Dying Declaration (41 page)

69

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER,
Nikki sat across from Thomas Hammond in the Virginia Beach City Jail interviewing room. Her raging headache had receded a little. She had spent the entire day searching for Buster Jackson to no avail. She was hot, tired, and in no mood for Thomas’s sullenness. She had been with him for fifteen minutes, and he had barely spoken.

“Where’s Buster Jackson?” she asked for the third time.

Thomas shrugged.

“Look,” Nikki said, exasperated, “I’m just trying to help you here. But I can’t help unless you let me.”

“You’ve done everything you can,” Thomas said. “It’s over.”

“It’s
not
over,” Nikki said, slapping the table. “Why are you so determined to be a martyr?”

Thomas did not answer. Nikki stared at him and waited more than a minute.

“Where’s Charles?” Thomas asked.

“He’s working on a motion and brief for a new trial to free
you
. He’s working on the evidence for the sentencing hearing to keep
your
jail time to a minimum. I’ve been all over Tidewater, Virginia, today trying to find Buster Jackson so I can spring
you
, and you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to care how much time you serve.”

“That’s not true,” Thomas said.

“Then tell me where Buster Jackson is!” Nikki shouted.

“I can’t,” Thomas said.

“Come on!” Nikki stood and loomed over the table. “What is wrong with you?”

Thomas shrugged again.

“You want to know what I think?” she asked. There was no visible response. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I think. And you can just sit there like a miserable self-inflicted martyr and wallow in your own pity. But here’s what I think.

“I think you put Buster up to it. I think you heard us say, in the conference room after the first night of trial, that everything had gone great on the first day
except
the introduction of Theresa’s prayer journal into evidence, which we didn’t have an answer for. You said you wanted to testify. You said it wasn’t right for Theresa to take the fall. I said there wasn’t going to be any fall, but you didn’t believe me. You couldn’t be sure.”

Nikki watched Thomas’s face as she talked. It was a blank mask.

“Then you went back and talked to Buster in your cell that night. You asked him to be your snitch, to take Theresa off the hook, to guarantee your conviction and her acquittal, didn’t you?”

Thomas just stared ahead, as if he hadn’t heard a word.

“I thought it was strange the next morning, after such a great first day in trial, that you got so emotional—so melancholy,
really—with Tiger. It’s the first and only time I’ve seen you cry. It’s as if you knew something bad was going to happen.

“Then, when Buster testified, he was very careful in what he said. I checked my notes first thing this morning. Then I called the court reporter—had her read that testimony to me over the phone.”

Nikki pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of her jeans and read her scribbled notes: “Here’s what Buster said you said:
‘“If I don’t testify, the jury will wonder why. If I do testify, it all comes out. How can a jury let me skate if’n they hear”’Pops is always sayin’
if’n
—“if’n they hear that I knew my boy was gonna die, but I wouldn’t take the kid to the hospital? What else can a jury do to someone who demanded—I mean flat out demanded—that his woman not take the kid for three solid days—all the time knowin’ the kid is dying?”’”

Nikki folded up the paper and stuffed it back in her pocket. “There are a lot of
if
s and
if’n
s in that statement, Thomas. And you know what I think?”

She leaned forward across the table. “I think you made this confession up just to protect Theresa,” she whispered. “I think it’s incredibly noble of you to do that, but also incredibly stupid. We would have gotten both of you off if Buster hadn’t testified. But if you tell me where Buster is now, we can at least get him to court on Monday and try to get you a new trial. And, Thomas, it won’t take away from Theresa’s innocent verdict. Nothing can touch that now.”

“I can’t,” Thomas said simply. “I promised.”

Nikki sighed and leaned back in her seat. “Thomas, Thomas . . . so noble, but so misguided.”

She stood to leave but decided to give it one more try. “If you can’t tell me where he is, then at least get a message to him to meet me. Tomorrow night. The McDonald’s on Battlefield Boulevard in Chesapeake. Across the street from the hospital. Nine o’clock.”

Thomas did not speak, but Nikki thought she noticed a slight nod of his head.

“Thanks,” she said, as if he had guaranteed that Buster would appear. Then she called for the guard quickly, before Thomas would have a chance to think this through and change his mind.

70

BY SUNDAY NIGHT
the words on Charles’s monitor were growing bleary. He had been holed up in his office all weekend reading case after case. He had gotten so desperate that he called Denita on Saturday, just to pick her brain about possible issues for appeal. By midafternoon she had e-mailed some research results. She had hit the same stone wall he did.

Time was running out, and he was getting nowhere. He reached for his Nerf basketball and stood to stretch. He took a few shots. He took stock.

Even if Nikki was right about Thomas and Buster, and he suspected she was, it would make no difference. Technically, Buster had told the truth on the witness stand. He had simply repeated what Thomas had told him in the cell the previous night. And what Thomas had told him was also technically true, since it was so wrapped up in hypothetical statements. “If a jury heard this, then they would do that.” It was frustrating that Thomas tried to take justice into his own hands, but it was hardly the basis for a new trial.

Charles could just see himself trying to convince Judge Silverman to give him a new trial based on Buster’s testimony. “Well,
you see, Judge, my client’s alleged jailhouse confession wasn’t really a confession. He was just making this whole thing up so the jury could come to a compromise verdict and find him guilty and his wife innocent.” He could just hear Silverman’s response: “Now, that’s original, Mr. Arnold, claiming that a confession wasn’t really a confession. That’s exactly what the last five defendants said.” No, Nikki’s theory might be interesting, but it wouldn’t do them any good.

He reread Denita’s long e-mail and the cases she had sent. While he appreciated her efforts, his ex-wife had done no better than he had. The most promising avenue was the discrepancy between the verdict in favor of Theresa and against Thomas. But in reality, that argument was pretty thin. Juries rendered split verdicts against coconspirators all the time. It hardly made the verdicts suspect, especially in this case since Buster’s testimony provided a basis for a verdict against one but not the other. And the priest-penitent privilege issue was not working out either. Silverman had been right in ruling that the privilege was waived, at least based on the cases Charles and Denita had turned up.

Charles threw another shot up. It bounced off the rim and out. At this stage, he admitted to himself, it was time to focus on getting Thomas the lightest sentence possible. Silverman would have a wide range of options to consider: twelve to thirty years. There were plenty of mitigating circumstances Charles could bring out on Monday. Silverman seemed like a reasonable man. If Charles could get Thomas the minimum, and if Thomas were a model prisoner, he could be out in five. Not perfect, but the best he could hope for under the circumstances.

Another rim shot. Another miss. It was time to work on an argument for mercy. If Silverman decided to get tough and make an example of Thomas, the kids would grow up without a father. Charles sat back down at his terminal and rubbed his eyes. He fired up his Westlaw search engine and resumed his quest for the perfect case.

At 9:15, Nikki started getting restless. For once in her life she had been on time, even five minutes early. She had been sitting at this same booth inside McDonald’s for twenty minutes now, watching every car that pulled into the parking lot,
searching for Buster Jackson. She had drained two Diet Cokes and made one quick run to the bathroom. She was losing heart.

She decided that she would wait until 9:30, no longer. She could do this tonight without Buster, but it would be a lot easier with him. One thing was sure, if she waited much past 9:30, the opportunity would be lost.

She wore a pair of black stonewashed jeans and a black T-shirt. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and tucked under a Nike hat—also black. In her right front pocket was a pair of black latex gloves. In her other front pocket she carried a pen and a few of her business cards, in case she needed to jot some notes on the back. She carried a penlight in her left rear pocket and a small switchblade in her right rear pocket. She wore no makeup and no jewelry.

She had seen enough spy movies to know precisely how to do this.

But she was hoping for a supporting actor.

For fifteen more minutes, she continued to watch every car, van, and SUV that pulled into the parking lot, waiting for Buster to step out. There was precious little traffic, and certainly nobody who looked remotely like Buster. At 9:30, she talked herself into five more minutes, then ten. It was now dark, had been dark for forty-five minutes, and time was short. She would have to do this on her own.

She walked slowly to her Sebring, straining her neck to look up and down the highway, sure that Buster would pull into the parking lot just as soon as she left. But she couldn’t wait any longer. Armistead worked the three-to-eleven shift and would be home no later than 11:30. She was already cutting it too close for comfort.

She sighed, softly cursing Buster under her breath. She climbed into the Sebring and gunned it, took one last look at the McDonald’s in her rearview mirror, and headed for Woodard’s Mill.

71

NIKKI LEFT THE SEBRING
about a quarter mile from Armistead’s estate. She parked on a side road a few streets over in the neighborhood, then cut through some backyards until she was on Armistead’s street. She walked briskly to the driveway, checked carefully for cars in all directions, then started jogging toward the house. She saw no cars in the driveway and only a few lights on inside. Armistead had left the front porch light on as well as a light in the family room in the back.

She walked quickly up the steps to the front door, looked over her shoulder, and rang the bell. She held her breath and waited. Nothing. She wasn’t really sure what she would have said if Armistead himself had answered the door. “Oh, I’m just here with Eagle Cleaners ready to clean your bathrooms. Can I borrow your toothbrush?” Fortunately, she didn’t have to worry about that. She took out her key and opened the door.

She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and punched the security code into the alarm panel on her left. It would be just like Armistead, with his compulsive personality, to change the code every week. She waited a few seconds. No sound. She supposed it could be one of those silent alarms that only goes off at a police station somewhere, but that was a chance she would have to take.

She had done it now. Breaking and entering. No excuses, no defense. She pushed the tiny light on her watch and checked the time: 9:59. She had one hour. She would need to hustle.

She started in the study. She had a few more thoughts about passwords. She tried the name of his college and the name of his med school. No luck. On the back of one of her business cards, she had written down every combination of the dates of his birthday. No luck. Social security number. Nothing. Mother’s maiden name. Wrong. She tried the old standby:
1-2-3-4-5
. No luck. For fifteen minutes she tried various logical password combinations. None worked.

Using her small penlight, she started afresh through the financial files. She had given this a lot of thought. An unusual liaison between the Barracuda and Armistead, the perjured testimony of Armistead in the Hammond case, and the payment of four hundred thousand dollars to somebody shortly after Erica Armistead’s death. All these factors led to only one conclusion: Armistead and the Barracuda were having an affair. Erica must have found out and threatened to divorce Sean, threatening his interest in her million-dollar trust account. Sean must have paid someone to take out his wife, freeing him to carry on with the Barracuda and making him a very wealthy man.

The Barracuda had been a broker for the hit—a go-between for murder.

But Nikki needed proof. She thumbed furiously through the financial files, looking for something she had missed before. The cell phone bill held some promise. Armistead was apparently on one of those plans that limited his minutes, and the bill listed every number he had called together with how long the call lasted. Last time she had copied down every long-distance number;
this time she would focus on local calls. There was one number in particular that Sean Armistead had called more than any other. Nikki was willing to bet it was the Barracuda’s cell phone. She would call it on her own cell phone as soon as she got back to her car. She folded up the phone bills for the last three months and stuffed them in her pockets.

It was now 10:28. Nikki’s heart seemed to pound faster with each passing minute. She had illegally broken into Armistead’s house; now she had committed petty larceny by taking the phone bills.

Another twenty minutes in the financial files revealed nothing new. Time to check some other hiding places. She would avoid the family room in the back because it was too well lit. Though you would have to be in Armistead’s back lawn to see in, Nikki wasn’t taking any chances. She climbed the front steps, walking as lightly as possible, and headed straight for the master bedroom.

Using only the small beam from her penlight, she searched quickly through sock and underwear drawers, between mattresses,
and in every nook and cranny of the dresser. She closed a drawer and accidentally knocked something off the dresser. As she bent to pick it up, she heard another noise.
Is it the sound of tires on asphalt?
She turned the penlight off and went to the window that overlooked the front driveway. She slowly twisted the rod that opened the plantation shutters.

She stood stone still, breathlessly waiting. No car. No further sounds. 10:58.
Settle down, girl; you’re making yourself crazy.
She stepped into the master closet—a huge walk-in room filled with clothes, shoes, and storage items. She looked around and realized that none of Sean’s stuff was in there. They must have been sleeping in separate rooms. Erica’s stuff was jammed everywhere. She was a little surprised that Sean had not yet cleaned it out, given his compulsive personality, but then again it had just been a few weeks. She knew that it typically took months before a spouse would remove the personal effects of a spouse who had passed away. And in this case, Sean would probably not feel right about sleeping in the bedroom that had belonged to Erica. Nikki would not be surprised to see the house on the market in a few months.

As she surveyed the closet, she spotted a dozen purses, some stuffed with junk. She immediately grabbed them and started searching through the contents.

One was a plain beige cloth purse bulging with brushes, papers, photos, hygiene products, and a wallet. The wallet overflowed with credit cards, receipts, and other valuables. Nikki began shuffling through the papers, awkwardly holding the small penlight under her chin.
“Yes!”
she whispered. It was a small scrap of paper with the name and address for Rebecca Crawford. It looked like a woman’s handwriting. With a handwriting expert, it could be strong proof that Erica had found out about the affair.

Nikki jammed the paper into her pocket and replaced the purse. She still wanted to check a few places downstairs and the glove compartments of the cars in the garage. She checked her watch again. 11:10. She was pushing it. At most she would have another five or ten minutes.

Another noise.
Relax!
She took a deep breath. The silence seemed to pulsate through her temples, throb against her brain.

She walked slowly and quietly out of the closet and into the master bedroom. She glanced around, saw nothing else of value to her investigation, and prepared to leave the bedroom. Another noise rumbled in the distance, no mistaking it this time,
and it was followed immediately by a flash of light—high beams shooting through the shutters of the second-story window. A
car in the driveway! Nikki instinctively jumped back away from the window, then flattened herself against the wall and started inching toward the window to peer out.

She moved her head slowly around the frame of the window and glanced through the shutters. The car stopped, and the driver killed the engine. The headlights remained on momentarily, probably operating under some type of delay. She waited for the car to beep, the sign the driver had hit the remote lock, but she heard nothing. She stared without blinking into the night and gasped. There, walking up the steps to the house, was the shadowy figure of Sean Armistead, still wearing his white lab coat.

Nikki’s heart pounded so loud in her ears she couldn’t think straight. She checked her watch again.
How could this be?
He was home earlier than she had planned! She was trapped in the master bedroom!

To avoid being seen through the window, Nikki got down on her hands and knees and crawled across the room toward the phone on the bed stand. She gently removed the receiver from the cradle just as she heard Armistead insert his key in the front door. It sounded like he locked the door, then unlocked it again. He stepped into the foyer, flipped on a light, and took a few steps, probably toward the alarm panel. She knew the green light would tell him the alarm had already been disarmed.

She would be busted. It was just a matter of time.

“What the . . . ? Hey! Is anybody in here?” Armistead yelled. His words echoed through the house.

Nikki tried to think about an escape. She would wait for Armistead to start up the front steps, giving her a split second to start running down the back steps and into the family room. But that room was lit up, and she was sure the back door was locked from the inside. By the time she got it unlocked, Armistead would be on the catwalk overlooking the family room, and he might get a good glimpse of her.

She heard Armistead open a closet just off the foyer, and then she heard the tumblers of a lock combination. A few more noises—indecipherable—and then the unmistakable twin clicks of a safety lock being released and a gun hammer cocking into place.

Armistead was armed.

Nikki walked quietly toward the door of the bedroom, preparing to make her mad dash. She heard Armistead walk back toward the kitchen, a move that would put him between her and her escape path. He flicked on a few more lights, also bad news, then picked up the phone. Nikki heard him curse, click the receiver a few times, then curse some more. Then he made the one move Nikki was hoping against. He started climbing the
back
steps—she could actually see his shadow now—gun in hand, swinging and pointing it in all directions. She stood, frozen, just inside the master bedroom door, a mere six feet from the top of the steps.

Her head pounded until she thought it might explode. She could barely breathe. She willed herself to retreat—quietly, on the balls of her feet—farther inside the room. She headed back toward the master closet, hoping that she could—
what?
She suddenly realized she had absolutely no plan. She was cornered.

She slipped inside the closet. The bedroom light popped on. Armistead entered. She retreated a step or two and tried to hide herself among the clothes.

How long before Armistead would notice the bedroom phone off the hook, replace it, and call the police? How long before he would search the closet, find her, and shoot her in “self-defense”?

Think!

Just then the master bedroom went totally dark. For some strange reason Armistead had turned the light off! But then she heard him curse, and it chilled her blood.

So much for that theory. Armistead was every bit as surprised as she was. It could mean only one thing.

They were not alone. Someone else was in the house!