The Last Plea Bargain Page 7

  The major felony squad detectives had spent a fair amount of time chasing down rumors that both Rikki and Caleb were involved in affairs. Caleb had allegedly been sneaking off with an office assistant. Two years ago, Rikki had been getting together with a guy she met at the gym. Rikki’s affair ended just before her spiritual conversion. The current status of Caleb and his assistant was unknown.

  With the help of another ADA, the detectives had already obtained and executed a search warrant at Tate’s home and subpoenaed medical records. Most of Rikki’s records consisted of plastic surgery and other unrelated matters. There was no indication she had ever obtained a prescription for oxycodone, codeine, or promethazine. Caleb Tate had been on OxyContin, a brand name for oxycodone, for a few months after rotator cuff surgery several years ago, but he had only filled the prescription twice.

  Caleb and Rikki certainly had their problems. Friends reported fights, but the police were never called, and no one ever claimed that Caleb had laid a hand on Rikki. Her conversion, according to her church friends, only served to exacerbate the issues. Rikki would ask fellow church members to pray for her husband. He flippantly dismissed her faith, certain it was just a fad she would outgrow.

  I read every police interview, every medical record, and every other document in the file. There was no way Bill Masterson would let me indict on the basis of this information. At the very least, we would need to show that Caleb Tate had access to the drugs found in Rikki’s bloodstream, and we would have to put together a strong case of motive. Maybe Caleb’s office assistant had demanded that he do something. Maybe Rikki had threatened to file for divorce. Maybe Caleb had just gotten tired of a washed-out former showgirl who was hooked on drugs.

  I searched in vain for a hint of a smoking gun among the documents on the table, but I didn’t find one. There was, however, one item in the file that provided a slight flicker of hope. Rikki Tate, not surprisingly, had been seeing an expensive psychiatrist. And not just any psychiatrist. Dr. Aaron Gillespie, an expert witness whom I had used as a forensic psychiatrist on a few insanity plea cases and a former colleague of my mother, had been the primary psychiatrist seeing Rikki for the past ten years.

  I called to make an appointment, but his assistant asked so many questions that I politely ended the conversation and hung up. I dressed for work, googled his address, and headed off in my 4Runner to see if the doctor was in.

  15

  Gillespie worked in a cozy office complex nestled among the pine trees less than a mile from Johns Creek Hospital. The Georgian brick buildings were all brand new with perfectly manicured lawns and a small pond behind them. The pod of offices was set back from Johns Creek Parkway far enough that the setting presented an oasis of calm in the chaos of north-Georgia traffic.

  Though I had been friends with Dr. Gillespie since my mother’s death nearly twelve years ago, I’d never been to his new office. Like several other forensic psychiatrists, he considered my mother a mentor of sorts. But unlike the others, he had reached out to me in the days after her death, letting me know he would be there if I ever needed to talk.

  I politely declined his offer, but he stayed in touch. Several years later, when I began working as a part-time trainer at a Gold’s Gym during law school, Gillespie hired me to train him three times a week. He was happily married and one of the few men who didn’t try to impress me during our workout sessions. In fact, he allowed me to do most of the talking, and I worked through some pretty serious issues while he lifted. Only later did I realize that he had come to the gym because he knew I needed counseling but would never set foot in his office.

  I announced myself to his receptionist and took a seat in his plush waiting room. Gillespie was doing quite well for himself.

  After a few minutes he came bounding out. The man was tall—about six-three—with a boyish face, black glasses, and dark hair that he combed to the side as if he didn’t realize parts had gone out several years earlier. He was soft around the middle and showed no lasting effects from the training I had provided.

  He bowed deeply when I rose from my chair, as if I were the queen of England. “To what do I owe this great honor?” he asked. He straightened and gave me a hug.

  “Have you got a second?”

  He looked around as if the office belonged to somebody else. “I’m actually seeing somebody right now. Is this about one of our cases?”

  One of the reasons for my rapid rise in the district attorney’s office was the man standing in front of me. Gillespie had become the DA’s go-to guy for cases involving the insanity plea. Juries loved him, and we were now using him on three of our most prominent files.

  “Can we talk in private for a moment?” I asked.

  The receptionist frowned, but Gillespie got the idea. He led me to an office down the hall and closed the door.

  “I’ll be done with my client in about thirty minutes. I could cancel my next appointment if I need to,” he said, concern registering on his face.

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that. I just didn’t want to talk about this over the phone.” I lowered my voice a little. “This has to stay confidential, okay?”

  Gillespie gave me a sideways look. “Of course.”

  “I’m investigating the death of Rikki Tate. I understand she was one of your patients.”

  “You know I can’t comment on that.”

  “I know. And I’m not asking you to violate her privacy rights. You know we can get the records through a grand jury subpoena, but that will take a while. I was hoping maybe you could tell me, hypothetically speaking, whether or not there might be anything of value in the records that might help our case.”

  Gillespie sat on the edge of a desk and sighed. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face before putting the glasses back on. “Hypothetically speaking, what types of things are you looking for?”

  “Fights with her husband. Affairs. Access to drugs like oxycodone and codeine.”

  For a moment, Gillespie stared at the wall behind me. Then he turned back to me. “I’m not saying whether or not I had a counseling relationship with Rikki Tate because that would violate federal HIPAA laws. But I can tell you this—it’s almost always worth your while to subpoena the records of a treating psychiatrist.”

  “Because that psychiatrist can prescribe medication?”

  “Not necessarily. Because a psychiatrist is told things. Most people, except for a few prosecutors who think they’re so tough that they don’t need outlets for their emotions . . .” He gave me a slight nod of the head, a subtle scold. “Most people talk to psychiatrists about issues in their lives. About addictions they are trying to kick. About whether they’ve been faithful to their spouse. Those types of things.”

  “I see.” I knew better than to push the matter any further. I’d have to issue a subpoena and get a judge to sign a qualified protective order so I could obtain the documents under seal. But the answer he had dropped so casually already provided a road map—“addictions they are trying to kick . . . whether they’ve been faithful to their spouse.”

  “We never had this conversation—right?”

  “What conversation?” Gillespie rose from the desk. He walked to the door and put his hand on the knob, then turned in a moment of reflection. “Jamie, I really liked this girl. Sure, she had issues, but we’ve all got issues. The records may hurt you as much as they help. She’ll be an easy target.”

  He hesitated, perhaps worrying that he might have said too much. “But she didn’t kill herself. And she didn’t deserve to die.”

  Now the man was speaking my language. In his own way, Gillespie was as much an advocate for victims as I was.

  “And, Jamie, I’m also very fond of you. In all candor, I’m not sure what Masterson was thinking when he put you in charge of this investigation. This could reopen old wounds. You’ve got to separate your mother’s death from Rikki Tate’s death. You understand that?”

  I didn’t answer, but that didn’t deter Gillespie.
“This is not part of avenging your mom. Your mom was avenged when Antoine Marshall was sentenced to death.”

  I wanted to tell the good doctor that I didn’t come here for a counseling session. But I bit my tongue. The man had my best interest at heart. “I get that,” I said.

  “I may need to get back on another exercise routine,” Gillespie said as he opened the door. “You know any good trainers?”

  I smiled. “I’ll call you if I need to talk,” I said. “But you’re right; you probably should get back on an exercise routine.”

  He sucked in his stomach and puffed out his chest. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your edge.” He came over, gave me a hug, and sent me on my way.

  16

  I spent Thursday afternoon in a cramped courtroom on the third floor of the Milton County Superior Court building, arguing bond hearings. I had the good fortune of having drawn Magistrate Simmons, a chubby blonde woman who looked like a kindergarten teacher but was tough as nails. She had a squeaky voice that engendered not one ounce of respect, but lawyers or defendants who tried to cross her found themselves on the short end of a lightning-quick temper.

  I opposed two of the first three requests for bond modifications. On the third case, after Simmons ruled in my favor, the defense lawyer cursed under his breath on the way out of the courtroom. Simmons heard it, and the lawyer almost ended up joining his client in jail.

  As a result, tension lingered in the courtroom when the clerk called the case for Rafael Rivera, a reputed gang member facing time for dealing based on the testimony of an undercover narcotics officer. In addition to his drug offenses, Rivera had been tried twice for murder, but witnesses had mysteriously disappeared or miraculously recanted their testimony. That’s what made this third distribution charge so important. We might not get him for murder, but he would serve at least fifteen years under the three-strikes law.

  Ironically, Rivera was represented by an associate from Caleb Tate’s law firm, a hard-charging young woman who graduated one year ahead of me from Southeastern Law School. But when Rivera’s case was called, the young attorney was nowhere to be found.

  “She called in to say she got stuck in a motion-to-suppress hearing in Fulton,” the clerk told Magistrate Simmons. “She’s sending someone else to cover.”

  Simmons looked perturbed. “Did she say when her colleague might grace us with his or her presence?”

  “Three o’clock, give or take.”

  Simmons didn’t like it, but she realized that defense lawyers couldn’t be in two places at once. Bond hearings didn’t have a high priority.

  Simmons banged her gavel. “We’ll reconvene at 3:10,” she said.

  I reentered Simmons’s courtroom at three and was shocked to see that the great man himself—Caleb Tate—had taken a seat at the defense counsel table. “Slummin’ today?” I asked.

  He stood and extended a hand. “Good to see you too, Counselor.”

  I thought about extending condolences for the death of his wife but couldn’t bring myself to be that hypocritical. “You’re here for the bond hearing?”

  Tate broke into his sleazy smile, showing off a mouth full of big white teeth, a smile that had wooed more than a few jurors—especially the women. “My man’s innocent, Jamie. He needs to be out contributing to society.”

  “Save it for the magistrate.”

  Tate lowered his voice. “I don’t really expect to get too far with Simmons. But after the hearing, could I get five minutes of your time?”

  “For what?”

  He took a step closer as if we were frat brothers ready to share a secret. “I’ve got a deal I’d like you to consider.”

  “I don’t do deals, Caleb. Maybe if you came to court once in a while on some common felonies, you’d know that.”

  He snickered. “Didn’t mean to hit a sore spot. But could I just have a few minutes? You might be glad we talked.”

  I wanted to spit on him, but I knew I couldn’t refuse to even listen. I had enough of a reputation among the defense bar as it was.

  “You’re wasting your breath. But I’ll give you five minutes after the hearing.”

  “Fair enough. That’s three minutes more than I expected.”

  The hearing went according to form. Rivera made a sulking appearance, frowning at the judge and slumping in his chair. He had dreads and stringy facial hair and conveyed an attitude of superiority to everyone in the courtroom. Simmons listened skeptically, her hand on her chin, as Caleb Tate argued that the bond should be reduced from the three hundred thousand another magistrate had established shortly after Rivera’s arrest. “I’ve represented murderers who got lower bonds,” Tate said. “Alleged murderers,” he added with a smile.

  I responded with a passionate argument about how dangerous Rivera was and reminded Simmons that witnesses had disappeared in his prior cases. She nodded and checked her notes. When I finished, she told Rivera to stand. He stayed seated until a deputy moved behind him and gave him a hard nudge. Rivera shrugged it off and rose slowly to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on Magistrate Simmons.

  “I ought to increase your bond to half a million,” she said, matching his stare with a hard look of her own. “I’m certainly not going to decrease it. And let me tell you something, Mr. Rivera: if I hear even a hint about witness tampering or intimidation, you’re going to wish that you and I had never met. Is that clear?”

  When Rivera didn’t respond, Tate jumped in. “Your Honor, Ms. Brock’s allegations about witness tampering are unfounded and—”

  “Save it,” Simmons snapped. “Mr. Rivera, your bond modification request is denied.” She banged her gavel. “Court will stand adjourned.”

  Rivera sneered and let out a haughty chuckle as Simmons left the bench. Two deputies pushed him through the exit door and let it slam behind them.

  Tate turned to me. “Another rousing success,” he said. He packed up his stuff and asked if we could step into the hallway. I nodded and followed him out the door.

  It had been eleven years since this man had defended my mother’s killer and called my father a liar. The time had done nothing to lessen my contempt for him.

  During my three years as a prosecutor, I’d never had the chance to try a case against Caleb Tate head to head. In fact, I’d never been this close to him. I’d learned to despise him from a distance. And now, standing toe to toe with him, I felt the old hatred bubbling up in me with new intensity.

  I was five-eight, and Tate was only a few inches taller. In my mind, I would always recall him from eleven years earlier, strutting around the courtroom, making outrageous claims and pouring acid on the gaping wounds of our shattered family. But now, standing in front of me, he looked like a hollowed-out version of the man I remembered. It was like seeing a movie star up close where you could examine every wrinkle and pore and the red blood vessels in the tired eyes.

  “Five minutes,” I reminded him.

  “Let’s cut a deal on Rivera,” Tate suggested. “You and I both have more important things to do. It’s just a drug charge, Jamie. I’ll talk him into seven years, all but two suspended on the condition of good behavior. Nail him again during that seven years, and you can send him away until I retire.”

  My briefcase was on the floor, and I had my arms folded across my chest. “Done?”

  “With that part,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “No way. Not now, not on the eve of trial. Not ever. This one’s going to trial, Caleb. You’re right—we’re both too busy to waste time. So don’t bother proposing any more deals.”

  Tate made a face. “Okay,” he said. “I knew it was a long shot.”

  That felt good. I picked up my briefcase, feeling a little smug.

  “I’ve still got two minutes,” Tate said.

  “For what?”

  “The real reason I’m here.” He lowered his voice and did a quick scan of the hall. “I know Bill Masterson has asked you to help with the investigation of my wife’s death. I’ve tried
to reach Bill, but he’s busy on the campaign trail. I can imagine that you might find it a little hard to remain unbiased, and I can’t really blame you for that. But, Jamie . . .” He paused and looked me dead in the eye. “I didn’t kill Rikki. I’ll answer any questions you want. I’ll take a lie detector. But you’ve got to believe me—I loved that woman, and I would never have harmed her.”

  I didn’t say a word. I learned early in my career that when a suspect was talking, you let him talk . . . even if you hated his guts. Even if you wanted to wrap your hands around his neck and strangle him.

  So I said nothing.

  “I’ve been around long enough to know that you can get an indictment for anything,” Tate continued. “But tell your boss that if he indicts me on this, he won’t get his conviction. The only way I can defend myself is to tell the world about the dark side of Rikki Tate. She had a hard-enough life, Jamie. Don’t make me dissect her in public.”

  It was as close to begging as I would ever see the great Caleb Tate stoop. With another prosecutor, it might have triggered a tinge of sympathy. But this was the same man who had faked outrage at the police and accused them of trying to railroad Antoine Marshall. The same man who had oozed sincerity even as he challenged my father’s testimony during a dramatic cross-examination.

  Caleb Tate was an actor. And I wasn’t buying it.

  “I’ll pass your message on to Mr. Masterson,” I promised. “But the messages go both ways.”

  I paused for a second, gathering my thoughts. I kept my anger in check, my voice steady. “If you made one mistake when you poisoned your wife, if you forgot to cross one t or dot one i or gave us even the tiniest bit of rope . . . I promise you this: I’ll use every inch of that rope to string you up from the first tree that I can find, and I won’t think twice about it. You’re right—Rikki had a hard life. And she deserved better than a man like you.”