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  “Well, Fred, the prosecution has lined up a succession of witnesses, beginning with the medical examiner who examined the victim’s body. Also on today’s list is Oliver Smith, Victor Kildare’s driver and handyman, who was living at the Kildare home the day of the murder. The Kildare housekeeper, Isobel Alvarez, is scheduled to testify, and a forensic scientist from the state crime lab will be called to testify about fibers found on the wrench that was used to kill Victor Kildare. Those fibers allegedly came from a silver lamé glove of the kind used by slot machine players to keep their hands clean. The defendant’s deceased husband had given her a pair of such gloves the day they were married here in Las Vegas two years ago.”

  “Just because fibers came from that type of glove, it doesn’t prove it’s the same pair of gloves the victim gave his wife, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t, Fred, and Mr. Nastasi, the defendant’s attorney, will press that point on his cross. But remember, the defendant wasn’t able to come up with her gloves. She claims they were lost.”

  “Beth, there’s a bit of a celebrity aspect to the trial, isn’t there?”

  “You mean the presence of the renowned mystery writer Jessica Fletcher. We had her on yesterday. She’s come here from her home in Maine to lend support to the defendant, who was a neighbor and friend for many years back in Maine.”

  “Will she be a witness?”

  “She’s not on the list, but anyone who’s followed her career knows that besides having written dozens of best-selling crime novels, she’s ended up solving a few real-life murders on the way. It will be interesting to see whether she takes a more active role in this case than simply that of a cheerleader for a good friend.”

  “What’s going on in the courtroom right now, Beth?”

  “The defense wants Oliver Smith’s criminal record introduced at trial. The prosecution is fighting that, and filed a motion last night to keep any such prior record from the jury. The attorneys are set to argue that motion out of the jury’s presence. Judge Tapansky will have to decide whether Smith’s criminal record is more prejudicial than probative when he testifies.”

  “Well, you’d better get back into that courtroom, Beth. We’ll be hearing lots more from you today, I’m sure.”

  I’d arrived at the Clark County Courthouse at eight-thirty that morning, hoping to catch Vince Nastasi before the proceedings began. The courtroom was empty except for the stenographer, who was setting up her equipment, and other court officials preparing for the trial. I waited in the hallway leading from the front entrance, perusing an exhibit of student artwork on the walls. Some of the drawings and paintings were remarkably sophisticated, considering the ages of the young artists; others showed a nascent talent that promised more in the future. I was pleased that a municipal building was serving as a gallery, and encouraging appreciation for the arts. Surely the youngsters were proud to have their work hanging in a public place, and I was a receptive audience.

  So engrossed was I in a pencil drawing of American Indian symbols that I almost missed Nastasi when he strode down the hall.

  “Oh, Mr. Nastasi, may I have a word with you?” I called to him as he blew by me. I hurried after him and tapped his shoulder.

  He stopped and turned so abruptly I nearly bumped into him.

  “It’s Vince,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “How are you this morning, Jessica? Ready for another day in court?”

  “I’m well, thank you. I just wanted to give you this.” I dug in my purse for the receipt from my dinner the night before and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “I went to the Winners’ Circle last night to see Ms. McGinnis in action.”

  “McGinnis? The hostess who testified?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to be reimbursed for your dinner?”

  I laughed. “Of course not, Vince.” I was taken aback that he thought I would tread on our new acquaintance by charging my meal to his account. “This is simply proof that I was there. I managed to arrive, get a table, and leave without once encountering Ms. McGinnis.”

  He looked at me quizzically before saying, “Yeah, well, thanks. I’ll take a look at this later.”

  He pocketed the slip of yellow paper and continued heading for the courtroom. But after five steps, he stopped, turned to me, pulled my receipt from his pocket, studied it, smiled, closed the gap between us, and asked, “Are you free for lunch, Jessica?”

  “Well, yes. I haven’t made any plans.”

  “Come to my office during the lunch break—you remember where it is, don’t you?”

  “I do. It’s just around the corner.”

  “My secretary will have sandwiches for us and we can discuss this”—he waved the receipt—“further.”

  “All right.”

  “Are you coming to the courtroom now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, come along,” he said, putting his hand on my back and pushing me forward. “Let’s not keep Judge Tapansky waiting. He gets downright testy when people are late to his courtroom.”

  Martha was already seated at the defense table when we entered. She was dressed in the same gray suit, maroon silk blouse, and low-heeled shoes she’d worn the previous day. Her makeup was fresh and almost hid the shadows beneath her eyes. She acknowledged me briefly, but kept her eyes on Nastasi until he was seated beside her, then whispered something to him I couldn’t hear.

  I took a seat on the aisle behind the defense table, where I could watch Martha as well as the judge and jury. Neither Judge Tapansky nor the jury was in the courtroom yet, but there was a lot of activity in preparation for their arrival. A technician from Court TV spoke into his headset and made minor adjustments to the angle of the camera above the jury seats. There were two cameras in the courtroom, one at the rear of the room pointed at the judge and witness box, the second at a location near the jury box that would allow it to pan the room, but not to capture the faces of the jurors, a restriction on TV coverage of trials that held true in all states except Florida.

  The court stenographer was still testing her tape recorder, pressing buttons and rewinding again and again. The guard who’d escorted Martha to her seat chatted amiably with the court clerk. The prosecutor, Mr. Fordice, banged his heavy briefcase down on the table to my right and sighed loudly while removing piles of manila folders and legal pads filled with notes from its roomy interior.

  “All rise.”

  At the announcement, the red light on the camera near the jury box came on and the Honorable Marvin Tapansky emerged from his chambers. He pulled his robe to the side and climbed the steps to his seat on the bench. He was a round man with a permanent slouch, the consequence of decades of sedentary life. His thinning hair, parted on the side, was a suspicious shade of red that didn’t match the wiry gray brows that reached out over his dark eyes.

  “I have a motion here from you, Mr. Fordice,” Judge Tapansky said, looking down at his desk.

  Fordice pressed on the tabletop with both hands and pushed to his feet. “Yes, Your Honor. We’re asking the court to preclude certain aspects of a witness’s background.”

  “And who is this witness?” The judge sifted through several papers till he found the list of witnesses scheduled for the day.

  “Mr. Oliver Smith, an assistant to Mr. Kildare, who lives on the Kildare property.”

  “I’ll hear arguments.”

  “Your Honor, the state believes that Mr. Smith’s background would prejudice the jury against his testimony, and we ask that it be precluded.”

  “You don’t want them to know he has a criminal record, is that correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And, Mr. Nastasi, I assume that’s not agreeable to you and your client.”

  Nastasi stood. “Correct, Your Honor. The record of Mr. Smith’s convictions goes to his character and believability. How can we have him testify about an assault and murder without revealing that he himself has been arrested num
erous times and found guilty of assault on two occasions?”

  Fordice jumped in again. “Mr. Smith’s testimony will not pertain to the crime in question, Your Honor. He was not home at the time of the murder. We’re simply asking him to confirm the layout of the Kildare estate for the jury, since he lives on the property, and speak to the nature of the relationship of Mr. and Mrs. Kildare. His criminal record has no bearing on such testimony.”

  “Your Honor,” Nastasi said, “my client was also away from home at the time of the murder, and she has no criminal record. We believe concealing Mr. Smith’s record will present an inaccurate picture of both Mr. Smith and Mr. Kildare, who knew of his employee’s past. We ask that the jury be allowed to hear this information.”

  “We’re not talking about a career criminal here,” Fordice added. “Smith has worked for Kildare in Las Vegas for more than ten years without any trouble with the law. Any blemishes on his record predate his employment.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” the judge said. “Mr. Fordice, the criminal record of a witness where a crime has been committed may be relevant to the facts of the case. It will be your responsibility to convince the jury otherwise. Mr. Smith’s record—convictions only, not arrests—is allowed. Anything else, gentlemen?”

  “No. Thank you, Your Honor,” Nastasi said, sitting. Both lawyers rapidly made notes on their yellow pads.

  “Are we ready for the jury?” Tapansky asked. “Yes? Bailiff, bring in the jury.”

  “All rise for the jury.”

  The jurors entered in single file, seven women and five men, a combination of Caucasian, Hispanic, and African American, and took their places in the jury box. The three alternates sat in seats cordoned off just outside and to the left of the jury box, but still out of range of the cameras.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” said the judge. “Sorry to keep you waiting but we had some legal housekeeping to take care of.” To Fordice: “Call your first witness.”

  The opening testimony concerned the murder weapon, a plumber’s wrench, which the killer had used to strike Victor Kildare on the head. The county medical examiner confirmed that the shape of the wound on the victim’s head was consistent with the use of the wrench as a weapon. He further testified that the victim was still alive when his body hit the water; chlorinated water was found in the alveoli of the lungs and in his stomach, indicating that death had occurred following immersion. Furthermore, the large amount of blood in the pool was an indication that the heart was still beating when the victim was underwater.

  A series of color photographs taken during the autopsy were vividly displayed on a large screen to support the ME’s testimony. Martha buried her head in her arms on the defense table while the pictures were displayed. I turned at the sound of a gasp and saw that Victor’s daughter, Jane, a few rows behind me, was the source. She placed her hands over her eyes so as not to view the gory photos.

  An older woman kept her arm around Jane’s shoulder, eyes averted from the screen. Could this be Daria, Jane’s mother? She fit the general description I remembered from the wedding. Betsy had said she was in her fifties and “looked pretty good.” Daria, if this was Daria, was an attractive woman, whipcord thin with a physique that could be maintained only by devotion to exercise. Her long hair was darker than her daughter’s and worn loose. Her skin was very tan, emphasizing her light eyes, but with the leathery look that comes from long exposure to the sun. She wore little makeup that I could see beyond a deep red lipstick and black mascara. The woman whispered something to Jane, and they rose and left the courtroom together.

  I slipped from my seat and walked up the aisle, following them into the hall.

  “Excuse me, Jane,” I said, walking up to the two women. “I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Jessica Fletcher. We met at Victor and Martha’s wedding. I want to offer my condolences. I’m so sorry about your father.”

  “Yes. I remember you,” Jane said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “This is my mother, Daria Kildare.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Kildare?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher is a friend of Martha’s,” Jane said to her mother, taking a step back.

  The change in Daria was instant. “What do you want with us?”

  “I wanted to extend my sympathies to Jane.”

  “You’ve done it. Now you can leave us alone.”

  “Mom, don’t.”

  “I’m sorry if my presence upsets you, Mrs. Kildare, but I’m no threat to Jane.”

  “You’re right, you’re no threat. There are officers everywhere here.”

  “I’d like to speak with you, Jane,” I said. “I won’t take up a lot of your time.”

  “You’re not talking to her at all,” Daria said.

  “Jane is an adult,” I said. “I’m sure she can speak for herself.”

  “Go on, tell her, Jane. Tell her you don’t want to talk to her.”

  “Mom, would you just calm—”

  “You can talk to our lawyer,” Daria interrupted. “We don’t need to talk to a friend of the murderer.”-She pulled Jane down the corridor. “Don’t talk to her,” I heard her tell Jane.

  I hadn’t expected to be greeted warmly, but Daria’s antagonism was a bit of a surprise. I briefly contemplated following them but decided instead to return to the trial proceedings. I should talk with Jane privately, I thought as I reentered the courtroom. And I’ll need to talk with Daria, too, but not through her lawyer I can see we’re not going to be friends.

  Friends! I realized with a start that I hadn’t seen Betsy since I’d arrived back in Las Vegas. Martha hadn’t mentioned her, and I wondered what had happened to their friendship. I hoped Betsy was healthy and hadn’t gone broke playing the slots. I made a mental note to look her up and see how she was doing.

  When I reclaimed my seat in the courtroom, the Kildare housekeeper, Isobel Alvarez, was on the stand. A plump Hispanic woman I judged to be in her early sixties, she had a cheerful face and spoke excellent English, albeit with a pronounced Spanish accent.

  She said she’d been Mr. Kildare’s housekeeper for almost thirty years, and took every opportunity during the prosecutor’s questioning to speak highly of her deceased employer. Mr. Fordice introduced into evidence photographs of the Kildare house and grounds, and a to-scale schematic of the interior. Mrs. Alvarez confirmed that the exhibits accurately reflected the home, and came down from the witness stand to point to where she’d discovered Victor Kildare’s body in the shallow end of the pool. She cried while recounting this, and was handed tissues by the court clerk.

  The questioning of the medical examiner and the housekeeper by both sides took longer than anticipated, which visibly annoyed the judge. He constantly admonished Nastasi and Fordice to pick up the pace of their direct and cross-examinations. But with a series of sidebars at the bench, and trouble getting the audio-visual equipment to work, the morning was consumed before Nastasi could finish his cross-examination of Isobel Alvarez. A one-hour lunch break was declared. Martha was led from the courtroom, and the jurors were warned by Judge Tapansky not to discuss the case among themselves nor with anyone else, and not to read any news accounts or watch TV reports about the case. There was no doubt in my mind that any juror violating the judge’s warning would be dealt with harshly. This was a tough man, a no-nonsense jurist.

  I looked for Nastasi as I left the courtroom but he was nowhere to be seen. I went outside and was immediately approached by two women who asked for my autograph. I obliged them, but was flustered at the request. I certainly didn’t expect to be singled out by autograph seekers. In a sense, it was offensive. A woman’s life was at stake, hardly a situation calling for autographs.

  I looked over to where Court TV’s mini-mobile studio was set up and saw Nastasi being interviewed by correspondent Beth Karas; a dozen people looked on. I joined them and heard Nastasi say in response to a question, “The state’s case is purely circumstantial, no eyewi
tnesses, no forensic evidence except for fibers from a glove that could have come from any gloves like the ones Martha Kildare owned, and could have been worn by anyone. The police decided right away that Martha was the murderer; they never even bothered looking at other suspects, including a rogues’ gallery of Victor’s business associates who might have had reason to kill him.”

  The anchor in New York, Rikki Klieman. a beautiful and bright former prosecutor and defense lawyer who anchored the cable network’s midday show, Both Sides, asked Nastasi about Martha’s lack of an alibi.

  He replied, “Can anybody believe that hostess, Ms. McGinnis, when she claims she never leaves her post and would have remembered if Martha was there? Does she mean to say she never even goes to the bathroom? Come on. Give me a break. I know she was lying, and you know she was lying.”

  Nastasi was thanked for his appearance and freed from his electronic tethers. He spotted me, took me by the arm, and hustled me to his office, followed by a few persistent members of the press to whom he threw pithy sound bites about the morning’s testimony. His secretary, Evelyn, had arranged sandwiches, salads, and drinks on a table in a small conference room.

  “Victor, Martha wants a change of clothes for court tomorrow,” Evelyn said after we’d settled at the table.

  “So bring ’em to her.” To me: “Evelyn’s been keeping Martha in clothes ever since the trial started. The only time prisoners can wear street clothing is for a court date, and they’re only allowed one set of clothes at a time.”

  “I’m up to my neck trying to get this motion done, Vince,” Evelyn said.

  “Pretty neck,” Nastasi corrected.

  Evelyn sighed. “The point is—”

  “Could I bring Martha a change of clothes?” I asked.

  Nastasi’s face screwed up in thought. “I don’t see a problem with it. It’s really supposed to be a member of the family that does that, but technically Martha’s only relative here is Jane, and she’s declined to cooperate. In fact, I understand she hasn’t gone near the house since the murder.”