe's eyes, so she took three steps to her left, intentionally directing his face away from the jury box, and said softly, “Please sit down, Judge, so it isn't necessary to call Inspector Escalante.”

He slowly settled into the chair, pulled a tissue from the box on the railing around the witness chair, held it over his nose, and pretended to sneeze.

“Take your time,” Mackay said, not unkindly.

He wadded up the tissue and leaned forward so his elbows rested on the railing. “I refuse to answer on the grounds that my answer might tend to incriminate me.”

“One last question, Judge Keefe. Did you engage in sexual intercourse with Jemima Tucker within seventy-two hours of her murder?”

Keefe's lips moved, but nothing came out.

“I didn't hear your answer, Judge.”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that my answer might tend to incriminate me.”

The room was silent. Mackay glanced around and noted that all the jurors avoided eye contact, as if they felt and were somehow responsible for Reginald Keefe's pain and embarrassment.

“Thank you, Judge, you are dismissed. But remember that under penalty of contempt, you might be required to appear before this Grand Jury at a later time. Please contact Inspector Escalante when you leave, so the jail nurse can take your blood sample.”

Keefe started to object, changed his mind, then walked slowly from the room.

“Does anyone want to take a short break?” Mackay asked. Seeing that no one did, she announced, “The People call Bonnie Lee Keefe.”

Bonnie Keefe's presence was palpable. She wore a tightly tailored beige suit with a skirt that ended above her knees, and a chocolate-brown silk blouse one size too small. She crossed the room, raised her hand, and swore to tell the truth. Then, before sitting in the witness chair, she unbuttoned her suit coat, slipped it off, and folded it over the railing, emphasizing what male jurors undoubtedly considered her best features.

“Before we begin,” Mackay said, “I would like to advise you that you are now appearing before a duly
constituted Grand Jury which is investigating a violation of state criminal law. 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. 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?”

“Yes.”

“I also want to advise you that based on information we now possess, there is no expectation or intention, at this time, of seeking any charges against you personally as a result of that investigation. Do you understand that?”

“I understand.”

“State your name, please.”

“Bonnie Lee Keefe.”

“What is your business or occupation?”

“I'm a civil litigator.”

“You're married to Judge Reginald Keefe?”

“I am.”

“Were you acquainted with Judge Jemima Tucker?”

“Yes.”

“And her husband, Doctor Alejandro Sanchez?”

She hesitated almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

“How well did you know them?”

“We were friends.”

“How did you learn of Judge Tucker's death?”

“You and Sheriff Granz came to our home . . .” she glanced upward as she tried to remember, “around midnight, as I recall, on January eleventh, to ask my husband—Judge Keefe—to sign a search warrant. It
was for the Tucker home. That was the first I heard about it.”

“What was your and Judge Keefe's reaction on hearing that your friend had been murdered?”

“We were both shocked.”

“Do you recall on the following Monday, January fourteenth, being interviewed by Sheriff's Chief of Detectives Miller and DA Inspector Escalante with respect to Judge Tucker's death?”

“Yes, they came to my office that morning.”

“And at that time, as you have just stated, you were already aware that Jemima Tucker had been killed?”

“Yes.”

Mackay opened a file folder and placed her hands on the podium. “I have Detective Miller's report here, Mrs. Keefe. Please tell us, to the best of your recollection, the substance of that interview.”

“They asked if I was acquainted with Judge Tucker and her husband. I said I knew them both. Then they asked whether or not I had been with Doctor Sanchez on the evening of January eleventh.”

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘no.' ”

“Did they tell you Doctor Sanchez claimed to have been engaged in sexual intercourse with you at your office, from sometime after six
P.M.
until sometime before seven-thirty
P.M.
on Friday, January eleventh—approximately the time Judge Tucker was killed?”

“Yes.”

“Did they ask if that was true?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I was not with Doctor Sanchez at that time.”

Mackay stepped around the podium and moved very slowly toward the witness. “Thank you. Now, Mrs. Keefe, can you please confirm under oath that you were not with Doctor Sanchez on the evening of January eleventh?”

“No.” Bonnie Lee sat up straight and looked directly at Mackay. “I am, however, willing to modify the statements I originally made to Detective Miller and Inspector Escalante, providing I am not subject to prosecution or other sanction for giving a false statement.”

Mackay stopped and considered the bomb that had just dropped. “I am granting you use immunity; therefore, your testimony here today cannot be used to prove you made false statements to investigators. However, you must testify truthfully before this Grand Jury.”

“I understand.” She drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “The investigators took me by complete surprise. For me to admit being involved in a sexual relationship outside of marriage would have devastated Judge Keefe. I wasn't thinking clearly.”

“Well, if you are thinking clearly now, Mrs. Keefe, tell us where you were from approximately six
P.M.
until seven-thirty
P.M.
on the evening of Friday, January eleventh.”

“I was at my law office.”

“Engaged in sexual intercourse with Doctor Alejandro Sanchez?”

“Yes.”

“M
ORNING,
M
S.
M
ACKAY.
Your usual?” The young woman at the Starbucks cart in the court-building atrium held a paper cup under the Sumatra spigot.

“Yeah, thanks. I thought you didn't work Fridays.” She dropped the change from her two dollars into the tip jar.

“I don't usually, but we're on winter break. One more semester and I'll be finished.”

Mackay sipped her coffee through the hole in the plastic lid. “What are your plans after Portola Community College?”

“I've been accepted to Cal Poly's agricultural engineering program. The only woman this year.”

“Congratulations, Marcie. I'll miss you.”

“Dad says he plans to rent out my bedroom.”

“I'm sure he's joking.”

“Hope so.”

“I dread the day when Emma . . .”

She was interrupted by the chirp of her cell phone. She waved to Marcie, walked to a vacant concrete bench, set the coffee down, and dug her phone from her handbag.

“Mackay.”

“Dan Burford here.”

Mackay recognized the County Counsel's high, almost feminine voice. “Hi, Dan.”

“We need to meet,” he said abruptly.

“Sure. How about tomorrow morning, nine o'clock?”

Asilence on the other end of the line was followed by the sound of Burford covering the mouthpiece with his hand, then muffled voices.

“This can't wait. My conference room—five minutes?” It was more an order than a request.

Mackay frowned. “Okay.”

A long, skinny, rectangular ex-storage space whose metal door barely fit one of the two smaller walls, the County Counsel conference room was also a law library and employee lounge. Furnished with only a beat-up oak table and a dozen mismatched chairs, and lacking natural light or ventilation, its stale air smelled of sweaty bodies, musty old paper, and overripe coffee.

Supervisor Philip Boynton sat farthest from the door at the head of the table, Supervisor Janet Gutierrez to his left, County Administrative Officer Sharon Brice to his right with a stack of papers on the
table in front of her, and Burford beside Brice. When Mackay entered, they looked up and nodded, but didn't speak. Burford indicated for Mackay to be seated at the foot of the table by the door.

Mackay hesitated, then swung the door shut. “What's going on? This feels like an inquisition.”

“Then I'll get right to the point,” Boynton said.

Boynton and Gutierrez supported her ex-Chief Deputy Neal McCaskill, whom she had fired soon after taking office, when he opposed her first reelection campaign. Mackay won the acrimonious race by a large majority, and had since declared a cautious truce with the two Supervisors.

McCaskill went into private practice, but as a regular columnist for the local newspaper, he continually criticized her administration, often levying totally unfounded charges.

She leaned forward to rest her forearms on the table and clasped her hands. “I'm listening.”

“We've learned that Doctor Robert Simmons did
not
suffer a heart attack during the flight from Spain to San Francisco. We also know that an investigation into his murder has been launched, and that the investigation has focused on you as the prime suspect.”

Mackay raised her hands, palms out, as if to push away an intruder. “Where did you get that information?”

“Doesn't matter. Do you deny it?”

“Damn right I deny it. I didn't murder Simmons.”

“That remains to be seen. What I meant was, do you deny you're the focus of that investigation?”

“Ask the Sheriff.”

“We did, early this morning, and we've made a decision.”

“What decision?”

Boynton glanced around the room. “To demand that you resign immediately.”

Mackay stared at each person. Only Burford held her gaze. “Who the hell is ‘we'?”

“The Board of Supervisors.”

“Without posting an agenda and holding a public hearing, the Board couldn't make that decision unless it met illegally, in secret. If so, I'll prosecute every person who attended that meeting, including you, your CAO, and County Counsel.”

“We've committed no illegal acts that you can prove.”

“We'll see about that.”

“A majority of the Board demands your immediate resignation until you are exonerated, if that is the outcome of the Simmons investigation.”

Boynton pulled a document from his briefcase and passed it to Mackay. “Your official resignation. We expect you to sign and submit it before you leave this room.”

Mackay started to read it, but changed her mind, wadded it up, and dropped it on the floor.

“I refuse. The voters elected me to be their District Attorney, and unless they remove me, I intend to do my job.”

She pushed back her chair. “Now, if you're finished with this nonsense, I have work waiting.”

“Please hear us out,” Boynton said.

“Make it fast.”

Brice slid her stack of papers to Mackay. “These are recall petitions, ready to be circulated and filed. You can see they already contain several signatures. If they fail, I'll file suit.”

“On what legal grounds?”

“I'm not sure yet, but it won't matter. Even if I lose the case, your career'll be over.”

“Considering your large margin of victory at the polls,” Boynton interjected, “the Board won't survive a public confrontation with you undamaged. We know that. But the one thing that would be worse for us, knowing what we do now, would be to do nothing. If that became public—and it would—we'd be tarred and feathered. We plan to preempt such an occurrence.”

She swallowed the bitter bile that rose in her throat. “I've been a successful litigator for more than twenty years. If you repeat what you said to anyone outside this room, or if you circulate those petitions, you'll have a war on your hands.”

“Be reasonable, Kathryn,” Burford said. “If you refuse to step down while you're under investigation, every conviction your office wins will be tainted. They'll go up on appeal, be reversed, and have to be retried. It'll bring the criminal justice system in Santa Rita to its knees for years.”

“I won't resign just to make it easy for everyone else.”

“Will you discuss an alternative that'll make it easier for all of us, including yourself?” Boynton asked.

“Such as?”

“The Board will place you on paid administrative
leave until the investigation is concluded, one way or the other.”

“That'd make me look guilty.”

“We'll issue a statement to the press signed by all five Supervisors, stating that out of concern for your office and the public, you came to us and suggested that you take a leave of absence without pay.”

“What a crock!”

He ignored her. “Our statement will make it clear that we insisted you accept full pay and benefits until you're cleared of all charges, which we are confident will happen swiftly, at which time you will resume office.”

The strength seemed to drain from Mackay's body. She sat back and put her hands in her lap, gripping them tightly together to stop the trembling. “If I don't agree?”

“Then we'd have no choice. The CAO will submit the recall petitions to the Elections Department, and County Counsel will file his Superior Court action by the end of the day.”

“I suppose you've already drafted an agreement for me to sign.”

Burford handed her a final sheet of paper. “We tried to anticipate all the possibilities and make it as easy for you as possible.”

Mackay sat silently, considering her options. “Before I sign this, I need to tell my Chief Deputy, Mary Elizabeth Skinner, personally. And appoint her Interim DA.”

Boynton shook his head. “No. If you accept—and this is not negotiable—we make the appointment.”

“No one else is qualified.”

“There's one experienced, highly qualified person outside your office who could assume the position seamlessly, without being perceived as your clone, or a mere rubber stamp for your policies. He's agreed to accept the interim appointment.”

Mackay signed the agreement, snapped the cover on her pen, and replaced it in her bag. “Who?”

“Neal McCaskill.”