You Bet Your Life (12 page)

Martha leaned over and whispered in Nastasi’s ear.

“So you saw her with the murder weapon in her hand?” Fordice continued.

“Yes, I did.”

“And did she know you’d seen her with the wrench?”

“Objection,” Nastasi called out. “The witness cannot know what the defendant is thinking.”

“Sustained. Restate the question, Mr. Fordice.”

“Did the defendant look at you while she was holding the wrench?”

“Yeah. She got all flustered when she saw me, and said she was just about to put it away.”

Fordice next did a smart thing:
He
raised the question of Smith’s criminal record, rather than allowing Nastasi to do it. Smith acknowledged having been twice convicted of assault, but claimed it was the result of his duties as a bouncer at various nightclubs in New York.

“This was prior to your being hired by Victor Kildare. Correct?” Fordice asked.

“Correct.”

“And that was twelve years ago. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Your witness, Mr. Nastasi.”

“Mr. Smith, did anyone other than Cindy Kildare see you when you went to her house to help her move furniture?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t meet anybody, if that’s what you mean.”

“So there are no other witnesses to place you at Cindy Kildare’s house?”

“Cindy knows I was there. She wouldn’t have been able to move her couch without me,” he said, laughing and looking at the jury.

“How far away is Cindy’s house from the Kildare estate? How long did it take you to drive there?”

“Objection!” Mr. Fordice shouted. “The witness is not on trial here, Your Honor. He has already established his whereabouts to the satisfaction of the police.”

“Sustained. Do you have any other questions for this witness, Mr. Nastasi?”

“Mr. Smith, isn’t it true that Mrs. Kildare, the defendant, complained to you that a nail was sticking up in the arm of the chaise? And didn’t she ask you to repair it?”

“I don’t have any such recollection.”

“You don’t remember her telling you that she scratched her arm on the nail?”

“No, sir.”

“And you don’t remember her asking you several times to repair the chaise.”

“No. I don’t remember that at all.”

Nastasi continued to question Oliver for a few more minutes. He brought up Smith’s criminal record again and established that the nightclubs in which he’d been employed as a bouncer were strip clubs. Other than that, there was little else to probe during cross-examination. Smith was excused and left the courtroom, smiling at Fordice and his assistants as he passed the prosecution table.

Following a fifteen-minute afternoon recess, Judge Tapansky told Fordice to call his next witness.

“Your Honor,” Fordice said, “there’s been a slight mixup in schedules. Our next witness is Kay Bergl from the state forensic lab. There’s been a miscommunication. Ms. Bergl was told she’d be testifying tomorrow. Therefore—”

“In other words, Mr. Fordice, your next witness isn’t here,” the judge said in a growl.

“Yes, sir, that’s right.”

“I’m responsible for moving trials along, Mr. Fordice. Not having your witness in place doesn’t help me do that. I suggest you get your act together and have her here first thing tomorrow.”

“Yes. sir.”

Judge Tapansky summarily dismissed the jury, got out of his chair, and stalked from the courtroom. The guard came to lead Martha away, but Nastasi asked him to wait. “Jessica,” he called to me. “The judge has agreed to hear us out about your joining the defense team.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Martha chewed her lip. “He doesn’t seem in a very good mood.”

“Not unusual, but his bark is worse than his bite,” Nastasi said, stuffing papers into his briefcase.

“I’m so afraid he’ll say no,” she said to me. “What will we do then?”

“Let’s see what he says and then decide.”

“Come on,” Nastasi said. “He’ll only give us a few minutes.”

Judge Tapansky’s chambers seemed surprisingly small to me. Maybe it was because he was such a big man. As his law clerk led us in, the judge was hanging his black robe on a coat tree.

“Thanks for seeing us, Judge,” Nastasi said.

Tapansky didn’t respond as he sat behind his desk and waved his hand toward matching red leather chairs across from him. Martha and I sat down. “Where’s Shelby?” he asked his clerk.

“Right here, Your Honor,” Fordice said, rushing in.

The clerk set up two folding chairs for Nastasi and Fordice and went to stand in the corner by the bookcase in case the judge needed his services. The guard assigned to Martha leaned against the closed door, arms folded, handcuffs dangling from his belt. With seven people crowded into the judge’s chambers, the atmosphere was charged. I found myself holding my breath, and made an effort to relax my shoulders and breathe.

The judge picked up a document from his desk, frowned as he quickly looked at the cover page, tossed it down, and asked, “So what’s this about Mrs. Fletcher wanting to be on the defense team?”

I felt Fordice stare at me, but kept my gaze on the judge.

“This is Jessica Fletcher, Judge,” Nastasi said.

“A pleasure,” Tapansky said. “I’ve read some of your books. I like them. You do good research. My wife—the late Mrs. Tapansky—liked your books, too. So why do you want to work with the counselor here?”

“Martha Kildare is a friend of long standing, Your Honor,” I said, looking at Martha and then back to the judge. “I came to Las Vegas from Maine to help her if I can. So far, all I’ve been able to do is offer to deliver a change of clothes to her in jail. I’d really like to do more, and I think I can help the defense team.”

Nastasi consulted his notes and added, “Besides writing best-selling murder mysteries, Judge, Mrs. Fletcher taught criminology at Manhattan College. She’s been personally involved in some complex and high-profile murders over the years. You point out that she does good research for her books. I think she can do the same for me in this case. She has the right instincts, is willing, and frankly, Judge, I can use all the help I can get.”

Martha started at Nastasi’s comment but kept silent.

“You’ll sit at the defense table?” the judge asked.

Nastasi answered for me: “I’d like her to be close by.”

“Mrs. Kildare, is this what you want, too?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Martha said, her voice trembling. “I haven’t lived in Las Vegas very long, and I have no family here and few friends. There’s my stepdaughter, of course, but Jane ... she ... well, she doesn’t think of me as her family. Mr. Nastasi is a fine attorney, of course. I appreciate all he’s done, but...” She shook her head, fighting back tears. “It’s very important to me, Your Honor, to have someone working with my attorney, someone in an official capacity, someone
I
know, someone who believes in me and knows what kind of person I am. Jessica has been so generous in coming to Nevada to help me. I’d like her to be recognized for that, for her to be a legitimate part of my defense team.”

“How do you feel about this, Shelby? Any objections?”

“None, Your Honor.”

The judge turned his gaze on me. “Mrs. Fletcher, you’re in for a lot of work, but if you don’t mind, I don’t. You may serve on the defense team.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.

“Thank you so much, Judge Tapansky,” Martha said, standing up. She started to extend her hand to him, and pulled it back, not sure if such contact was allowed.

The guard pushed himself away from the door and opened it. Martha nodded at him, smiled at me, mouthed the word
thanks,
and followed him out.

Once Martha was gone, the tension in the room ebbed. Fordice snapped his chair closed and handed it to the judge’s clerk. “I’m glad to hear Vince say he needs all the help he can get,” he said, winking at Nastasi.

The judge pinned the prosecutor with a thunderous look. “We don’t kid around about a capital case, Fordice. You ought to know that by now.”

“Beg pardon, Your Honor.”

“You’ll be begging for a lot more if you don’t get yourself in gear. I won’t tolerate any disruptions in my court. You’d better have your witnesses ready on time in future or you’ll do without them. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Fordice said, abashed. He excused himself and made a hasty exit.

Judge Tapansky nodded at me and mumbled something. As we stood to leave, he said to Nastasi, “When you get to putting on your defense case, make damn sure your witnesses show up when scheduled. I get pretty upset when witnesses don’t show.”

“I never would have noticed,” Nastasi said, laughing.

“You going to that charity dinner at the Mirage tomorrow night?” Tapansky asked Nastasi.

“Yes. You?”

“Yeah. See you there.”

Nastasi and I left the judge’s chambers and walked through the empty courtroom out to the hallway.

“That wasn’t too difficult, was it?” I said.

“Welcome to the team, Jessica,” Nastasi said. “Glad you’ve joined us.”

“Thanks. I’m grateful Mr. Fordice didn’t object.”

“If he had, I’d threaten to stop letting him win our tennis matches. When we’re not in court, we play three times a week.”

“Quite a little club you gentlemen have.”

“Actually, I knew Fordice wouldn’t object. He wouldn’t want to give us any basis for appeal.”

“You and the judge seem to be friends, too.”

“We’re all friends here in Las Vegas. Tapansky comes from the Red Hook section of Brooklyn; I’m from Bay Ridge. Fordice moved here from Long Island. Three-quarters of the lawyers and judges out here are from New York. We may argue in court, but we’re friends on the outside. Don’t misunderstand, though. When it comes to defending clients, there are no friendly favors done in the courtroom. It’s all business there. You heard Tapansky come down on Fordice just for cracking wise.”

“I was grateful to hear the judge’s response,” I said. “A murder case shouldn’t be a competition between attorneys. Sometimes that’s the way it appears, I’m afraid.”

“You’re right. When a defendant’s life is at stake it’s a heavy responsibility—on both sides.”

We walked a block to the lot where he’d parked his car. “Where’s your car?” he asked.

“I don’t have a car. I don’t drive.”

“Don’t drive? How do you get around?”

“Cabs. My bicycle back home.”

He laughed. “You need a lift to the Bellagio?”

“No. I want to stop by Martha’s house to pick up a new outfit for her.”

“That’s right. I forgot. I’ll have Evelyn call Mrs. Alvarez and tell her you’re coming.”

He pulled his cell phone from his jacket and spoke with his secretary. “All set.” he said, snapping the cover shut on the phone. “I’ll drop you.”

Twenty minutes later we entered Adobe Springs, an area of stylish homes confined behind high gates. It was an elegant neighborhood, but there was something sterile about the place, as if it were a Hollywood set and no one really lived there.

“The people here must certainly be well-to-do,” I said.

“Yeah. Victor Kildare was a pretty successful guy. I’m not sure he made all his money legitimately but...”

“What do you mean?”

“He had a questionable rep, Jessica, ran with some bad people. You know, ‘the guys with funny noses,’ we used to call them in the old neighborhood. Did business with them. That’s who I’m convinced killed him, one of his so-called business associates.”

“The mob?”

“Could be. The mob built Las Vegas. Bugsy Siegel was the main mover and shaker, built the Flamingo, brought in all the top stars, Sinatra, Davis, the Rat Pack. Siegel got whacked; nobody knows who did him in, but it was a mob hit. The Mafia’s biggest days are long gone, but they still have their hooks in. You can’t have so much money floating around one place without the mob wanting its piece.”

“Funny,” I said.

“What’s funny?”

“What Martha said to me on the phone one day a long time before this happened. She said some of her husband’s friends were like ‘gangsters.’ That’s the word she used. She was uncomfortable with them.”

“See if you can get her to talk more about that, Jessica. I’ve questioned her at length about Victor’s business associates, but she didn’t seem to have much to offer—or want to offer.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. “Any restrictions on what Martha can wear in court?”

“No, but keep it simple, conservative. We don’t want to dress her like a murderer.”

“And how does a murderer dress?”

“We just want her to look like what she is, an innocent housewife caught up in the life of a powerful man with enemies.”

Martha and Victor’s house in Adobe Springs was much like many of its neighbors, a sprawling stucco ranch painted in earth tones and surrounded by lush tropical plants and trees, which subsisted on imported water and provided relief from the searing Nevada sun. Even though the community itself was cordoned off—Nastasi had been stopped at a guard-house to confirm that our names were on the guest list—the Kildare property itself was bordered by a tall iron fence that made it clearly separate from its neighbors. The filigreed gates, designed by a modern artist, were open, and as we drove up the winding drive, I tried to imagine Martha’s life in this sumptuous setting, so different from her modest Victorian home in Cabot Cove.

“Do you want me to wait for you?” Nastasi said, pulling under the porte cochere, constructed to protect arriving guests from the blinding sun and occasional rain.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll call a cab.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Isobel Alvarez met me at the front door.

“Buenos días,
Señora Fletcher.”

“Buenos días,
Señora Alvarez.”

“Please, I am Isobel.”