He put his hands in his pockets, exposing navy blue suspenders, and he cast his eyes down toward his shiny black wing tips as if he, too, were absorbing the horrific tragedy he’d just described.
He almost looked as though he was praying, which I was sure he never did.
All I could do was sit there, silent, my eyes fixed on the judge’s immobile face, until Broyles released us by looking toward the jury box.
Having wound up for his pitch, he delivered it, hard and fast.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you will hear testimony that Lieutenant Boxer was off duty the night of this incident and that she had been drinking. Still, she made a decision to get into a police car and to fire a gun.
“You will also hear that Sara and Sam Cabot had guns. The fact is that Lieutenant Boxer had sufficient experience to disarm two frightened children, but she broke all the rules that night. Every single one.
“That’s why Lieutenant Boxer is responsible for the death of Sara Cabot, a young woman whose remarkable promise was canceled in one shattering moment. And Lieutenant Boxer is also responsible for crippling Sam Cabot for the remainder of his life.
“We are asking that after you hear the evidence you will find Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer guilty of excessive use of force and of police misconduct resulting in the wrongful death of Sara Cabot and the crippling of Sam Cabot.
“Because of this irreparable loss, we’re asking that you give the plaintiffs fifty million dollars for Sam Cabot’s lifetime medical bills, for his pain and suffering, and for the misery of his family. We’re asking another one hundred million in punitive damages to send a message to this police community and every police community around our country that this is not acceptable behavior.
“That you don’t police our streets when you’re drunk.”
Chapter 86
WHEN I HEARD SAM Cabot, that cold-blooded little psycho, described as the next great sports hero, it almost made me sick to my stomach. I thought, Champion swimmer? Soccer team captain? What the hell did that have to do with the murders he’d committed or with the bullets he’d put into Warren Jacobi?
I struggled to keep my expression neutral as Yuki stood and took the floor.
“The night of May tenth was a Friday night and the end of a rough week for Lieutenant Boxer,” Yuki said, her sweet, melodic voice chiming out across the courtroom. “Two young men had been murdered in the Tenderloin, and Lieutenant Boxer was very troubled by the brutality and the lack of viable forensic evidence.”
Yuki walked over to the jury box and let her hand skim the rail as she made eye contact with each of the jury members. They followed the thin young woman with the heart-shaped face and the luminous brown eyes, leaning forward into every word.
“As commanding officer of the SFPD’s Homicide detail, Lieutenant Boxer is responsible for investigating every homicide in the city. But she was especially disturbed because the victims of these murders were still in their teens.
“On the night in question,” Yuki continued, “Lieutenant Boxer was off duty, having a drink before dinner with some of her friends, when she got a call from Warren Jacobi, inspector first grade. Inspector Jacobi was formerly Lieutenant Boxer’s partner, and because this was a special case, they were working it together.
“Inspector Jacobi will testify that he phoned Lieutenant Boxer to tell her that their one lead—a Mercedes-Benz that had been previously seen in the vicinity of both homicides—had been spotted again south of Market Street.
“A lot of people in Lieutenant Boxer’s situation would have said, ‘Forget it. I’m off duty. I don’t want to sit all night in a police car.’ But this was Lieutenant Boxer’s case, and she wanted to stop whoever killed those two boys before they killed again.
“When Lieutenant Boxer got into the police car with Inspector Jacobi, she told him that she had been drinking but that her faculties were not impaired.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the plaintiffs will make much use of the word drunk. But they are twisting reality.”
“Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.”
“Overruled. Please sit down, Mr. Broyles.”
“In fact,” Yuki said, standing directly in front of the jury box, “the lieutenant had had a couple of drinks. She was not inebriated, staggering around, slurring her speech, illogical, or out of it.
“And Lieutenant Boxer did not drive. The drinks she had had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the events that transpired that night.
“This police officer is charged with brutally shooting down a young girl with her service pistol. But you will learn that Lieutenant Boxer wasn’t the only person on the scene with a gun in her hand. The ‘victims’”—Yuki made the universal hand sign for quote marks around the word—“not only brought guns to the scene, but they fired first and with intent to kill.”
Chapter 87
MASON BROYLES JUMPED FURIOUSLY to his feet.
“Objection, Your Honor. Defense counsel is mocking the victims and she is way out of line. Sam and Sara Cabot are not on trial here. Lieutenant Boxer is on trial.”
“Well, she shouldn’t be,” said Yuki, pressing on. “My client did nothing wrong. Nothing. She’s here because the plaintiffs are suffering and they want someone to pay for their loss, right or wrong.”
“Objection! Your Honor! Argumentative.”
“Sustained. Ms. Castellano, please hold your argument for summation.”
“Yes, Your Honor. I’m sorry.” Yuki walked over to the table and looked at her notes, then swung back around as if she’d never been interrupted.
“On the night in question, the exemplary Cabot kids evaded the police by driving at over seventy-five miles per hour on crowded streets in wanton disregard for public safety; that’s a felony. They were armed—another felony—and after Sara Cabot totaled her father’s car, she and her brother were helped out of the wreck by two concerned police officers whose weapons were holstered, who were doing their duty to serve and protect, and above all, to render aid.
“You will hear testimony from a police ballistics expert who will tell you that the bullets that were surgically removed from Lieutenant Boxer and Inspector Jacobi were fired from Sara Cabot’s and Sam Cabot’s guns, respectively. And you will also hear that Sara and Sam Cabot fired upon these officers without provocation.
“On the night in question, as Lieutenant Boxer lay on the ground, losing nearly a third of her blood and close to death, she ordered the plaintiffs to drop their weapons, which they did not do. Instead, Sara Cabot fired three more shots, which mercifully missed my client.
“Only then did Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer return fire.
“If anyone else—a banker, a baker, even a bookmaker—had shot someone in self-defense, we wouldn’t be having a trial. But if a police officer defends herself, everyone wants a piece of her —”
“Objection!”
But it was too late for objections. Dr. Andrew Cabot’s stony expression had shattered into shards of wrath. He leaped to his feet and moved toward Yuki as if he were going to throttle her. Mason Broyles restrained his client, but the courtroom boiled over even as Judge Achacoso banged her gavel again and again.
“I’m done, Your Honor,” said Yuki.
“Oh, no, you’re not. I will not have this trial become a free-for-all. Bailiff, clear the courtroom. I’ll see both counsels in chambers,” said the judge.
Chapter 88
WHEN COURT RESUMED, YUKI’S eyes were sparkling. It looked to me as if she felt the butt-kicking she’d taken from the judge had been worth the points she’d scored in her opening.
Broyles put on his first witness: Betty D’Angelo, the ER nurse who’d ministered to me the night I was shot. D’Angelo reluctantly repeated what she had said during the prelim—that my blood alcohol level was .067, that there was no way she could say if I was intoxicated, but that .067 was considered “under the influence.”
Next up, Broyles called my friend Dr. Claire Washburn. He elicited her credentials as
the city’s chief medical examiner, and the fact that she’d performed Sara Cabot’s autopsy.
“Dr. Washburn, were you able to ascertain the cause of Sara Cabot’s death?”
Using a line drawing of a human form, Claire pointed out where my bullets had entered Sara Cabot’s body.
“Yes. I found two gunshot wounds to the chest. Gunshot A entered on the left upper/outer chest, right here. That bullet penetrated Sara Cabot’s chest cavity between left ribs number three and four, perforated the upper lobe of the left lung, went into the pericardial sac, tore through the left ventricle, and stopped in her thoracic column on the left-hand side.
“The second gunshot wound,” Claire said, tapping the chart with a pointer, “was through the sternum, five inches below the left shoulder. It went right on through the heart, terminating in thoracic vertebra number four.”
The members of the jury were rapt as they heard about what my shots had done to Sara Cabot’s heart, but when Broyles had finished examining her, Yuki was ready for Claire on cross-examination.
“Can you tell us the angles of penetration, Dr. Washburn?” Yuki asked.
“The shots were fired upwards, from a few inches above the ground.”
“Doctor, was Sara Cabot killed instantly?”
“Yes.”
“So, you could say Sara was too dead to shoot anyone after she’d been shot?”
“Too dead, Ms. Castellano? As far as I know, there’s only dead.”
Yuki blushed. “Let me rephrase that. Given that Lieutenant Boxer was shot twice by Sara Cabot’s gun, it stands to reason that Sara Cabot fired first—because she died instantly after Lieutenant Boxer shot her.”
“Yes. Ms. Cabot died instantly when she was shot.”
“One more question,” Yuki said, sounding as if it were an afterthought. “Did you do a tox screen on Ms. Cabot’s blood?”
“Yes. A few days after the autopsy.”
“And what were your findings?”
“Sara Cabot had methamphetamine in her system.”
“She was high?”
“We don’t use high as a medical term, but yes, she had .23 milligrams of methamphetamine per liter in her blood. And in that sense, it’s high.”
“And what are the effects of methamphetamine?” Yuki asked Claire.
“Methamphetamine is a powerful central nervous system stimulant that produces a wide range of effects. The upside is a pleasurable rush, but long-term users suffer many of the downside effects, including paranoia and suicidal and homicidal thoughts.”
“How about homicidal actions?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you, Dr. Washburn. I’m finished with this witness, Your Honor.”
Chapter 89
I WAS ELATED WHEN Claire stepped down, but not for long.
I heard Mason Broyles call Dr. Robert Goldman, and when the brown-haired, mustachioed man in a light blue suit had been sworn in, he began to testify about the terrible injuries Sam had received at the ugly end of my gun.
Using a chart similar to the one Claire had used, Dr. Goldman pointed out that my first bullet had gone through Sam’s abdominal cavity, lodging in his thoracic vertebra number eight, where it still remained.
“That bullet paralyzed Sam from the waist down,” said the doctor, patting his mustache. “The second bullet entered at the base of his neck, passing through cervical vertebra number three, paralyzing everything below his neck.”
“Doctor,” Broyles asked. “Will Sam Cabot ever walk again?”
“No.”
“Will he ever be able to have sex?”
“No.”
“Will he ever be able to breathe on his own or have the full enjoyment of his life?”
“No.”
“He’s in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“Your witness,” Broyles said to Yuki as he returned to his chair.
“No questions of this witness,” said Yuki.
“Plaintiff calls Sam Cabot,” said Broyles.
I sent an anxious look to Yuki before we both turned to face the rear of the courtroom. Doors swung open, and a young female attendant entered pushing a wheelchair, a shiny chrome Jenkinson Supreme, the Cadillac of its class.
Sam Cabot looked frail and shrunken in his little-boy’s sport coat and tie, nothing like the vicious freak who’d murdered a couple of people for kicks before gunning Jacobi down. Except for the venomous look in his eyes, I wouldn’t have recognized him.
Sam turned those brown eyes on me now, and my heart raced as I felt horror, guilt, and even pity.
I dropped my gaze to the humming respiratory ventilator just below the seat of Sam’s chair. It was a heavy metal box with dials and gauges and a thin plastic air hose snaking up from the machine to where it was clipped right beside Sam’s left cheek.
A small electronically assisted voice box was positioned in front of his lips.
Sam locked his lips around his air tube. A ghastly sucking sound came from his ventilator as compressed air was pumped into his lungs. It was a sound that was repeated every three or four seconds, every time Sam Cabot needed to draw breath.
I watched as the attendant wheeled Sam up to the witness stand.
“Your Honor,” Mason Broyles said, “since we don’t know how long Sam will be asked to testify, we’d like to plug his ventilator into an electric socket to preserve the battery.”
“Of course,” said the judge.
The technician snaked a long orange cord into a wall socket and then sat down behind Andrew and Eva Cabot.
There was no place for me to look but at Sam.
His neck was stiff, and his head was braced to the back of his chair with a halo traction device strapped across his forehead. It looked like some kind of medieval torture, and I’m sure it felt that way to Sam.
The bailiff, a tall young man in a green uniform, approached Sam.
“Please raise your right hand.”
Sam Cabot cast his eyes wildly from side to side. He sucked in some air and spoke into the small green voice box. The voice that came out was an eerie and unnerving mechanical sound.
“I can’t,” Sam said.
Chapter 90
SAM’S VOICE NO LONGER sounded completely human, but his young face and his small frail body made him seem more fragile and vulnerable than any other person in the room. The people in the gallery murmured in sympathy as the bailiff turned to Judge Achacoso.
“Judge?”
“Administer the oath, bailiff.”
“Do you swear to tell the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” said Sam Cabot.
Broyles smiled at Sam, giving the jury enough time to really hear, see, and absorb the pitiful state of Sam Cabot’s body and imagine what a hell his life had become.
“Don’t be nervous,” Broyles said to Sam. “Just tell the truth. Tell us what happened that night, Sam.”
Broyles took Sam through a set of warm-up questions, waiting as the boy closed his mouth around the air tube. His answers came in broken sentences, the length of each phrase determined by the amount of air he could hold in his lungs before drawing on the mouthpiece again.
Broyles asked Sam how old he was, where he lived, what school he went to, before he got to the meat of his interrogation.
“Sam, do you remember what happened on the night of May tenth?”
“I’ll never forget it . . . as long as I live,” Sam said, sucking air from the tube, expelling his words in bursts through the voice box. “It’s all I think of . . . and no matter how hard I try . . . I can’t get it out of my mind. . . . That’s the night she killed my sister . . . and ruined my life, too.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Yuki rose and said.
“Young man,” said the judge, “I know this is difficult, but please try to confine your answers to the questions.”
“Sam, let’s back up,” said Mason Broyles kindly. “Can you tell us the event
s of that night, and please take it step-by-step.”
“A lot of stuff happened,” Sam said. He sucked at the tube and continued. “But I don’t remember . . . all of it. I know we took Dad’s car . . . and we got scared. . . . We heard the sirens coming. . . . Sara didn’t have her license. Then the air bag burst. . . . All I remember . . . is seeing that woman . . . shoot Sara. . . . I don’t know why she did it.”
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