June 3
Judge Roy Pickett had been a Northern Virginia County circuit court judge for as long as anyone could remember. A University of Virginia law school graduate, Pickett started his career in the public defender’s office, jumped to private practice after nearly starving to death on the paltry salary, hated corporate law, did a quick U-turn, and joined the commonwealth attorney’s office as an assistant prosecutor. Two years later, he ran for the prosecutor’s top job and won by twenty-six votes, knocking off his old boss’s handpicked successor.
He had served as the county’s prosecutor for seven years when he was selected for the circuit court by the state’s general assembly for the first of what would be an uninterrupted succession of eight-year-term reappointments.
Now approaching seventy, physically fit with a full head of wiry steel-gray hair, a natty pencil mustache, and a patch over his left eye, Pickett was the senior judge on the circuit court and commanded attention on the bench. He was well liked but, more importantly, respected by lawyers. Because of the county’s proximity to the District of Columbia, he had handled a number of high-profile criminal and civil cases over the years, but none as attention grabbing as the Geoffrey Tate murder trial.
If there was a knock against Judge Pickett, it was that he was a bit of a showboat. He not only liked the media spotlight, he courted it, which annoyed his fellow jurists to no end because he was so good at drawing positive reviews. “Judge Pickett: Constitutional Scholar,” blared the Virginia Bar Association magazine’s cover story. “First-rate legal mind, brilliant opinions,” the LegalBeagle Blog proclaimed.
His colleagues had tired of the fawning coverage and were looking forward to the day when he’d be forced to retire at age seventy, but Judge Pickett managed to dodge that bullet when the general assembly pushed mandatory retirement to seventy-three.
He was as surprised as anyone when Jewel Tate’s attorney requested he preside over the trial without impaneling a jury. He was also secretly thrilled. The process of selecting a jury, known as voir dire, could be tedious and time-consuming.
The full media attention would now rest on how he conducted the trial, and, to that end, Judge Pickett had his own surprise to spring on the two sides.
On the opening day of the trial, the judge called the prosecution and defense teams into his chambers to announce he had decided to allow television cameras in the courtroom to broadcast the proceedings live. His decision stunned the attorneys and delayed the start of the hearing for hours as the three sides argued over guidelines.
While it was not entirely unheard-of to have cameras in Virginia courtrooms, it nonetheless was a blow to judicial decorum, and Maggie was particularly uneasy with the decision. The trial promised to be sensational enough as it was without having around-the-clock television coverage. And there was also her belief that witnesses could be intimidated by having cameras in the courtroom recording their testimony.
After the sides ironed out their differences, Judge Pickett entered the courtroom from his chambers with a flourish, black robes billowing behind him like a ship’s sails as he mounted the bench. He made a show of welcoming the media to his courtroom but warned them not to disrupt the proceedings.
“You must remain as unobtrusive as the clock on the wall,” he proclaimed from the bench. “If you are able to do that, I believe this will be a grand lesson in civics for the citizens of the great commonwealth of Virginia. They will see justice in action and realize it’s much more than stuffy old law libraries and impenetrable legal opinions.”
The judge’s ruling was a victory for Elizabeth Blake and Channel 13 News, which had petitioned the court for the order. Lizzy was seated in the front row of spectators and beamed up at the judge as he delivered his remarks. She scribbled an inspired image in the notebook resting on her lap: “Judge Pickett, with a patch affixed over his left eye, slicked-back hair, and towering presence, appeared to the outside world like a swashbuckler athwart his sloop. He was only missing a parrot on his shoulder and a peg leg to complete the appearance.” She had to know it was over the top, but it was how she would lead off her news segment for the evening’s broadcast.
Jewel also seemingly loved the announcement. As a former beauty pageant contestant, she knew how to play to an audience.
Lead prosecutor Lisa Cranwell chose a stylish off-white pantsuit, and her co-counsel, Kenneth Larsen, donned the same frayed gray two-piece suit he had worn at the preliminary hearing. His white shirt was a good two sizes too big in the neck, and his head floated above his shoulders like a giant soap bubble. They were joined at the prosecutor’s table by Rory Adams, a young assistant prosecutor in Lance St. Mary’s office who had few duties other than to keep St. Mary informed of all the inner workings of the trial.
Since there was no jury to sway, Cranwell kept her opening statement short and confined it to the bare-bones facts of the case. Maggie had informed Judge Pickett in chambers before the opening of the trial that she intended to reserve her opening statement until the prosecution finished presenting its case.
“As is your prerogative,” Judge Pickett replied.
Cranwell pushed back her chair and stood alongside the prosecutor’s table. She glanced down at a yellow legal pad where she had outlined just a few key points she wanted to make.
“If you’ll permit me, Your Honor, on the night in question, the state intends to demonstrate that Jewel Tate shot and killed her husband, Geoffrey Tate, not out of self-defense but out of pure selfishness. Despite her efforts to make it seem otherwise, Geoffrey Tate did not dress up like a cat burglar, break into his own home, and attack his wife. Quite the contrary. You’ll hear testimony that Geoffrey Tate came home from a long business trip, tired and looking forward to sleeping in his own bed, when he was gunned down in cold blood by his young wife.
“Jewel Tate staged her husband’s murder and planned it for months. Why she did this is fairly obvious. Greed. Pure and simple. She wanted to get her hands on his fortune, but to accomplish that, she had to get him out of the way. Why she thought she could get away with it is another matter entirely, but Jewel Tate has been getting away with things to do with men since an early age, when she seduced her high school math teacher to get passing grades. She simply figured, Why should this time be any different?
“The defense is asking the court to suspend disbelief and accept that Geoffrey Tate, a hundred-ninety-five-pound, muscled fitness fanatic, was overpowered by a wisp of a woman that he could easily pick up and toss across the room like a pillow. It defies logic.”
Cranwell turned to face Jewel, who stared straight ahead, refusing to engage in eye contact. “I ask, is the picture you see sitting here today in the courtroom that of a grieving widow or an opportunist? Thank you, Your Honor, that is all,” Cranwell said and retook her seat.
Once again, Jewel had rejected her attorney’s advice to dress and act modestly. For the opening day, she had selected a hip-hugging cotton-candy-pink collarless Coco Chanel tweed skirt suit, gold bangle earrings, and open-toed shoes. Maggie had tried, unsuccessfully, to get Jewel to wear a trench coat over the outfit and forgo contact lenses for glasses.
“You worry about the legal and let me handle the wiggle,” she had told Maggie before sashaying up the courthouse steps and into Judge Pickett’s courtroom.
Judge Pickett fingered the gold pocket watch that he had propped up on the bench in front of him and studied it before addressing the courtroom. “Because of pretrial consultations, today’s proceedings regrettably, but unavoidably, started later than anticipated. The court will recess until nine a.m. tomorrow morning. Madam Prosecutor, be prepared to call your first witness at that time.”
___________
In a town that can’t keep secrets, the staff of the Four Seasons Hotel in Washington’s Georgetown neighborhood is a study in discretion. Urbane, understated, and meticulous, employees are schooled in the old-world arts of service, diplomacy, and, above all else, ironclad guest confidentiality.
There is a private elevator staffed twenty-four hours a day in the parking garage that whisks valued guests directly to top-floor suites without ever having to set foot in the lobby or be forced to rub shoulders with others at a public entrance. To keep their comings and goings private, staff refer to long-time patrons by sobriquets, usually historical figures, instead of their actual names. There was a Mr. Jefferson and Mrs. Madison, for example. Of course, there was a Mr. Washington. Indeed, many staff didn’t know the true identities of the guests at all, and that’s how the guests preferred to keep it.
The gentleman who always requested the bridal suite was known as Mr. Nixon.
Even with these extra layers of security and precaution, Mr. Nixon thought it foolish and unnecessarily risky to meet at the hotel, but a rendezvous at his private residence was out of the question.
“This was not one of your better ideas,” he said while lying splayed on the king-size bed in the bridal suite. “What if someone spotted you?”
“Stop worrying, no one saw me, and even if they did, they’d never recognize me in this getup,” Jewel Tate said, and pulled a waist-length black wig from her scalp. She shook her head vigorously back and forth, sending a lush carpet of hair unfurling down her bare back and shoulders.
“But we agreed to wait until after the trial, or at least until things cooled down a bit. That was the plan,” he said, unable to stop himself from staring at the diamond stud that pierced Jewel’s marble-size nipple.
“Plans change. I got lonely in that big house all by myself, and I needed a little pick-me-up before the trial gets into full swing tomorrow morning.”
Jewel sat astride his chest, leaning back against the hump that was his belly. “I got an itch and you need to scratch it.”
“Okay, but just this one time. Things are really busy at work right now,” he said, his arms spread wide, wrists clamped to the metal bed frame by handcuffs. “And did you have to bring the dog?” Toby was coiled like an armadillo on a chaise longue, his ears festooned with rainbow ribbons.
“Hush,” Jewel whispered and covered his mouth with a length of gray duct tape.
Jewel exited the hotel after midnight, Toby tucked under one arm, asleep inside his carrier. She used the back stairwell and walked out the service entrance into an overcast nighttime sky that was spitting cold rain. The hotel’s clock tower rang out at half past the hour. She had parked her car in an underground garage on Thirtieth Street, one block over, and cut through a courtyard to make the short trek in under five minutes. Jewel was in her vehicle, sailing down George Washington Memorial Parkway, her favorite playlist blaring through the radio’s speakers in no time at all, having never noticed the man in the alleyway photographing her as she stepped out into the street from the hotel, or the car trailing fifty yards behind her.