The Last Plea Bargain Page 3

  “How do those levels compare with other levels you’ve seen?”

  “They’re toxic,” O’Leary said confidently. “The codeine alone would kill her. The oxycodone alone would kill her. Combined, they have an additive effect and are clearly the cause of death. You might see higher levels than these in hospice patients, but even for addicts, these levels are elevated.”

  I had already heard by way of the grapevine that the tox lab had found elevated levels of drugs. But that didn’t answer the most important question: “Is there any way to tell whether this is an accidental overdose or whether she was poisoned?”

  O’Leary reorganized her papers and put them in a neat little stack. We were done with the hard data. Now for the analysis. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Without waiting for me to answer, she launched into her theory.

  “The best way to tell would be to send her hair to the lab for testing. Drugs in the blood bond to the roots of the hair. As the hair grows out, the drugs become an integral part of the hair shaft. Hair grows at a rate of about one centimeter per month, so depending on how long someone’s hair is, you can sometimes determine how long they’ve been exposed to the drugs. Rikki had short hair, but you could still probably get six months of data.” Before I could ask any questions about the hair testing, she moved on to her second point.

  “Another curious thing is that I found promethazine in Rikki Tate’s stomach contents and blood. That’s an antinausea drug that helps somebody absorb narcotics into their system. You usually don’t see this unless it’s a pretty sophisticated addict or a doctor prescribes promethazine along with oxycodone. When I checked Rikki’s medical records, I didn’t find any prescriptions for these drugs.”

  O’Leary paused and studied my expression. She apparently wanted me to absorb this and consider the implications, which were not good for our case.

  “If you’re thinking that Caleb Tate poisoned his wife, he would have to be pretty sophisticated to stick promethazine in there as well. And if he were that sophisticated, he probably would have used drugs that would be more difficult to detect.”

  “Where could we have the hair analyzed?”

  O’Leary stuffed the pictures and autopsy report back in her folder. “There’s a lab in Washington, DC, called National Toxicology Testing. They’re the best in the business. They should be able to tell us how long Rikki Tate had been ingesting these drugs.”

  “Let’s give it a shot,” I said. But I didn’t hold out much hope. Caleb Tate was not stupid. If he was cold-blooded and cunning enough to poison his wife, he would have done his research. He would have slipped the drugs into her food gradually, over time, culminating with one massive overdose. He would know all about hair testing. And he would use it to prove that Rikki Tate had been taking these drugs for a very long time.

  5

  On Thursday afternoon, one day after the autopsy results were released, I settled into one of the leather chairs in our main conference room to watch the Caleb Tate news conference. Other ADAs were busy in court, but I had talked a friend into handling my afternoon docket. Two office assistants joined me as we waited for the channel to break from its regularly scheduled programming.

  Rikki Tate’s death had already dominated the local 24-7 news coverage and even garnered a few mentions nationally. Before moving to Atlanta, Rikki had worked in Vegas as a showgirl. In Atlanta, she’d done some modeling and worked for a high-end escort service. When the Milton County vice squad had leaned on Rikki to testify against those running the service, she’d hired Caleb Tate. He cut a deal. Rikki worked closely with Bill Masterson and others, testified against the pimps and johns, including many of her own clients, and avoided jail time. Less than a year later, she became Caleb Tate’s trophy wife. And now, after twelve years of marriage, she was dead.

  What made it even more intriguing was that Rikki had experienced a high-profile religious conversion about eighteen months earlier that was touted by Christian groups throughout the country. She had sued websites that displayed topless pictures of her, asking courts for injunctions because the contracts she had signed when the pictures were taken violated public policy. Porn companies sounded the alarm, claiming that the same justification could allow any of their actresses to renege on contracts whenever they wanted. There was a lot riding on Rikki’s case, which was still in the discovery phase.

  The autopsy results fueled the controversy. Some claimed it was proof that Rikki Tate had never really changed, that her conversion and the lawsuits were just publicity stunts. Others claimed that her change was real and had created problems in the marriage, eventually leading to her murder. I was in that camp. And then there were the conspiracy buffs, who were convinced that Rikki had somehow been poisoned by hit men from the porn industry.

  Tate held his press conference in an elegant conference room at his law firm. The wall behind him served as a billboard for his services—the words Tate and Associates were embossed there in large gold lettering. The room was trimmed in dark wood and decorated with original oil paintings from an impressionistic artist. Tate had set up a podium at the end of a polished oak table.

  He wore his latest Brooks Brothers suit; every hair was in place, and he looked tanned, as if he had just come home from a Hawaiian vacation. He knew enough to appear somber and heartbroken, and I was reminded of what a great actor he had been throughout the trial of Antoine Marshall.

  “My name is Caleb Tate, and I called this press conference to address rumors about my wife and the circumstances surrounding her death.” Tate looked up and faced the cameras with bloodshot eyes underscored by dark circles. Either the man had been sleepless and crying, or he had a good makeup artist. “I do not intend to take questions today. The death of my beloved wife has shaken me to the core, and I’m still trying to grasp the reality of it. However, that pain has been increased by rumors that I need to address.”

  Tate had no notes and made it appear as if he were speaking off the cuff. But I had watched him before. I knew that every word had been carefully chosen and repeatedly rehearsed.

  “As the autopsy results yesterday proved, my wife died from an overdose of certain narcotics, including oxycodone. Given the toxic levels of these drugs in her system, the Internet has exploded with rumors about the possibility of foul play. To put these irresponsible and unfounded rumors to bed, I want to make a few things abundantly clear.”

  As he talked, I was struck by his careful selection of words. The allegations of foul play were just “Internet rumors.” And even then, according to Tate, they were only rumors about the “possibility of foul play.” It seemed to me that the type of man who could choose his words this carefully and stage this kind of performance might be the same kind of man who could carefully plan and execute murder by poison.

  “I loved Rikki very much. We had never been happier in our marriage than we were this past year, and it was our hope and dream to grow old together.”

  Tate paused for a moment to regather his composure. I noticed that his eyes stayed dry.

  “It is true that Rikki struggled with an addiction to certain narcotics, including oxycodone. As any doctor will tell you, over time you end up taking more and more of the same narcotic in order to achieve the desired result. This explains the high levels of both oxycodone and codeine in Rikki’s blood.

  “Some will want to blame me for what happened. If that’s your desire, then get in line. At the front of that line is me. Nobody is more devastated by what happened than I am, and nobody will be harder on me than I will be on myself. I should have done more to help Rikki kick her addiction.”

  Tate’s voice had become hoarse, and he swallowed hard. “I tried. . . . I really tried. . . . But after a while, I just learned to live with it. Rikki changed as a result of the drugs, but I still loved her. Since she died, I’ve been second-guessing everything I did or didn’t do. I am especially distraught that my preoccupation with work caused me not to be there for Rikki when she needed me most.
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br />   “So if you want to blame me—go ahead. But don’t blame Rikki. Growing up, she was abused by both her stepfather and an uncle. When she finally escaped that environment, she ended up in Vegas, where they used her as eye candy for their shows, and then here in Atlanta, where she was again abused by a high-end prostitution ring. When I first met Rikki, I saw something more, something deeper than just the surface beauty that drew others to her. She was full of grace and class and a desire to love and be loved. She finally found that love in our marriage and recently through her conversion to Christianity.”

  Tate paused again as if considering what to say next. The conference room was quiet, and I could tell, even without seeing their faces, that the reporters were mesmerized.

  “If you’ve never had to take drugs in order to escape the memories of those who abused you, you have no right to judge Rikki,” Tate continued. He had more force in his voice now, defending the woman he loved. “You have no idea what she went through. She was a wonderful wife and a good woman who loved a world that in turn used her only for her body. So please stop passing judgment on my wife. You can take shots at me all you want, but let Rikki rest in peace.”

  Tate surveyed his captive audience one face at a time, the same way he did a jury during closing arguments. “Thank you,” he said and walked out of his conference room.

  I was frustrated by the effectiveness of his performance. He had somehow managed to change his role—from number one suspect to the protector of Rikki Tate. How chivalrous!

  What a jerk!

  The commentators started talking about how compelling Tate’s statement had been. As I got up to leave, one of the assistants near me in the conference room sighed. “I hate to say it,” she said, “but I actually feel a little sorry for the guy.”

  I went home and let Justice outside. After he ate a quick dinner, I asked him if he wanted to go on a field trip. His tail wagged as he pranced around and waited impatiently by the door. On the way to the hospital, he sat in the front passenger seat of my 4Runner, barking a few times at pedestrians and enjoying himself immensely.

  I found a spot in the parking garage, cracked the windows, and ordered Justice to stay in his seat. I closed the door, beeped it locked, and knew that Justice would be in the driver’s seat within five seconds. He would sit there like a little sentry until I came back from visiting my dad, and then he would stand up, get excited, and slobber all over me when I climbed into the vehicle.

  It’s nice to be loved.

  I talked to the nurses for a few minutes before entering my dad’s room, getting an update about his lack of progress. The machines beeped steadily along, and my father’s only movement was the slow rise and fall of his chest. I didn’t know if I was just imagining things, but he still seemed to be losing weight, shrinking to a mere fraction of the person I used to know.

  I sat next to his bed and put a hand on his forearm.

  “Hey, Dad. I don’t know if you can hear me, but we’re making progress in the Tate investigation. Your old friend Bill Masterson is working the campaign trail hard. And I think Antoine Marshall’s execution is actually going to happen tomorrow. Twenty-four more hours, Dad; can you believe it?”

  Before my dad suffered his second stroke, these were the things we talked about. Things we had to do. Current events. Cases, judges, and trial tactics. But for some reason, now that he was lying here in this hospital bed unable to respond, I felt the freedom to go deeper, to talk about things we should have talked about my entire life. Things I wished we had talked about. Things that really mattered.

  “I really miss Mom,” I said softly. “And to be honest, with what happened to Mom and now you, I’ve got this fear that as soon as I start loving someone, they’ll be taken away.”

  I looked at my dad’s expressionless face, the closed eyes, tubes coming from his nose and mouth. “Chris is doing good, Dad. He says he’s leaning into God even though he’ll never understand why any of this happened.”

  I hesitated and wondered if I should say this next sentence out loud. But I was tired of pretending. “I guess you could say I’m leaning the other way. I know in my mind that God still loves me, but it doesn’t always feel that way.”

  I sighed and looked around the room. Tonight, more than any other night since I’d started visiting my father, I sensed that he was no longer here. It was as if he had already left this shell of a body behind. I squeezed his arm, told my father that I loved him, and stood to leave.

  As I walked to the door, I sensed that something was different, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Everything about the room looked the same. The same machines with the same readouts. The same get-well cards on the tables. The television hanging from one wall and the small window to the outside world.

  I shrugged and was almost out the door before I realized what it was. For the first time since I’d started visiting my father, I realized that I had lost all hope. He wasn’t coming back. And strangely, the thought didn’t break me or drive me to my knees or cause me to sob uncontrollably. It was as if I had begun to accept this reality slowly, each day unraveling a few more threads of my hope that he would ever come out of this coma. And today, that final strand had simply disappeared.

  In two more days, after Antoine Marshall’s execution, I would let my father die in peace. That would still give God time to work a miracle. And if no miracle came, it would give me time to prepare for the loneliness.

  6

  Mace James sat in his pickup truck, parked outside the Flying Saucer in Nashville, Tennessee. It was one of Nashville’s trendiest bars, located on the back side of the old Union Station train depot. Despite the futuristic name, the building was old-style stone with arched windows and a canopy out front. It made you feel like you were stepping back into the 1950s and might bump into James Cagney inside.

  Mace had a bad feeling about this, but he could think of no better alternative. He flashed back fifteen years to the night that had changed his life. A friend had picked a fight in a Buckhead bar and was getting pummeled. Without thinking, Mace and a few buddies had jumped in, evening the odds. Fueled by adrenaline and alcohol, Mace put two men in the hospital. One of them was an off-duty police officer who had flashed a badge (or so he claimed) and was shouting orders just before Mace caught him with a right hook that broke his jaw. The man’s partner tackled Mace and had him cuffed before Mace knew what was happening.

  A few minutes later, when Mace was frisked, they discovered a small bag of cocaine in the back pocket of his jeans. To this day, Mace didn’t know whether it was planted by one of the cops or one of the men he’d been fighting.

  Either way, he was facing two felonies and a misdemeanor. His lawyer didn’t waste any time cutting a deal—battery against a police officer and resisting arrest. The possession charge was dropped.

  Two years later, when Mace saved the life of a guard in a prison riot, he was granted a pardon. He always found it ironic that the same conduct that had landed him in jail—sticking up for the underdog—also got him out. It all depended, Mace knew, on who wore the badge.

  He also knew that his plan tonight smacked of desperation. If it backfired, he would lose his reputation and quite possibly his law license. Another bar brawl. They would say he never learned.

  But he had learned. He had changed in prison, a spiritual conversion that was real, not just window dressing for the parole board. So why was he sitting here contemplating another bar fight? Because he had also learned one other thing: innocent men could get framed. Somebody had planted cocaine on him. How easy would it have been to set up Antoine Marshall for murder?

  Before entering the bar, Mace listened to the recording on his BlackBerry one last time. It had been sent by a PI Mace had hired, and the quality was not good. You could make out the garbled voice of Freddie Cooper, but even with the best digital enhancement, his words would barely be discernible. Mace could tell Freddie had been drinking, his thoughts incoherent. It surely wouldn’t convince the ju
dges on the Georgia Supreme Court.

  Mace stretched his neck, blew out a deep breath, and climbed out of his truck. It was a warm March night with a full moon and an ominous wind blowing from the north. Mace wore jeans and a tight black T-shirt, looking the part of a bouncer.

  People were lined up two deep at the bar, ordering one of the eighty beers prominently listed on a blackboard high above the bartenders. Mixed drinks were a rare sight in this Nashville crowd. Mace pushed his way through the bodies to the poolroom, where groups of men and a few women lounged around six red-felt pool tables. Barstools lined the walls, and green lamps hung low over the tables. The only thing missing was cigarette smoke.

  At the far end of the room was an outdoor lamppost, vintage 1950. Junior Watts leaned against it, holding a pool cue and eyeing the table. Junior was a short, pudgy man with jowls and gray hair that made him look every bit of fifty. The poolroom featured a younger crowd, and Junior stood out like a teenager in a Santa Claus line.

  He looked up and nodded at Mace.

  Mace edged closer to the last table while Junior circled it, preparing for his next shot, eyeing the layout of the balls from this angle and that. As he plotted, Junior talked trash with a group of friends until things got heated. He put down his cue and got in the face of the tallest and skinniest member of the group. More words were exchanged and then Junior knocked a beer out of the guy’s hand. Curses followed, and the man took a swing. Junior ducked the blow, landed a right cross, and the fight was on.

  Others in the poolroom gawked at the sudden outbreak of violence and backed away from the maniacs throwing punches. A man jumped Junior from behind. The fight might have stayed confined to those first few participants if the three men Junior had earlier paid off had stayed out of the fray. But they wanted to earn their hundred bucks. One of them cracked a pool cue across the shoulders of a man fighting with Junior, and the melee escalated. Wild roundhouse punches were thrown, pool sticks turned into clubs, and a few bodies got tossed across the pool table.