The Last Plea Bargain (15 page)

32

In the grand jury room, I spent Monday morning building a relationship with the good folks on the jury, obtaining indictments on more than half a dozen no-brainer cases. After lunch, I gave them an overview of the Tate case and called LA as my first witness. About ten minutes into his testimony, I realized I could have saved myself hours of preparation time.

LA was a charmer, and he didn't mind giving me a hard time to draw a few chuckles from the jurors. I took him through the investigation step by step. By the time he had finished, we were already in good shape. Next, Dr. O'Leary testified about the cause of death and seemed determined to make a few jurors puke before she left the stand. A toxicologist followed her and testified about the blood and hair testing.

Tuesday morning, the jury heard from Dr. Gillespie. Most of them seemed to like the man, though one or two drifted in and out during his testimony. I took the psychiatrist through each of Rikki's important counseling sessions. Yes, she had been involved in a few affairs. And yes, Caleb Tate had found out about them.

Next came a parade of church friends to talk about how Rikki's newfound faith had created a strain on the marriage and how Caleb Tate had been a control freak. I called Rikki Tate's civil attorney to testify about Caleb's opposition to the lawsuits Rikki had filed attempting to get her topless pictures removed from various websites. A few of the female jurors made noticeable faces during that testimony—
What kind of scum is this guy?

I held my breath and put Rafael Rivera on the stand. The deputies had dressed him up and brought him over from the county jail. He raised his hand, swore to tell the truth, and gave me a condescending sneer. He testified about providing Caleb Tate with oxycodone and codeine for the past six months. I did not ask him about the morphine. Though Tate and his defense attorneys were not allowed in the grand jury room, they would eventually be entitled to a transcript of the proceedings. I didn't want to tip our hand about the morphine any earlier than necessary.

Despite his repulsive attitude, Rivera stuck to the script, and I had him off the stand in fifteen minutes. For the first time in two days, I relaxed. The grand jury was going to indict. In truth, it was pretty hard to lose a case when the other side didn't get to show up.

I recalled LA to the stand after I finished with Rivera so LA could testify about Caleb Tate's financial status. Tate's law firm, despite its appearance of great success, was actually struggling with mounting debt. In his personal life, Tate was swimming in an ocean of credit, and the various banks that had loaned him money during his heyday were starting to tighten their grip. LA also testified about the million-dollar life insurance policy Caleb Tate had taken out on his wife shortly after he discovered her affair two years ago.

“Two years seems like a long time for someone like Mr. Tate to wait,” I said.

“Poisoning is not a crime of passion,” LA lectured. “It's a crime of deceit. It requires careful and patient planning. I've made some charts of Mr. Tate's cash flow and debt obligations. He probably knew he could afford to wait two years, but not much more.”

I ended my case with a short and straightforward closing argument. I could tell the jurors' only question was how quickly they could sign the indictment.

After they voted unanimously to indict, I reminded them of the absolute confidentiality of the grand jury proceedings. I thanked them for their service, stuffed some papers into my dad's briefcase, and called Bill Masterson as soon as I got into the hallway.

“Get your bench warrant and take the rest of the day off,” he said. It was a few minutes after three.

“Maybe I will.”

Based on the grand jury indictment, I obtained a bench warrant from a Superior Court judge and met LA in the hallway. “Have fun,” I said, handing him the warrant. I left the courthouse alone and walked down the large concrete steps. The sun was bright, and I could smell the freshly cut grass on the courthouse lawn. For the first time in months, I felt like I could fully breathe, like my chest wasn't constricted by pressure. I knew my dad would be proud.

I should have followed Bill Masterson's advice and taken the rest of the day off. Instead, I got in my car and headed back to the office.

33

Mace James was a sucker for helping the underdog. It was what landed him in prison and what got him out. It was what he had been doing at the clinic since becoming a lawyer. Most of his clients were guilty, but somebody had to be an advocate for mercy. And when there was the possibility of innocence, the stakes were even higher.

Caleb Tate had passed a lie detector test. That had to count for something. From what Mace knew about the facts, he couldn't rule out Caleb's being just an innocent victim of a rush to judgment by prosecutors. He called Tate at 5 p.m. on Monday. “I'm in,” Mace said.

He spent Tuesday morning regretting those two words, but he couldn't make himself pick up the phone and call Caleb again to retract. The guy needed help. He wasn't the most sympathetic client, but that didn't mean he was a killer. And Mace was brash enough to believe that Caleb was right in assuming that Mace would work the case harder and smarter than just about any other lawyer out there. Still, he wasn't quite feeling it. He had prayed about it but had no clear answer.

By three o'clock Tuesday afternoon, it no longer mattered. Caleb Tate's sources had confirmed a grand jury indictment. Expect the cops in thirty or forty minutes. Mace hustled over to Caleb's office, where he found his client dressed in an expensive dark-blue Armani suit as if he were ready to argue a case before the US Supreme Court. Mace had on jeans, a white T-shirt, a John Deere hat, and flip-flops.

The two men watched out the front conference room windows, thirty-five floors above street level, as squad cars and TV vans lined the curb. A young detective with unruly blond hair led the charge into the building.

“Game on,” Tate said.

When the cops stepped off the elevators, Tate was there waiting. He held out his hands for the cuffs. “You can skip Miranda,” he said.

Undeterred, the detective started reading loudly from his Miranda card while the cops jerked Tate's arms behind his back and slapped on the cuffs.

“Do you understand those rights?” the detective asked.

“Not really,” Tate said calmly. “I'm a little confused by Justice Kennedy's opinion in
Berghuis v. Thompkins
, where he talks about whether the mere act of remaining silent is sufficient to invoke the privilege and render inadmissible subsequent voluntary statements, absent an explicit invocation of the right. Could you explain that to me?”

The detective grabbed Tate's arm and pushed him toward the elevator. “Get in,” he said.

Mace tried to follow, but the same man held out his palm toward Mace's chest.

“I'm his attorney,” Mace said.

“Fine. You can talk to him at the jail in a few hours.”

Standing in the elevator, Tate looked at Mace and tilted his head to the side—
What can you do?
The elevator doors closed, and Mace pushed a button for the next car down.

He made it to the front plaza a few seconds behind the Tate perp walk entourage. Most perps hung their heads and tried to shield their faces, but Tate looked right at the cameras and provided a running commentary. “I told the police I would come down to the station anytime—day or night. I told them I would take a lie detector test. I told them they could look through anything in my house or office. But this is how they want to spend the taxpayers' money.”

When they reached the squad car, the detective pushed Tate into the back and closed the door so the suspect would stop talking to the cameras. That was Mace's cue.

“Hey! I'm Caleb Tate's attorney. Any of you guys want an interview?” he yelled. Three camera crews scurried over to the steps where Mace had positioned himself.

“Are you ready?” he asked one of the cameramen.

The guy nodded.

Mace introduced himself and reminded the world that Caleb Tate had passed a polygraph and had gone to extraordinary lengths to cooperate with the authorities.

“We will not waive our right to a speedy trial,” Mace said. He and Caleb had already agreed on this strategy. A Georgia defendant was not entitled to a preliminary hearing on a case initiated through a grand jury indictment. The first chance to prove Tate's innocence would be at trial. “We want the first available trial date. In fact, if the DA is ready to go next month, my client and I will be there. And I'm assuming the DA wouldn't have indicted Mr. Tate if they weren't ready.”

The media ate it up. They were used to suspects cowering into police vehicles, their lawyers proclaiming that they would do their talking in court. But here was a defendant anxious to fight back! And a lawyer wearing a John Deere hat!

Inspired, Mace decided to weave in a subtle reference to Jamie Brock's remarks about lynching. “The DA's office has it in for Caleb Tate because he's had the audacity to represent criminal defendants the way the framers of our Constitution envisioned it. He had the guts to fight hard for his clients, and now he's paying the price. But fortunately for Mr. Tate, lynch mobs have been replaced by juries. And the quicker we can get his case in front of one, the quicker we can restore my client's reputation and allow him to grieve in peace.”

It seemed like a good place to end, so Mace thanked everyone, did a one-eighty, and headed back into the building. It wasn't exactly riding off into the sunset, but it was the best alternative available.

How did I get myself into this mess?
he wondered.

At 6 p.m., I walked out the front door of the DA's office to find LA waiting at the curb next to his sports car. It was either a big coincidence or he had paid off the receptionist to tell him when I left. He opened the passenger door.

“Get in,” he said. He had a serious look on his face, and I sensed that something was wrong. My elation from Tate's indictment became a sinking feeling.

“What's up?”

“Just get in.” He glanced nervously around. “I don't want to talk about it out here.”

I tossed my father's briefcase behind the seat and climbed in the passenger side. I closed the door and watched LA as he climbed into the driver's seat and pulled away from the curb.

“What's going on?”

“Can you call the neighbors and have them take Justice outside?” LA asked. “We've got a problem, and I need your help for a couple of hours.”

I gave him a curious look. He was going through the gears like a madman, more serious than I had ever seen him. “What kind of problem?”

“Just call the neighbors.”

I did and then demanded an explanation from LA. We were on the ramp for Interstate 400, heading south toward Atlanta.

“You're losing way too much weight,” LA said. “I'm afraid you won't make it to trial at this rate. We're going to Ruth's Chris, and I'm going to force you to eat some steak.”

I was not happy. “Are you kidding me? After what I've already been through today, you make me think we've got some kind of crisis just to get me into your car so we can go out and eat? What if I had plans?”

“Did you?”

“That's beside the point. I don't like being misled. And kidnapped.”

“So noted.” LA smiled, and I could tell he wasn't taking my protests seriously. Which was okay because dinner at Ruth's Chris was starting to sound pretty good. And it was hard to stay mad at a guy who claimed I was losing weight when in fact I was putting it on.

Thirty minutes earlier, I had been looking forward to a night at home without the pressure of the grand jury hanging over my head. But home was a lonely place, and there was no telling when the ghost of my father would cause me to break down. I was hungry, and I could think of worse men to look at than this quirky detective with the shaggy hair. Plus, he had done well on the stand. He deserved a reward.

“I'll go on one condition,” I said.

“I don't think you're in any position to be negotiating.”

“I'm paying for my own meal.”

This brought out a broad white grin. “I never said you weren't.” He glanced at me, the blue eyes playful. “You didn't think this was a date, did you?”

“Just drive.”

34

I woke up Wednesday morning feeling rested for the first time in weeks. Late Tuesday night, against my better judgment, I had taken an Ambien that Dr. Gillespie had prescribed. He was concerned that I had never properly grieved my father's death before jumping so quickly into the Tate prosecution. “You've got to take care of yourself,” he'd said. “It starts with rest, exercise, and nutrition.”

“You're lecturing me about exercise?” I responded.

He chuckled. “Fair enough. But I do know a thing or two about rest. And your sleep habits are atrocious.”

Maybe he was right, because on Wednesday morning, I felt like a new Jamie. I took my time showering and ironed a pair of black dress slacks that had not been to the dry cleaner's since the last time I wore them. I put on one of my favorite blouses along with a gray blazer and my favorite silver necklace. I even broke out heels for the occasion. I'm not usually much of a clotheshorse, but today the media would be out in force. Caleb Tate would be arraigned, bail would be set, and I would be squaring off against the two men who had defended my mother's killer for the last eleven years. How nice of them to team up so I could take them down together.

I could taste the revenge.

I told Justice good-bye and said a quick prayer before leaving the house. I stopped at a QT for coffee and sat in my car in the parking lot of Milton County Superior Court, rehearsing my argument one last time. I would have an ally in Judge Sharon Logan, a former prosecutor. Tate personified the two groups of people she hated most—defendants and defense lawyers. I would ask for bond to be set at five million and hope for two. If I got lucky, Mace James would claim that his client had recently experienced some financial setbacks—thus helping us establish motive later on.

I checked my makeup in the visor mirror and put on more lip gloss. I ran my fingers through my short hair and pushed a few loose strands behind my ear. I declared myself ready, grabbed my father's briefcase, and headed for the chaos of Superior Courtroom 2.

Mace James hated wearing a suit. On a law professor's salary, he couldn't afford the custom-tailored ones, and the ones he bought off the rack never fit right. The shoulders and arms would be too tight and bind him up when he tried to move. If he got the shoulders broad enough, the sleeves would be too long, and the tailor would have to take in the pants several inches. There were athletic fits on the rack. But there were none for guys like Mace, fanatics who lifted weights for ninety minutes five times a week and did everything short of steroids to sculpt the perfect body.

For the arraignment, he'd donned an ill-fitting suit and arrived at court early. He took a seat in the middle of the first wooden bench and watched as the spectator section began to fill.

Jamie Brock showed up at five to nine, looking like she had just arrived from a Hollywood casting call. She had the strong facial features of a big-screen prosecutor—prominent cheekbones, dark-brown eyes, straight white teeth, and a determined jaw. She kept her chin up and her back straight as she walked briskly to the front of the courtroom and greeted the judge's clerks. Because this was a murder charge, it was only bondable here in Superior Court. And Mace had the bad luck to draw a judge who had worked in the Milton County prosecutor's office ten years ago. There was no question that this was Jamie's home turf.

Mace James squeezed out of his row and met me at the front of the courtroom. We shook hands; his seemed to swallow mine whole.

“I'm sorry to hear about your dad,” he said.

“Somehow I doubt that,” I replied.

His expression darkened. “I guess you know I'm representing Caleb Tate.”

“You manage to get all the good ones.”

“Good luck to you, too.”

Mace James returned to his seat, clearly offended. I might have made a mistake by picking the first fight, but I didn't like lawyers who would battle me in court and then try to buy me a drink afterward. Defense lawyers liked to claim they were just doing their job. I didn't buy it. Nobody was holding a gun to their heads. It might just be a job, but it was a job they had
chosen
. There were plenty of other ways a lawyer could make money.

There were five arraignments ahead of Tate's case, and all went according to script. When the clerk called Caleb Tate's name, everyone in the courtroom seemed to sit up a little straighter. Mace James took his place at the defense counsel table. A pair of sheriff's deputies led Tate into the courtroom, his wrists and ankles shackled as if he might make a run for it at any moment. He was wearing a suit but had a butterfly bandage over his left eyebrow. He smiled at Mace, and the two shook hands, causing the handcuffs to jangle. Tate never glanced in my direction.

After Tate took his seat, Judge Logan read the charges, and Mace pleaded “absolutely not guilty” for his client. He had also requested a bond hearing, and Logan said she would hear from the state first.

I rose and began describing in detail the crime Caleb Tate had been accused of committing. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He sat pompously at the defense table, studying me as if I were some kind of lab specimen, never taking a note.

“Poisoning is a crime of planning and preparation,” I emphasized. “And this is a defendant with means to flee the state
and
the country. He has a valid passport, and he once owned property in the British Virgin Islands. His law firm generated almost six million dollars in revenues last year, and his house is appraised at three million. Oh . . . I almost forgot to mention he once leased part of a private jet and probably knows pilots who can fly him anywhere in the world.

“We think the horrendous nature of this crime and the fact that the defendant could lose everything makes Mr. Tate a substantial flight risk. The last thing the state wants is for him to take his resources and flee to another country, where he could live the rest of his life fighting extradition. Accordingly, we are requesting bond of no less than five million dollars.”

I sat down, and the judge nodded to Professor James. “Your response, Mr.—” she looked down and checked the paper in front of her—“Mr. James. And please keep it short; don't try to argue the merits of the case.”

“My client is a flight risk,” Mace repeated sarcastically as he rose. “Let's see—he volunteers to take a polygraph, he volunteers to come to the police station whenever they want to question him, he makes it clear that he will turn himself in if they want to arrest him, and he has substantial ties in the community. Not only is he the managing partner of a prestigious law firm, but he's also invested heavily in this community. He's given twenty thousand dollars to the children's hospital, he contributes ten thousand dollars a year to United Way, he is on the board of patrons for the aquarium—”

“I don't need a list of his charitable activities,” Judge Logan said. “I know we've got lots of reporters in the courtroom today, but this is not the place to grandstand. I'm setting bond at three million and requiring that Mr. Tate surrender his passport and not leave the state of Georgia without prior court permission. Are those conditions clear?”

“They're clear,” Mace said, looking stunned. “But I wouldn't call them fair. Caleb Tate is more anxious to get this case to trial than anyone. He's not going anywhere. In fact, he's ready to grab the first trial date—”

Logan banged her gavel and gave Mace a look of fire. “That's enough,” she said. “I've ruled. Ms. Brock is absolutely right about the nature of this crime. If he did it—and I'm not saying that he did—but
if
he did, it means he's been planning this crime for at least six months. A man like that, who could kill his own wife in cold blood, wouldn't hesitate to take off for another country. So, Mr. James, you're lucky your client's getting bonded out at all.”

From the look on Mace James's face, he wasn't feeling lucky. And neither was Caleb Tate.