Until the Final Verdict (11 page)

M
ACKAY WAITED
until Fields started the engine. “You can't let some CPS worker show up and take Emma into custody. She'll be terrified.”

“I know.” Fields pulled the car out of the driveway, drove around the corner, then stopped at the curb, switched off the engine, and pulled a key ring from his pocket.

“Had to get out of McCaskill's sight. Turn around so I can take off those damn cuffs.” He unlocked the handcuffs and dropped them on the seat, then picked up his cell phone. “I'll call Dave to pick Emma up.”

“I tried a few minutes ago. He didn't answer.”

“Then I'll call Shirley, have her drive Emma to our house.”

“No, if you and your wife get involved, McCaskill
will fire you, and I need you there on the inside. Let me call Ruth. She can take Em upstairs to her place before CPS shows up.”

Fields handed her the phone. After more than ten years of being called on short notice, Ruth wasn't surprised when Mackay was called out, and, as Emma's self-appointed surrogate grandmother, she welcomed the opportunities. Ruth suggested that Emma spend the night with her, and Mackay gratefully agreed without saying why.

She handed the phone back to Fields. “I . . . Thanks.” It came out as a partial sob. “I'm sorry.”

“If you need to cry, go ahead.”

“If I start crying I won't make it through this.” She drew a deep breath, blew it out forcefully and straightened her back. “Let's get it over with.”

“Not yet.” Fields opened the glove box and pulled out the hidden radio mike. Maybe I can raise Dave on the squawk box. “S-O One, this is D-A-I One.”

A metallic voice crackled back through the cheap under-dash speaker: “Granz.”

“Go to C channel.” Fields rotated the radio knob to switch to a scrambled channel.

Momentarily, Granz came back on. “What's up, Jim?”

“Dave, I have Kathryn Mackay in custody.”

“You what!”

“McCaskill got Keefe to sign a warrant and arrested her for Simmons' murder. I'm transporting her to jail.”

“That son of a bitch! Put Kathryn on.”

Fields handed the mike to Mackay.

“You all right, Babe?” Granz asked.

“Except for being scared, I think so. I tried to call you all day.” She paused. “I'm sure glad to hear your voice.”

“I had no idea this was coming, that asshole McCaskill never said a word about it. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you.”

Fields shouted toward the mike, “Where are you now?”

“Just entering the Santa Rita city limits.”

“What should I do? McCaskill ordered me to book Kathryn, then be at the DA's office to poly Keefe at six o'clock.”

The radio was silent for several seconds before Granz responded. “Take the long route to the jail. I'll meet you there in thirty minutes and handle the booking myself.”

“Commute traffic's pretty heavy. See you in half an hour.”

F
IELDS PARKED NEXT TO
G
RANZ
' B
UICK
behind the women's detention facility on Blaine Street, switched off the windshield wipers, and killed the engine. Aclosed-circuit camera followed them up the broad, floodlighted concrete ramp that led from the wet parking lot to the rear of the building. He stopped at the top of the landing.

“Ready?”

“Ready as I'll ever be.”

He nodded, and punched a button. A buzzer sounded and the deadbolt slammed open to release the spring-loaded metal security door that accessed a small concrete room. Fields dropped his Glock 9mm pistol into a built-in drawer, slid it shut, pocketed the key, and punched a second button.

When the inner door opened, Dave Granz walked over and put his arms around Mackay. She held him for several seconds, then pulled away. “Can we get this over with? If I'm going to jail, I need to get used to it.”

“You aren't going to spend any time in jail.”

“I don't understand.”

“By the time my detention officer fingerprints you and takes your photograph, your bail will have been posted. I'll be with you the whole time.”

“McCaskill didn't give me time to arrange bail.”

“Course not. But I know a bail bondsman. It's taken care of.”

“The bail schedule's half a million. Where'd you come up with the fifty-thousand-dollar deposit?”

“Put up my house. Where's Emma?”

“At Ruth's.”

“Good, she doesn't have to know about this. Let's get it done and go home.”

“W
HERE DO MURDER SUSPECTS
usually sit?” Reginald Keefe's laugh emphasized his nervousness.

“Anyplace they want.” Fields booted up the LX Polygraph Software on his Lafayette LX3000 computerized polygraph and connected the Compaq Presario laptop.

“I can move my equipment wherever you're most comfortable.”

“No place would be comfortable.” Keefe glanced around the conference room-law library that connected the DA's inner offices to the second-floor hallway. Twelve chairs surrounded the blond oak table, one at each end and five on either side. He sat at the head of the table.

“I came directly from court.” He loosened his gray necktie, unbuttoned his shirt collar, and ran his fingers over his five o'clock shadow. “It's been a long, unpleasant day.”

“I'll make it as fast and tolerable as possible.”

“I've never taken a lie detector test before.”

“I have, during my certification training, and I know what an ordeal it is. That's why I'll explain everything as many times as you want, so you understand exactly what's happening.”

“When does the test start?”

“Already did. This part's the pre-interview, when I explain things and answer
your
questions.”

Fields slid his machine to the end of the table and sat down, then handed Keefe a piece of paper. “A copy of the questions. You're entitled to know exactly what you'll be asked.”

“Before you ask?”

“Right. I'll ask the questions on that paper, and
only
these questions, in exactly the order they're listed. There'll be no surprises. No trick questions. We'll rehearse the questions and answers as many times as you want, so you get used to them, before the machine is attached.”

Keefe read them carefully. “Why so few questions?”

“Professional guidelines limit a polygrapher to no more than sixteen questions during an examination. In your case, that many aren't necessary.”

Keefe pointed at the machine. “Explain those wires, tubes, and other gizmos.”

“When a person is asked a question about a specific event, such as Judge Tucker's murder, he consciously
decides to tell the truth or lie. If he's truthful, his body goes about its normal biological business. But, a decision to lie induces anxiety that changes various autonomic functions.”

“Like?”

“Sweat-gland activity increases; muscles twitch; the heart can skip a beat; blood volume changes; blood pressure increases or decreases. Sensors measure changes that the polygraph records, and plots on a graph.”

“I have high blood pressure, and being nervous probably caused it to shoot through the roof.”

“You'd be abnormal if you weren't nervous. But it won't affect the test, or make you look guilty, because my analysis will take that into account.”

“Explain the analysis.”

“I use a software program called AP Polyscore 4.0 to evaluate your charts against known biological patterns, based on algorithms developed by Johns Hopkins University. It takes into account your baseline responses, which I'll establish at the start of the test by asking you a few easy questions.”

“What questions?”

“Your name, age, what you do for a living, and so forth.”

“How reliable is this?”

“The federal government and several independent universities studied almost three hundred specificissue investigations like this one. The accuracy rate exceeded ninety-five percent.”

“It's the five percent I worry about. How can I be sure you interpret my responses correctly?”

“Good question. At the end of the test, you can explain any questionable or unusual responses. If you're still concerned, you should engage a polygrapher of your own choosing for a second opinion.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Do you want to go over any of the questions in advance, or rehearse before we start?”

“No, they're what I expected. Let's get on with it.”

Fields stood and grabbed a pair of rubber tubes. “If you'll unbutton your shirt, I'll attach these pneumos—sorry, that's jargon for pneumograph tubes—to your chest and abdomen. They're actually tiny, specially designed bellows that detect changes in respiration rate and involuntary muscle movement.”

When they were hooked up, he slipped two metal fingerplates over the tips of Keele's left ring and index fingers.

“These GSRs connect to a galvanograph that measures galvanic skin response and changes in resistance to electrical currents caused by increased sweat-gland activity.”

Keefe fidgeted and watched quietly.

“Are you all right?” Fields asked.

“I'm okay.”

“Last is the blood pressure cuff like the one your doctor uses when he gives you a physical.” He wrapped it around Keefe's right biceps and tightened the Velcro, then plugged the wires into the cardiosphygmograph to record blood pressure and pulse rate.

“That's it,” Fields said. “Ready?”

“Get on with it.”

“I'll read each question slowly, exactly as they appear on your copy. After each of your answers, I'll wait ten seconds before asking the next question. Remember, sit still, breathe normally, and answer all questions only ‘yes' or ‘no.' ”

Fields picked up a pencil. “Is your name Reginald Keefe?”

“You know it is.”

“Yes or no, Judge.”

“Yes.”

Four graph lines scrolled across the screen and Fields checked off question 1.

“Are you fifty-two years old?”

“Yes.”

Fields watched the graphs, and checked off question 2.

“Are you employed as the presiding Santa Rita County Superior Court Judge of the criminal courts?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been a judge for more than ten years?”

“Yes.”

“Have you practiced, prepared, or been coached in techniques that might enable you to defeat the purpose of this test?”

“No.”

“Were you acquainted with Judge Jemima Tucker?”

“Yes.”

Fields studied the graphs, made a note on the paper, and checked off question 6.

“At any time, did you engage in sexual intercourse with Jemima Tucker?”

“Yes.”

“Did you engage in sexual intercourse with Jemima Tucker on Friday, January eleventh, of this year?”

“Yes.”

Fields studied the graphs, scribbled another note, and checked off question 8.

“Did you kill Jemima Tucker?”

“No.”

“Do you know who killed Jemima Tucker?”

“No.”

“Do you know why Jemima Tucker was killed?”

“No.”

Fields scrutinized the graph lines after each of the last three questions and answers, but made no notes before placing check marks beside questions 9, 10, and 11.

“Thank you. Now, I'll ask each of the questions a second time. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Fields repeated, and Keefe answered, each of the eleven questions three times while Fields ran three complete sets of graphs. Then he removed his test equipment from Keefe's body, shut down the laptop, and stowed the polygraph machine in an aluminum attaché case.

“Thanks again, Judge,” Fields said. “I'll write up my report immediately, and have a copy to you within twenty-four hours.”

“Do you need me to explain any of my responses to the questions?”

“No.”

“Did I pass?”

“I'm required to state my findings in writing to McCaskill, with a copy to you.”

Keefe stood and buttoned his shirt. “We've known each other for years, Inspector. Haven't I always treated you with respect in my court?”

“Yes.”

“Then, show me the same respect. I was in love with Jemima Tucker. I had sex with her the night she was murdered, yes, but I didn't kill her. Your test couldn't have indicated that I had anything to do with her death, because I didn't.”

Fields looked at Keefe for several seconds. “My report will state that the test unequivocally indicates that you answered every question completely and truthfully, and that based on that test, it is my opinion that you neither killed Judge Jemima Tucker nor have any knowledge concerning the circumstances of her death.”