Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

“You’re wasting my time if you’re planning to ask the judge to reconsider granting bail,” he said smugly.

Warren smiled down at the portly DA, smoothed his silk tie against his cream-colored shirt, buttoned his jacket, and opened the door. “I’m sure you know the judge’s mind far better than I ever will.”

They found the presiding judge, Truett Frye, in his chambers watching the early evening news on a small portable color television. Frye clicked off the televison and stood, unwinding his lanky six-five frame as the two men approached his desk.

“This better be worth my time, Mr. Warren,” he said. “I should have been home an hour ago.”

“It’s really quite simple, your honor,” Warren said. “The alleged murder of Clifford Spalding did not occur within your jurisdiction.”

“He died here,” the DA interjected.

“Granted,” Warren replied. “But the legal definition of homicide requires a willful, deliberate, and premeditated act. According to the arrest affidavit and supporting documents, no such act occurred within San Luis Obispo County in the state of California.”

The DA snorted in disbelief. “For a two-month period, Clifford Spalding took medication that was prepared and deliberately given to him by his wife and her lover expressly to cause his death. It doesn’t matter where it all started; they were killing him slowly, here, in New Mexico, and wherever else he might have been during that time.”

Frye looked at Warren. “Your rebuttal, counselor?”

“There is nothing in the statute that speaks to how long it takes a victim to die, or where he dies, Your Honor. Suppose a man is shot but survives long enough to drive himself to a hospital across the county line, or even into a neighboring state. In what jurisdiction should the killer be held accountable for the act?”

“Where the act took place,” Frye said, swinging his attention to the DA.

“Think of the altered medication Clifford Spalding was given as a poison, Judge,” the DA said. “He took it every day, as prescribed by his doctor, which means he was poisoned in California.”

“Can you prove that?” Warren asked.

“The autopsy blood work confirms it,” the DA said.

Warren shook his head. “It only confirms that Spalding ingested the substance, not where he took it. Therefore, arguably, the murder occurred in New Mexico, where my client allegedly acted with specific intent to cause the death of her husband, time and place notwithstanding.”

“We have a confession from Spalding’s lover,” the DA said, “that fully implicates her.”

“And proves my point,” Warren noted.

Frye gave the DA a cold stare. “Who signed the warrant and affidavit?”

The DA named the judge.

He held out his hand. “Let me see them.”

The DA passed the documents to Frye, who put on his glasses, paged through them, and then looked at Warren.

“I see your point, Mr. Warren,” he said, “but I don’t see what good it will do your client. The DA can drop his charges and continue to hold Mrs. Spalding in custody on the New Mexico warrant.”

“There is no New Mexico arrest warrant, Your Honor,” Warren said.

“Is that so?” Frye asked the DA.

“I’ll get one,” the DA answered nervously.

Warren smiled. “Until such time, Your Honor, I respectfully request that Mrs. Spalding be released from jail.”

Frye glared at him. “So ordered.”

“Thank you. Would you call the jail now?”

Frye slammed his hand down on the telephone. “You’d better make damn sure your client stays put, Mr. Warren.”

“She gave me assurances to that effect, Your Honor. She’ll be at her home in Montecito. I’ll take her there myself.”

While Frye made the call, the DA used his cell phone to rally the sheriff’s troops.

With a signed release order in hand, Warren left the courthouse, called the jail, and told them he would be picking up Mrs. Spalding in a matter of minutes. Two deputies in unmarked police cars were waiting when he arrived. Warren figured a surveillance team was probably on the way to Montecito to make sure she stayed put while other detectives scrambled to get an arrest warrant from New Mexico.

He went inside and got Claudia, who didn’t say a word until they were in his car.

“Well done,” she said as she buckled her seat belt.

“I don’t think you’ll be free for very long,” Warren said as he pulled onto the highway, the two unmarked police cars close behind. He explained the situation. “Perhaps no more than a matter of hours.”

“I understand,” Claudia said softly.

Warren glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. The hem of her black dress rode up an inch above her knees, showing sleek, smooth calves. Her hips were nicely rounded, her neck long and flawless.

She turned her head and smiled warmly at him. “Could you hurry a bit, please?”

Claudia Spalding’s allure was subtle yet powerful, and Warren found himself obediently hurrying along.

At the gate to the estate, the two unmarked police cars pulled to the curb as he turned into the driveway and entered the code Claudia provided on the keypad. He drove up the lane not knowing what to expect. But he’d represented many celebrity clients, was familiar with their extravagant lifestyles, and figured the estate had to be top of the line. When the mansion came into view it matched anything he’d seen in Beverly Hills.

He parked and looked at Claudia Spalding. “There’s a slight chance the judge will reconsider granting bail if you’re here when the police show up with a new warrant. I’ll certainly make a strong argument for it.”

“That’s something to look forward to,” Claudia said.

“Would you like me to stay with you until they arrive?”

Claudia shook her head, her hand on the door latch. “No, Mr. Warren, that won’t be necessary.”

“It would be in your best interest to have me stick around,” he said, fully aware his motives were mixed.

Claudia flashed him a knowing smile and stepped out of the car. “Yes, I’m sure it would. Good night, Mr. Warren.”

He watched her walk to the house, her posture perfect, body moving in a lithesome rhythm, as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

Lieutenant Dante Macy found it no easy matter to have a warrant for Claudia Spalding’s arrest issued by a Santa Fe district court judge. Since it was after normal working hours on a Friday, he first had to go through a Santa Fe PD dispatcher, who put him in touch with the highest ranking officer on duty, a patrol captain, who in turn referred him to the lieutenant in charge of special investigations.

Macy called the lieutenant at home, who contacted an off-duty detective named Matt Chacon. Detective Chacon got on the stick in a hurry and talked to the ADA on duty. He reported back promptly to Macy that the original arrest affidavit prepared by Sergeant Pino had been turned down by the DA and would have to be reworked and re-submitted.

Macy knew Pino was on her way to California, bringing with her all the case materials. “Do you have the information you need to do it?”

“We have copies of everything,” Chacon replied.

“How long will it take you?”

“I’ll use what the sergeant wrote, add in the Dean confession, and that should do it.”

“How long?” Macy repeated.

“An hour to do the paperwork,” Chacon replied. “I’ll hand-carry it to the ADA, who has the judge who signed the warrant for Dean standing by.”

“My sheriff, who’s not a happy camper, is hovering over my shoulder on this, Detective. When will I get a faxed copy?”

“Give it two or three hours, Lieutenant,” Chacon said, “barring any unforeseen delays.”