The 8th Confession

by James Patterson

  And then, on Colomello’s count, the paramedics lifted Rose Glenn onto the gurney – and the interview was over.

  Inside the courtroom, the screen went dark and the lights came on. The jurors had seen the video before, but since this tape was Yuki’s pièce de résistance, she could only hope that the blunt shock of seeing it again would reinforce its power.

  Yuki cleared her throat, said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Rose Glenn was asked many different questions that morning and was able to shake her head yes and no, and was even able to speak. When asked if her daughter had attacked her, she said yes.

  “At no time during this trial did Rose Glenn deny what she said to Inspector Chi. She simply can’t remember.

  “And why can’t she remember? Because her daughter bashed her head in with a crowbar, causing trauma to the extent that her doctors had never seen anyone with such severe injuries survive.

  “But Rose Glenn did survive – widowed, disfigured, and partially paralyzed for life.

  “The defendant did this to her, Ladies and Gentlemen.

  “The People ask you to find Stacey Glenn guilty on both counts: for the murder of her father, Anthony Glenn, and for the attempted murder of her mother, Rose. We ask you to make sure that Stacey Glenn pays for these crimes to the fullest extent of the law.”

  As Yuki took her seat, she felt a lot of things, all of them good: the warm glow of accomplishment, Nicky’s hand patting her shoulder, and her mother’s presence surrounding her like a full-body hug.

  “Good job, Yuki-eh,” her mother said. “You make sram dunk.”

  Chapter 15

  PHILIP HOFFMAN had never lost his composure in this jury’s presence. He’d been respectful to the defense witnesses and he’d never used a five-dollar word when a nickel word would do. He felt sure that the jury liked and trusted him, and he was counting on that good feeling rubbing off on his client.

  “Folks,” he said, towering over the lectern, making it seem like a toy in his shadow, “Stacey Glenn is a good girl who has never harmed a person in her life. She loves her parents, and when Rose Glenn came before you at great emotional and physical cost, she told you that Stacey hasn’t got a bit of violence in her. That Stacey would never, ever attack her father or Rose herself.

  “You heard Rose Glenn say that she’s absolutely sick at heart, that whatever she said or did when she was on the verge of death was misinterpreted and used to indict her innocent daughter.”

  Hoffman shook his head, left his notes on the lectern, and walked to the jury box, then locked his hands behind his back and swept his dark eyes over the jurors.

  “The prosecution has used the crime-scene video in order to stir your emotions because that’s all they have. And that video, as moving as it is, is not proof that Stacey Glenn is guilty of anything.”

  Hoffman took the jury through his case, citing the two neurologists and the psychiatrist who testified that Rose Glenn was in shock when she was interviewed by Inspector Chi, that her responses were completely and totally unreliable.

  He said that while the toll-taker believed he saw Stacey Glenn, a transaction with any driver lasted a few seconds at most and, in this case, his glimpse of said driver had taken place in the dark of night.

  “There is no record of the Forester’s license-plate number,” Hoffman said to the jury, “and no videotape of the driver.

  “Bernice Lawrence,” Hoffman went on, “the neighbor who swore that she saw Stacey’s car in her parents’ driveway… well, she’s a good citizen and she was trying to help. Maybe she saw a similar car or maybe she got the date of that sighting wrong – but regardless, she admits she never saw Stacey.

  “Using common sense, we are unlikely to believe that my client would be stupid enough to park her car in front of her parents’ house and then go inside to kill them. It’s ridiculous.

  “You’ve seen what Tony and Rose Glenn’s bedroom looked like after the attack,” he said. “Can you believe that a person could raise a crowbar, strike with enormous force, lift and strike again a dozen times, and not get a hair or a spot of blood on their clothing?

  “Stacey was brought in for questioning within hours of the tragedy. Her hair, her hands, her whole body, was examined. Her apartment was searched, and her shoes and clothing were tested thoroughly in the crime lab.

  “There was no evidence on her person. None.

  “Stacey’s car was reduced to buckets of nuts and bolts, and no evidence was found.

  “Regarding the key left in her parents’ front door, I ask you: how many of you keep a spare key under the mat or in some other obvious place where anyone could find it?

  “And the call to Wayne Chadwell, the insurance broker?

  “Stacey was being a good daughter. Her parents were getting old. She checked on their policy because she wanted to be sure they were protected.

  “In sum, folks, there’s no forensic evidence whatsoever linking my client to this crime. None.

  “And because the police have the questionable testimony of a severely injured woman, they have pinned this crime on Stacey – and they never considered anyone else. Is there reasonable doubt in this case? I submit to you there’s nothing but reasonable doubt.

  “Rose Glenn lost her husband and almost died. And now the prosecution is asking you to compound this poor woman’s tragedy by taking away her daughter as well.

  “Stacey didn’t do it, folks.

  “And there’s no evidence to support that she did.

  “I urge you to find Stacey Glenn not guilty on all charges. And I thank you.”

  Chapter 16

  CINDY, FRESH IN a pink wraparound dress under her coat, hair gleaming, looking as though she’d stepped from a department-store window, skirted the filthy drug addicts loitering outside the three-story redbrick building on Fifth off Townsend and thanked a toothless young man who held open the door for her.

  The ground floor of “From the Heart” was one large, green room, with a cafeteria-style hot table along one wall, folding tables and chairs set up in rows, and ragged people milling – some talking to themselves, others eating eggs from paper plates.

  Cindy noticed a thin black woman eyeing her from a spot near the entrance. She looked about forty years old and was wearing a bold print blouse over black stretch pants. Purple-framed eyeglasses hung from a cord around her neck, and a badge pinned to her blouse read, MS. LUVIE JUMP, DAY ROOM SUPERVISOR.

  Ms. Jump continued to scan Cindy skeptically, then said, “Help you?”

  Cindy told the woman her name and that she was writing a story about Bagman Jesus for the San Francisco Chronicle.

  “I’m following up on his murder,” Cindy said, taking the morning’s paper out of her computer bag. She flipped it open to page three, exposed the headline above the fold.

  The black woman squinted at the paper, said, “You had your coffee yet?”

  “Nope,” said Cindy.

  “Then sit yourself down.”

  Luvie Jump returned a minute later with two mugs of coffee, a basket of rolls, and foil-wrapped pats of butter.

  “Will you read me that story?” she asked, sitting across from Cindy, laying out plastic flatware and napkins. “I don’t have my reading glasses.”

  Cindy smiled, said, “Love to. I don’t get to do readings too often.” She flattened the paper, said, “The headline is ‘Street Messiah Murdered. Police Have No Leads.’ ”

  “ Uh-hunh. Go on.”

  “Okay, so then it says, ‘Sometime after midnight on May sixth, a homeless man was beaten and shot to death outside the Caltrain yard on Townsend Street.

  “ ‘More than a hundred homeless people die on our streets from neglect and violence every year, and the city buries and forgets them.’ ”

  “Can say that again,” Luvie murmured.

  Cindy went on, “ ‘But this man won’t be forgotten easily. He was a friend to the castoffs, the shadow people of the underclass. He was their shepherd, and they loved him.

&n
bsp; “ ‘We don’t know his name, but he was called Bagman Jesus.’ ”

  Cindy’s throat caught and she looked up, saw Luvie Jump smiling at her, the woman’s mouth quavering as if she might cry.

  “He delivered my oldest child in an alley,” Luvie said. “That’s why he wore that baby on the cross around his neck. Jesus saves. Jesus saves. What can I do to help you, Cindy Thomas? Just tell me.”

  “I want to know everything about him.”

  “Where should I start?”

  “Do you know Bagman’s real name?”

  Chapter 17

  CINDY WAS IN the grip of a dead man – heart, mind, and soul. Conklin and I sat with her at MacBain’s Beers O’ the World Pub, a cop hangout on Bryant. The jukebox pumped out “Dancing Queen,” and the long, polished bar was packed three-deep with a buoyant after-work crowd who’d streamed here directly from the Hall of Justice.

  Cindy was oblivious to her surroundings.

  Her voice was colored with anger as she said to us, “He delivered her baby and she doesn’t know his name. No one does! If only his face wasn’t totaled, we could run his picture. Maybe someone would call in with an ID.”

  Cindy downed her beer, slammed her empty mug on the table, said, “I’ve got to make people understand about him. Get their noses out of the society pages for a minute and realize that a person like Bagman Jesus mattered.”

  “We get it, Cindy,” I said. “Take a breath. Let someone else speak!”

  “Sorry.” Cindy laughed. “ Sydney,” she said, raising a hand, calling our waitress over, “hit me again, please.”

  “Rich and I spent our lunch hour sifting through missing persons and running Bagman’s prints.”

  “Your lunch hour. Wow,” Cindy said facetiously.

  “Hey, look at it this way,” I said. “We bumped your Bagman to the top of a very thick pile of active cases.”

  Cindy gave me a look that said “sorry,” but she didn’t mean it. What a brat. I laughed at her. What else could I do?

  “Did you find anything?” she asked.

  Conklin told her, “No match to his prints. On the other hand, there are a couple of hundred average-size, brown-eyed white men who’ve gone missing in California over the last decade. I called you at two thirty so you could make your deadline. When you dump your voice mail -”

  “Thanks, anyway, Rich. I was interviewing. I turned off my cell.”

  More beer came, and as dinner arrived, Cindy served up the highlights of her other interviews at From the Heart. It took a little while, but soon enough I realized that Cindy was pretty much playing to Conklin. So I sawed on my sirloin and watched the two of them interact.

  My feelings for my partner had taken a sharp and unexpected turn about a year and a half ago when we were working a case that had brought us to L.A. We had a late dinner, drank some wine, and missed our flight back to San Francisco.

  It was late, so I expensed two rooms at the airport Marriott. I was in a bathrobe when Conklin knocked on the door. About two minutes later, we were grappling together on a California King.

  I’d hauled up the emergency brake before it was too late, and it felt awful, absolutely wrenching – as wrong as if the sun had gone down in the east.

  But I’d been right to bring things to a halt. For one thing, even though Joe and I had broken up around then, I still loved him. Besides, Conklin is about ten years younger than I am and we’re partners. I’m also his boss.

  After that night, we agreed to ignore the moments when the electricity between us lit up the patrol car, when I’d forget what I was saying and find myself speechless, just staring into Richie’s light-brown eyes. As best we could, we sidestepped the times Rich had burst into thirty-second rants about how crazy he was about me.

  But this wasn’t one of those times.

  Right now, Inspector Hottie was grinning at Cindy, and she’d almost forgotten I was there.

  I could argue that Cindy and Rich would make a terrific couple. They are both single. They look good together. They seem to have a lot to talk about.

  “Rich,” Cindy was saying, “I’m having another beer. Think you could make sure I get home okay?”

  “I’ll drive you,” I said, putting a sisterly hand on Cindy’s arm. “My car’s out front and I can swing by your apartment on my way home.”

  Chapter 18

  YUKI NEARLY BUMPED into Phil Hoffman as he stepped out of the elevator.

  “What do you think this is about?” Hoffman murmured.

  “Weird, huh?” Yuki replied.

  It was ten a.m., two days after she and Hoffman had made their closing arguments, and they’d just gotten calls from the judge’s clerk saying that their presence was required in Courtroom 6a.

  With Hoffman looming a full fourteen inches above her, Yuki walked beside him down the long buff-painted corridor toward the courtroom, with Nicky Gaines trailing behind.

  “Could be nothing,” Yuki said. “I had a jury ask for a calculator once. Thought they were adding up the award for my client. Turned out a juror was doing his income tax during the lunch break.”

  Hoffman laughed, held open the first of two sets of doors to the courtroom. Gaines held open the second set, then the three lawyers walked to the front, took seats behind their respective counsel tables.

  Judge Duffy was at the bench, the court reporter and clerk in their places, the sheriff’s deputy standing in front of the jury box, patting down his mustache.

  Duffy shoved his glasses to the top of his head, closed his laptop, and asked both counsel to approach, which they did.

  “The foreperson sent out a note from the jury,” Duffy said. A smile pulled at his mouth as he unfolded a quartered sheet of paper, held it up so Yuki and Hoffman could see the twelve hangman’s gallows that had been drawn on the paper with a black marker. A note had been penned underneath the gallows: “Your Honor, I think we have a problem.”

  “Nooo way,” Yuki said. “They’re hung after… what? Ten hours of deliberation?”

  “Your Honor,” said Hoffman. “Please. Don’t let them quit so soon. This is absolutely bizarre!”

  Yuki couldn’t read Duffy’s expression, but she could read Hoffman’s and knew he felt the same anxiety, anger, and nausea as she did. It had taken months to prepare this case for trial. Dozens of people had been deposed. There’d been uncountable man-hours of prep and six weeks of what Yuki thought to be pretty flawless presentations in the courtroom.

  If there was a mistrial, the People might decide not to spend the resources required to retry. Hoffman’s firm would probably pull the plug as well.

  And that meant Stacey Glenn would go free.

  “Take a seat, you two. No need to transport the defendant.”

  Duffy called out to the sheriff’s deputy, “Mr. Bonaventure, please bring in the jury.”

  Chapter 19

  AS THE JURORS put their bags down beside their seats, Yuki’s mind whirled like cherry lights on a police cruiser. She scrutinized the jurors as they filed in, looked for telling signs on their faces and in their body language.

  Who had believed Stacey Glenn was innocent? How many of them had voted to acquit – and why?

  The foreperson, Linda Chen, was Chinese-American, forty years old, with an Ivy League education and a successful real estate business. She had a no-nonsense manner countered by a wide and easy smile, and both Yuki and Hoffman had felt comfortable with Chen when they’d cast the jury. Even more so when she’d been voted foreperson.

  Now Yuki wondered how Chen had let the jury quit so soon.

  Duffy smiled at the jury, said, “I’ve given your note serious thought. I understand that six weeks of trial is an ordeal and many of you are quite ready to go home.

  “That said, this trial has been expensive – not just in terms of money, although it’s cost the State of California plenty, but for the better part of a year, both sides have labored to put together this case for you to judge.

  “Where things stand now
,” said Duffy, “you are the experts on the People versus Stacey Glenn. If you can’t arrive at a unanimous decision, this case will have to be tried again, and there’s no reason to believe that any other group of people would be more qualified or impartial, or have more wisdom to decide this verdict, than you.”

  Duffy explained to the jury that he was going to ask them to continue their deliberations, not to give up deeply held ideas based on the evidence but to reexamine their views with an open mind in order to try to reach consensus.

  The judge was giving the jury the “Allen charge,” the so-called dynamite charge designed to bust up logjams in deadlocked juries. It was considered coercive by legal purists.

  Yuki knew that this was the best option available, but the Allen charge could backfire. A resentful jury could push back and deliver whatever verdict would end its service the fastest.

  It was obvious to Yuki that the easiest, least-nightmare-provoking decision would be a unanimous vote to acquit.

  Judge Duffy was saying, “I want you to have maximum seclusion and comfort, so I’ve arranged for you to be sequestered in the Fairmont Hotel for as much time as you need.”

  Yuki saw the shock register on every one of the jurors’ faces as they realized that the judge was locking them up in a hotel without any warning, denying them TV, newspapers, home-cooked meals, and other comforts of daily life.

  They were not pleased.

  Duffy thanked the jury on behalf of the court and, taking his can of Sprite with him, left the bench.

  Chapter 20

  YUKI’S PHONE RANG the moment she returned to her office.

  “It’s me,” said Len Parisi, the deputy district attorney who was also her superior, her champion, and her toughest critic. “Got a minute?”

  Yuki opened her makeup kit, applied fresh lipstick, snapped her purse shut, and stepped out into the corridor.