The woman’s open bag was lying inside the car. With his hand in his jacket pocket, using it as a kind of glove, he dug around in her junk, looking for her lipstick.
He found it, then swiveled up the bright-red tube.
He waited as a couple of gabby women in an Escalade drove up the ramp looking for a spot, then he took the lipstick tube between his thumb and forefinger and considered what he would write on the windshield.
He thought of writing FOR KENNY but changed his mind. He laughed to himself as he also considered and rejected PETEY WAS HERE.
Then he got real.
He printed WCF in bold red letters, four inches high, and underscored the writing with a smeary red line. Then he closed the lipstick and dropped it into his pocket, where it clicked against his gun.
Satisfied, he backed out of the car, shut the doors, wiped down the handles with the soft flannel lining of his baseball jacket, and walked to the elevator bank. He stood aside as the door opened and an old man wheeled his wife out onto the main floor of the garage. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with the old couple, and they ignored him.
That was good, but he wished he could tell them.
It was for Kenny. And it was by the book.
Pete Gordon got into the elevator and rode it up to the third floor, thinking he was having a really good day, the first good one in about a year. It had been a long time coming, but he’d finally launched his master plan.
He was exhilarated, because he was absolutely sure it would work.
WCF, people. WCF.
Chapter 3
PETE GORDON DROVE down the looping ramp of the garage. He passed the dead woman’s car on the ground floor but didn’t even brake, confident that there was no blood outside the car, nothing to show that he’d been there.
With the garage as packed as it was, it could be hours before the mom and her bawler were found in that tidy spot near the end of the row.
Pete took it nice and slow, easing the car out of the garage and accelerating onto Winston, heading toward 19th Avenue. He reviewed the shooting in his mind as he waited at the light, thinking about how easy it had been—no wasted rounds, nothing forgotten—and how crazed it was going to make the cops.
Nothing worse than a motiveless crime, huh, Kenny?
The cops were going to bust their stones on this one, all right, and by the time they figured it out, he’d be living in another country and this crime would be one of the cold cases some old Homicide dick would never solve.
Pete took the long way home, up Sloat Boulevard, up and over Portola Drive, where he waited for the Muni train to pass with commuters all in a row, and finally up Clipper Street toward his crappy apartment in the Mission.
It was almost dinnertime, and his own little bawlers would be puffing up their cheeks, getting ready to sound the alarm. He had his key out when he got to the apartment. He opened the lock and gave the door a kick.
He could smell the baby’s diapers from the doorway, the little stinker standing in the kiddie cage in the middle of the floor, hanging on to the handrail, crying out as soon as he saw his dad.
“Daddy!” Sherry called. “He needs to be changed.”
“Goody,” Peter Gordon said. “Shut up, stink bomb,” he told the boy. “I’ll get to you in a minute.” He took the remote control from his daughter’s hand, switched from the cartoons, and checked the news.
The stock market was down. Oil prices were up. He watched the latest Hollywood update. Nothing was said about two bodies found in the Stonestown Galleria parking lot.
“I’m hungry,” Sherry said.
“Well, which is it first? Dinner or poop?”
“Poop first,” she said.
“All right, then.”
Pete Gordon picked up the baby, as dear to him as a sack of cement, not even sure the little shit was his, although even if he was, he still didn’t care. He put the baby on its back on the changing table and went through the ritual, holding the kiddo by the ankles, wiping him down, dusting his butt with powder, wrapping him up in Pampers, then putting him back in the kiddie cage.
“Franks and beans?” he asked his daughter.
“My absolute favorite,” Sherry said, putting a pigtail in her mouth.
“Put a shirt on the stink bomb,” Pete Gordon said, “so your mother doesn’t have a gas attack when she gets home.”
Gordon microwaved some formula for the stink bomb and opened the canned franks and beans. He turned on the undercabinet TV and the stove, what wifey should be doing instead of him, the bitch, and dumped the contents of the can into a pot.
The beans were burning when the breaking news came on.
Huh. Look at that, Pete thought.
Some dork from ABC was holding a microphone, standing in front of Borders. College kids mugged behind him as he said, “We have learned that there has been a shooting at the Stonestown garage. Sources report a gruesome double homicide that you will not believe. We’ll keep you posted as details are released. Back to you, Yolanda.”
Chapter 4
YUKI CASTELLANO STEPPED out of her office and called down the line of cubicles to Nicky Gaines, “You ready, Wonder Boy? Or do you want to meet me downstairs?”
“I’m coming,” Gaines said. “Who said I wasn’t coming?”
“How do I look?” she asked him, already moving toward the elevator that would take them from the DA’s office to the courtroom.
“You look fierce, Batwoman. Miss Hot Multicultural USA.”
“Shut up.” She laughed at her protégé. “Just be ready to prompt me if I blank, God forbid.”
“You’re not going to blank. You’re going to send Jo-Jo to the big house.”
“Ya think?”
“I know. Don’t you?”
“Uh-huh. I just have to make sure the jury knows it, too.”
Nicky stabbed the elevator button, and Yuki went back to her thoughts. In about twenty minutes, she was going to make her closing argument in the state’s case against Adam “Jo-Jo” Johnson.
Since she’d been with the DA’s office, she’d taken on more than a few crappy cases that the DA was determined to try: she’d work eighteen-hour days, earning “atta girls” from her boss, Leonard “Red Dog” Parisi, and score points with the jury, all of which would give her high expectations.
And then she’d lose.
Yuki was becoming famous for losing—and that stank because she was a fighter and a winner. And she just frickin’ hated to lose. But she never thought she’d lose—and this time was no different.
Her case was solid. She’d laid it out like a hand of solitaire. The jury had an easy job. The defendant wasn’t just guilty, he was guilty as sin.
Nicky held open the studded leather door to the courtroom, and Yuki walked smartly down the center aisle of the oak-paneled chamber. She noticed that the gallery was filling up with spectators, mostly press and law students. And as she approached the prosecution table, she saw that Jo-Jo Johnson and his attorney, Jeff Asher, were in their seats.
The stage was set.
She nodded to her opponent and noted the defendant’s appearance. Jo-Jo’s hair was combed and he was wearing a nice suit, but he looked dazed as only a mope who’d fried his brain on drugs could look. She hoped that very soon he would look worse, once she nailed him on manslaughter in the first degree.
“Jo-Jo looks like he’s been smoking ganja,” Nicky murmured to Yuki as he pulled out her chair.
“Or else he believes his lawyer’s bull,” Yuki said loud enough for her opponent to hear. “Jo-Jo may think he’s going to walk, but he’ll be busing it to Pelican Bay.”
Asher looked at her and smirked, showing Yuki with his body language that he thought he was going to whip her.
It was an act.
Yuki hadn’t gone up against Asher before, but after less than a year in the public defender’s office, Asher had gotten a reputation as a “bomb”—a killer attorney who blew up the prosecution’s case and got h
is client off. Asher was formidable because he had it all: charisma, boyish good looks, and a Harvard Law degree. And he had his father, a top-notch litigator who was coaching his son from the sidelines.
But none of that mattered today.
The evidence, the witnesses, and the confession were all on her side. Jo-Jo Johnson was hers.
Chapter 5
JUDGE STEVEN RABINOWITZ took a last look at the pictures of his new condo in Aspen, then turned off his iPhone, cracked his knuckles, and said, “Are the People ready, Ms. Castellano?”
“We are, Your Honor,” said Yuki.
She stood, her glossy black hair with the new silver streak in front falling forward as she straightened the hem of her suit jacket. Then she stepped quickly to the lectern in the center of the well.
She turned her eyes toward the jury box and gave the jurors a smile. A couple of them smiled back, but for the most part they were expressionless. She couldn’t read them at all.
But that was okay.
She just had to give the greatest closing of her life, as if the dead scumbag victim were the best and brightest of men, and as if this were the last case she would ever try.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” she said, “Dr. Lincoln Harris is dead because this man, Adam J. Johnson, knew Dr. Harris was in mortal danger and let him die with willful disregard for his life. In California, that’s manslaughter in the first degree.
“We know what happened on the night of March fourteenth because, after waiving his right to remain silent, after waiving his right to counsel, Mr. Johnson told the police how and why he let Dr. Harris expire when he could have easily saved his life.”
Yuki let her words resonate in the chamber, shuffling her cards on the lectern before continuing her closing argument.
“On the evening in question, the defendant, who had been employed by Dr. Harris as a handyman, went out to get cocaine for the doctor and himself.
“He returned within the hour, and the defendant and the plaintiff ingested this cocaine. Shortly after that, Dr. Harris OD’d. How do we know that?
“The defendant told the police—and it was borne out by medical experts—that it was clear Dr. Harris was in extremis. He was foaming at the mouth and eventually lost consciousness. But, rather than call an ambulance, the defendant used this opportunity to remove a thousand dollars and an ATM card from Dr. Harris’s wallet.
“Mr. Johnson then used Dr. Harris’s ATM card, took another thousand dollars, and bought himself a new leather jacket and a pair of boots at Rochester Big & Tall.
“After that,” Yuki told them, “the defendant bought more cocaine and hired a prostitute, Elizabeth Wu, whom he brought back to Dr. Harris’s home.
“Over the next several hours, Ms. Wu and Mr. Johnson snorted coke, had sex a few times, and at one point, according to Mr. Johnson’s statement, discussed how to dispose of Dr. Harris’s body once he died. That, Ladies and Gentlemen, shows ‘consciousness of guilt.’
“Adam Johnson absolutely knew that the doctor was dying. But he didn’t call for help for fifteen hours,” Yuki said, slapping the lectern. “Fifteen hours. Finally, at the behest of Ms. Wu, Mr. Johnson finally called nine one one, but it was too little, too late. Dr. Harris died in the ambulance en route to the hospital.
“Now, we all know that the defense has no defense.
“When facts are against them, defense lawyers resort to theatrics and to blaming the victim.
“Mr. Asher has told you that Dr. Harris lost his license to practice medicine because he used drugs. And that he cheated on his wife. That’s true, and so what? The victim wasn’t a saint, but even imperfect people have a right to humane treatment. And they have a right to justice.
“The defense has portrayed Adam Johnson as a hapless gofer who didn’t know an OD from a CD.
“That’s fiction. Adam Johnson knew what he was doing. He’s admitted to all of it: the willful disregard as well as the fun he had that night, stealing and shopping and snorting coke and having sex while Dr. Harris lay dying.
“That’s why there can be only one verdict. The People ask you to find Adam Johnson guilty on three counts: of grand larceny, of intent to deal narcotics, and of reckless disregard for the life of a human being—that is, manslaughter in the first degree.”
Chapter 6
YUKI HUDDLED WITH Gaines in the hallway outside the courtroom during the ten-minute recess.
“You knocked their socks off,” Gaines told her.
Yuki nodded. She combed her mind for mistakes and didn’t find any. She hadn’t blanked, hadn’t sputtered or blown her lines, hadn’t come off as rehearsed. She had no regrets. She only wished her mom could have been here to see her.
She said to her number two, “Jo-Jo did it. He said he did it, and we proved it.” Yuki’s heart was still pumping adrenaline, the good kind. A bit like champagne.
Nicky nudged her, and Yuki looked up. She saw that the bailiff had opened the leather-paneled door. The pair re-entered the courtroom and took their seats. Yuki’s mouth went suddenly dry as the court was called into session.
And now the fear factor started nibbling at her confidence. Asher would have the last word. Could he convince the jury to let Johnson off? She thought ahead to the worst possible result—a finding in favor of the defendant. After that, Asher’s dad would give his son a party at the Ruby Skye, and she would slink home alone.
The humiliation would be all hers.
Beside her, Nicky doodled a caricature of her with a star on her chest and a halo behind her head. She managed a smile, and then the room fell silent.
Judge Rabinowitz asked Asher if the defense was ready to close, and he answered, “Yes, Your Honor, we are.”
Like a Thoroughbred into the starting gate, Asher nearly pranced toward the jury box. He put his hand on the railing and—while standing no more than a yard away from the jurors in the front row, close enough for the foreperson to see the comb marks in his hair and the sparkle on his dental veneers—began his summation.
“Folks, I don’t have any notes because Adam Johnson’s defense is as simple and as clear as day.
“He’s not a doctor. He doesn’t know anything about sick people or about medicine. He didn’t know that Dr. Harris was in serious distress.
“Adam Johnson is a handyman.
“Lincoln Harris was a doctor of medicine.
“And, as the medical examiner told you, Lincoln Harris didn’t die from cocaine overdose. He died from cocaine and a self-injected dose of heroin.
“What happened is that those drugs interacted, and that proved fatal. Dr. Harris knew what drugs did to the body, and he took them anyway. For all anyone knows, he intended to die.
“I think Mr. Johnson would agree that if he had it to do again, when he saw that Dr. Harris was ill, he would have immediately called nine one one. He probably would have done everything different that night, but he made some mistakes.
“Yes, he’s guilty of stealing two thousand dollars from a rich boss who had given him his ATM pin number.
“Yes, he’s guilty of giving those drugs to Ms. Wu, a known drug user and a prostitute, and while this is true, it’s a technicality. He wasn’t actually dealing. He used drugs for recreation.
“As for consciousness of guilt, I submit to you folks that my client was just shooting the bull with Ms. Wu when they discussed ‘dumping the body.’
“They didn’t do it, did they?” Asher asked rhetorically. “Mr. Johnson called for an ambulance. The facts are clear. My client didn’t know if Dr. Harris was dying or if he was going to wake up with a bad headache. He’s no genius, but he’s not a bad guy.
“And so we ask you to find him ‘not guilty’ of manslaughter, because he simply did not do it.”
Chapter 7
I LEFT THE Homicide squad room in a hurry that evening, determined to get out of Jacobi’s line of sight before I got drafted into someone else’s case. I’d just stepped into the elevator when, damn it, my cell phone buzzed.
It was Yuki; she was funny, passionate, and going through a rough time, so I pressed the phone to my ear and she peppered me with her customary rat-a-tat speech.
“Lindsay, my head’s spinning off my neck. Can you meet me at MacBain’s? Like, now?”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re busy.”
“I’ve got plans,” I said, “but I can have a quick beer—”
“I’ll meet you in five.”
MacBain’s Beers O’ the World Pub is a cops-and-lawyers hangout two blocks from the Hall of Justice. I got my car out of the all-day lot and headed east on Bryant, telling myself that I’d still have time to pick up the shrimp on the way home.
I entered the bar, found a tiny table near the window, and had just ordered two Coronas from the waitress when I saw Yuki elbowing her way through the crowd, coming toward me. She was talking before she sat down.
“You ordered? Good. How are you? Okay?”
The waitress brought the beer, and Yuki asked for a burger well-done with cheese fries.
“You’re not eating?” she said.
“I’m cooking a late dinner for Joe.”
“Ah.”
She put a hand to her brow as if shielding her eyes from the light bouncing off my engagement ring.
“Must be nice.”
“Yeah,” I said, grinning at her.
Being engaged was still new to me after months and months of a cross-country roller-coaster romance. Now Joe and I lived together, and we still hadn’t sat down to dinner at the same time in two weeks. I’d promised him shrimp pomodoro tonight, and I was looking forward to the whole deal: the cooking, the supping, the afterglow. “So what’s going on?” I asked Yuki.
She drained half her glass before answering. “My victim isn’t just scum, he’s dead scum, and Jo-Jo is cute and stupid. The women jurists looked at him, Linds, like they wanted to breast-feed him.”