4th of July

Chapter 94

THE NEXT MORNING THE view from Yuki’s kitchenette was gray, as rain gathered for a fall from the huge thunderheads over the city. Strangely, this was the San Francisco that I loved, stormy and tempestuous.

I drank my coffee and fed Martha. Then we went for a quick walk on Jones Street.

“Gotta hurry, Boo,” I said, already feeling the mist in the air. “Big doings today. Mama’s going to be lynched.”

Twenty minutes later, Mickey picked us up in his car. We got to the courthouse at quarter to eight, cleverly missing most of the mob scene.

Inside courtroom B, Mickey and Yuki sat next to each other and argued in whispers, Yuki’s hands fluttering like frantic little birds. As for me, I stared out the courthouse window at the sheets of falling rain as tense minutes ticked off on the electric clock against the side wall.

I felt a touch on my arm.

“I’ll be honest, that alarm was one of the worst things that ever happened to me in a courtroom,” Mickey said, leaning across Yuki to talk to me. “I’d hate to think that Broyles staged that event, but I wouldn’t put it past him to have rigged the electric cord.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“I don’t know, but we’ve got to do damage control. It’s our turn to put on our case, and we have two messages to convey. The kid’s a horror even on wheels, and you’re a great cop.”

“Look, do not worry about your testimony, Lindsay,” Yuki added. “If you were any more prepared, you wouldn’t sound natural. When it’s time to do it, just tell the story. Take your time and stop to think if you aren’t sure of something. And don’t look guilty. Just be the great cop that you are.”

“Right,” I said. And for good measure, I said it again.

Too soon, the spectators filled the room in their damp raincoats, some of them still shaking out umbrellas. Then the opposition filed in and banged their briefcases down on the table. Broyles gave us a civil nod, barely masking his joy. The man was in his element, all right. Court TV. Network TV. Everyone wanted to speak with Mason Broyles.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Broyles shake Andrew Cabot’s hand, kiss Eva Cabot on the cheek. He even helped the medical attendant position Sam Cabot’s wheelchair just so. He orchestrated everything, so why not that alarm yesterday?

“Sleep okay, Sam? That’s great,” Broyles said to the boy.

For me, the nightmare resumed.

The sound of Sam sucking air through his ventilator tube every few seconds was such a painful and constant reminder of what I’d done that I found it hard to breathe myself.

Suddenly, the side door to the courtroom opened, and the twelve good men and women and three alternates walked to the box and took their places. The judge, carrying a cardboard cup of coffee, took hers as the court was called into session.