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.

“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.