“Dr. Nelson,” Lopez said quietly, “does your husband have any relatives?”
“His father lives in Michigan.”
Certainly, Steve would not head there. She hadn’t even considered that. They’d hardly had any contact with his father since his mother died five years ago. Jim Nelson was a nice enough man, but a passive one, refusing to travel, preferring his own company. Why would Steve take them there? Then she remembered that remark in the park only last Saturday. “Don’t push me into a corner,” Steve had said. Had that been a threat?
“Okay, why don’t you tell me where in Michigan, so we can check it out?”’
Laura recited the Traverse City address of Steve’s father.
“Anybody else in Michigan?”
“No, we used to live in Detroit, but that was almost eight years ago. There’s no one there.”
“Okay,” said Lopez with a reassuring smile, “we’ll check that all out. In the meantime we have to ask you some other questions. Before I do, I want to remind you again of your right to remain silent, to have an attorney present, and if you can’t afford one, the court will appoint one.”
Laura was impatient. “I don’t need an attorney. I’m a doctor. I was trying to help. I’ve already told you that.”
Lopez handed her a printed Miranda warning and recited it again slowly and completely for the benefit of the tape recording. “I’d like to ask you to sign this. Just a formality.”
She glanced at it and signed without hesitation. Anything to get out of here.
A slight smile crept across Lopez’s face. “Okay, now. First, would you tell us again why you went to your husband’s place tonight?”
Laura sighed. “Because I thought my kids might be there.”
“I’m tired of this bullshit thing about kids,” Goodnuf broke in. “Why did you kill Kim Connor?”
For the eleventh time during the interrogation, Laura denied killing Kim, but this time she also offered more. As she gripped the table with both hands she said, “My husband was having an affair with her. That’s why we separated. I didn’t know that Kim would be there. I called her apartment and she wasn’t home, but I did not know that she was at his.”
Then Laura slumped back into the chair and let her head sink onto the table, oblivious to her own wracking sobs.
Lopez and Goodnuf exchanged a “got-it” expression. They had plenty of evidence and now they had motive. Enough to hold her for the D.A.
“So why don’t you just tell us exactly how it happened,” Goodnuf pressed. “When you found out this woman was involved with your husband, you decided to track her down and kill her?”
“No,” Laura cried, “that’s not true! I told you she was dead when I got there.”
“But only your prints were on the gun,” Lopez bluffed. The print results would not be back until the next day.
Lopez sat silent as Laura stared into his dark eyes, her face entirely pale. “That can’t be possible. I want to call a lawyer.”
“Of course,” he replied.
“Just one more question you can think about on the way over to the county jail,” Goodnuf went on. “If you didn’t kill her, who did?”
CHAPTER TEN
Greg Klingman strode toward the Hillsborough County Jail wondering what his client’s story would be. Cliff Casey from Tampa City Hospital — for whom he’d done a lot of legal work — had told him that a woman doctor had been charged with murder and found with the actual weapon right beside her. She’d even volunteered a motive. How the hell had a smart woman like this, a doctor no less, had the recklessness to blabber to the police without legal representation? How foolish people could be when caught off guard. And then there was the question of the missing children; the woman was nearly hysterical about them. On the phone, she said she hadn’t committed the murder, of course. But, the celebrity girlfriend of her celebrity husband? Greg could plead her, but she’d probably still do time. Tough with all those kids.
The Nelson arraignment would be early, somewhere around nine o’clock, and Greg wanted to talk to Laura in person, hear her tell her story again before anyone else did. No doubt she’d pay for her careless loose tongue the night before. Now that the D.A. knew about her husband’s affair with the deceased, he’d want murder one, and he’d want it to stick.
Greg walked into the county jail at eight, having stopped for a bagel and coffee on the way to his office to clear any urgent issues of the morning. He wanted to get to the courthouse as soon as its doors opened at nine to find out who would hear Laura’s arraignment, and when. Thinking he’d have some time to question Laura in a holding cell, Greg was surprised to find that she’d already been transported to the courthouse. So he had no choice but to plead her innocent as she’d insisted on the phone.
At forty-two, Greg had sandy, prematurely silver-streaked hair, slate gray eyes, and a strong face slightly marred by a smattering of shallow pocks from adolescent acne. He was six feet tall with an athletic build just starting to show traces of a paunch, and dressed the part of a successful lawyer. Until he met his fiancée, Celeste Marin, eighteen months earlier, he’d been a popular Tampa Bay bachelor.
Arriving at the massive courthouse at the intersection of Madison and Jefferson, Greg passed through security and learned that the Nelson case was assigned to Judge Stanley Potter. Greg knew him well. A big man, just past middle age, tough by reputation, especially with frequent offenders, but even his critics had to concede his sense of fairness. Greg recalled with some relief that the judge had a daughter around Laura’s age, and that she had six children. That might bode well for Laura, as well as the fact that she was a solid figure in the Tampa medical community.
Greg soon learned that her case was first on the docket. So the district attorney’s office had given it priority, not surprising since it was a sure media event. Potter’s court held to a tight schedule, which meant all Greg could do was accompany Laura as they led her in to enter her plea. His client wore cutoff shorts and a tattered T-shirt with a large stylized ‘M’. University of Michigan, Greg surmised. As her handcuffs were removed, he looked down from her messy, ponytailed hair to the worn and laceless sneakers on her feet. This plumpish, disheveled blonde in clunky glasses was a hotshot thoracic surgeon?
“The State of Florida vs. Laura Nelson,” permeated the silence as Greg and Laura stood together in front of Judge Potter’s bench.
Assistant D.A. Sandra Mulloy had risen from her seat to state the charges. All eyes shifted from the defendant’s table, where Laura sat listless, to the statuesque woman who turned toward the judge.
Sandra, independently wealthy and aggressive, was the dread of Tampa defense attorneys. About Laura’s age and single, she had yellow blonde hair that framed a sharp, narrow face. The A.D.A. had made her reputation by taking a particularly tough stance against women. Typically assigned to middle-class female defendants, she rarely failed to win a conviction.
Sandra’s confident voice addressed the judge as she ticked off the salient points of the case. Found with a dead body. Found a Colt thirty-eight next to her. Just minutes earlier, test results had confirmed that only her fingerprints were on the gun. Motive established. “The State enters the charge of first degree murder, your Honor.”
“Defense Council, how do you plead?”
Judge Potter turned his bulky, robed body toward Laura, waiting for a response on her behalf from her attorney.
As they rose, Greg whispered to her, “You’re sure?”
Panic crossed Laura’s face as she nodded. Terribly pale, she rubbed her hands, now free of handcuffs, together.
“The defendant pleads ‘not guilty,’ your Honor.”
As Greg and Laura sat down once more, the judge scrutinized Laura before proceeding. “On the matter of bail —” he began.
“The State requests no bail, your Honor,” Sandra interjected. “The charge is murder in the first degree and the defendant is an obvious flight risk. As a doctor, she’s had an ample income
which would afford her the means to flee.”
Greg jumped up. “Objection, Your Honor. My client is a prominent member of the medical community in this state with never so much as a traffic ticket. She certainly poses no flight risk. Her entire family is rooted in this community, her parents, her children. I see no reason for any bail whatsoever in this case.”
Judge Potter again studied the defendant.
“The State reiterates the request for no bail,” rang the voice of Sandra Mulloy.
“Rather severe for someone with no prior arrests.” Judge Potter said simply.
“Not for murder one, Your Honor,” Sandra said again. “Under no circumstances should bail be set for less than one million dollars.”
The judge then looked up as Jake Cooperman, the D.A. himself, strode into the courtroom and took a seat at Sandra Mulloy’s table. All eyes followed his path, his presence a signal that the prosecution intended to take this case seriously. Over the past twelve years, Jake had built his reputation on a politically astute winning streak. He selected his high-profile cases carefully and worked in the limelight of the media, looking more like a Brooks Brothers model than a practicing D.A.
“That’s preposterous, Your Honor,” Greg said. “My client’s record in this community is unblemished.”
Judge Potter cut him off. “Bail will be set at five hundred thousand dollars.”
Among a shuffle of chairs and buzzing of voices, Laura was handcuffed once more and ushered out of the now-crowded courtroom.
An hour later, Greg was led into the small, dingy holding area of the Hillsborough County Jail.
“Dr. Nelson,” he began as soon as the matron had locked the cell door behind her. Laura had brushed her hair and now wore the tan prison-issue shirt and pants that fit tightly over her frame. She was still pale with deepening circles below her eyes.
“We have a lot to talk about, but first we need to clarify my representation. I hate to go over it now, but if you want me to represent you, I’ll need a retainer of thirty thousand dollars. Depending on what happens, the fee may be much higher, but we would negotiate anything further as we go.”
“Do you believe I didn’t kill that woman?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” Greg said, surprised that he did believe her.
“Thank you.” Laura leaned forward in the metal chair. “My children, no one’s told me anything. What about my kids?”
“We’ll find out as soon as possible, but first we need to agree on fees and the matter of bail,” he said. “Is it possible for you to come up with my retainer plus fifty thousand for the bail bondsman?”
“I’ll pay whatever is necessary. Can you get me out of here today?”
“Of course,” he said gently. “Now let’s get started. First thing, bail.”
“Steve and I have a joint savings account. About fifty thousand dollars in there and a checking account that we keep almost tapped out. You’d think we’d have more with both of us working and all,” she said with a sad smile, “but we do have some equity in the house.”
He nodded. “That’s a start. It’ll just cover the bondsman and get you out, but you’ll need more. Your parents?”
“I could never ask them. They’ve worked hard their whole lives and now they’re both retired.” Laura shook her head. “I do have somewhere around twenty thousand dollars in accounts receivable from the hospital for surgical cases, but that comes in slowly from third-party payers.”
Greg nodded again. “That should help.”
“Fine. I’ll pay you as soon as I can, Mr. Klingman.”
“Call me Greg. Because we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”
“And call me Laura, Greg.”
Before he left, Laura gave Greg authorization to access her bank accounts. He promised to get her out that day and reassured her that he’d do everything he could to help find her children. Unexpectedly, he meant it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Listen,” Greg said after the matron led Laura back into the dingy holding cell at noon, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”
Laura did not speak until the matron locked the door behind her. “Tell me the bad news first.” Then she gasped, “My kids?”
“No, no,” Greg said quickly, “your husband. Last week he all but emptied out your joint savings account. There’s nine hundred forty-two dollars left. I’ve spoken with the hospital to see if they can give you some kind of an advance. As it stands now, they’ve agreed to ten thousand.”
“What? How could Steve do such a thing? I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it. I saw the bank statement. Now let me tell you the good news. You were right — your family was on the way to Michigan. Cops here put a call into your father-in-law to notify the Tampa station in case your husband turned up there. Turns out he was on his way. Anyway, he’s flying in for questioning from Chattanooga.”
“What about my kids?”
“They’re fine. They’ll all be back in a few hours. I’ll meet the plane when the flight gets in.”
“Oh, thank God. You can take them home, can’t you? My housekeeper will be there.”
“No problem. The kids can head home while the detectives talk to your husband —”
“Do they think he had something to do with it?” Laura gasped. “I admit I did at first too, but —”
“I can’t answer that — being on the road with five kids.” He paused. “But I don’t know what his actual itinerary was. Or why he emptied your bank account and fled the state.”
“Dear God, Steve’s not a murderer.” Laura let out a deep breath. Kim’s body had still been warm — she couldn’t have been dead that long — so it couldn’t have been Steve. Somehow that realization comforted her.
“I hope you’re right. In the meantime, we’re still stuck with getting your bail money. I’ll talk to your husband about it as soon as they land, but if we can’t pull it together in time that means another night here for you. I’ll do my best to get you a cell to yourself again, but I can’t promise.” He reached over and patted her hand.
Laura slumped back in the hard-back, steel chair. “Just make him give me the money to get out of here.”
Greg Klingman recognized the familiar face of Steve Nelson and headed toward the cluster of Nelsons as they deplaned. Steve was flanked by two blonde boys, one a teenage version of his father and the other obviously younger, with floppy bangs. Twin sisters, also blondes, wore matching turquoise outfits. They each held the hand of a smaller boy with chestnut hair. Two plainclothes sheriffs shepherded the family to the central terminal as Greg attempted to introduce himself.
“Mr. Nelson,” he called, “I’m Greg Klingman, your wife’s attorney. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
Greg was surprised that the good-looking guy who was always perfectly groomed on TV looked so sloppy, in rumpled khaki shorts and a worn tee shirt. But then, he’d been on the road with five kids. Even so, it was irksome when Steve Nelson merely glanced at him, making no attempt to respond.
“Not now, mister,” one of the sheriffs responded. “We’re headed directly to headquarters.”
“Certainly I can talk to him for just a few minutes,” Greg said. “I do represent his wife.”
“Yep, you can, but only when the detectives are finished with him.”
Greg looked at Steve again, who just shrugged.
“What about the kids?” Greg went on. “I have Dr. Nelson’s permission to take them home. Your housekeeper is waiting for them there.”
“I want to go home,” one of the little girls said.
“No,” Steve said sharply, “everybody stays with me.”
“But Dad —” the floppy-haired boy whined.
“I said no,” Steve repeated.
“It’s okay, Mr. Nelson, if you’d like your kids taken home.” The officer’s face softened as he looked down at the group huddled around their dad. “They look pretty beat.”
“No. They stay with me,�
�� Steve said stubbornly.
Greg tried again. “It would be no problem —”
Steve shook his head. “No.”
“Then I’ll wait for you at headquarters. It’s imperative that I speak with you just as soon as possible.”
“Fine,” Steve finally said.
It was almost nine when Greg returned to the jail. Laura’s hair was combed, but greasy. Her face scrubbed. Her eyes less bloodshot under her glasses.
“My kids?” she asked.
“Safe and sound.” Greg explained that they were home with Mrs. Whitman, neglecting to tell her that they’d been detained for more than four hours with nothing to eat or drink. The kids waited in a drab interrogation room equipped with only a conference table and a few chairs while a pair of Tampa detectives interrogated her husband in another room. Pending substantiation, they’d accepted Steve’s alibi — he was on his way to Michigan with five kids in a rental car during the time of the murder. Steve had learned that his father was sick and decided to drive to Michigan.
“That’s why he took them away?” Laura asked in disbelief.
“Apparently the police pressed him on this, and he did admit that he was upset with the way you’d tossed him out. And something about how busy you were with your career. He figured since he wasn’t working anyway, you could use a break.”
“And what did Steve tell you?” Laura asked dully.
“Well, I didn’t get a chance to talk to him until after they all got home,” Greg said. “Said he was tired and couldn’t even think straight when I explained that you needed fifty thousand to post bail as well as a retainer for me.”
“And?” Laura pressed both hands to her temples.
“He said he was worried about your state of mind. Thinks that you might do something, and I quote, ‘foolish’ if you were out. He wants to talk to you first.”
“What? Are you saying he won’t give me the money for bail? That’s my money too! I’ve got to get out of here.” Laura started to stand up, but then seemed to remember where she was. She fell back and stared at one of the cement walls for a few moments. “I find a dead woman on his kitchen floor, and I’m the one who ends up in jail? Can you have Steve come talk to me?”
Twisted Justice Page 9
