The two hundred people in the courtroom sat down as court was called into session.
Judge Moore was known to be fair, with a tendency to let lawyers run out ahead a jot too far before bringing down his gavel.
Now Moore spent a good fifteen minutes instructing the jury before turning his bespectacled blue eyes on Leonard Parisi. “Are the People ready to begin?”
“We are, Your Honor.”
Leonard Parisi stood, fastened the middle button of his suit jacket, walked toward the jury box, and greeted the jurors. Red Dog was truly large, his hips broad and his shoulders sloping and wide. His red hair was fuzzy, and his skin was pocked and rough.
Leonard Parisi was no heartthrob, but when he spoke, he had the stage presence of a character actor, one of the greats like Rod Steiger or Gene Hackman.
You just couldn’t keep your eyes off him.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, when you were selected for this jury, you all said that you’d seen the ‘Rooney tape’ of the Del Norte ferry tragedy. You said that you could keep an open mind about the defendant’s guilt or innocence. And you promised that you’d judge Mr. Brinkley by what’s proven to you in this courtroom.
“That’s why I want to tell you what it was like November first on the Del Norte, so that you will see it fresh in your mind’s eye.
“It was a real nice day for a ferry ride,” Parisi began. “About sixty degrees, with intermittent sun. A lot of the tourists were wearing shorts because, hey, San Francisco is in California, right?”
Laughter rippled across the courtroom as Parisi warmed to his opening statement.
“It was a beautiful day that turned into a day in hell because the defendant, Alfred Brinkley, was on that ferry.
“Mr. Brinkley was penniless, but he’d found a round-trip ticket at the farmer’s market and decided to take a ride. He had a loaded gun in his pocket, a revolver that held six rounds.
“On this particular day, Mr. Brinkley rode the ferry to Larkspur without incident, but on the return trip, as the boat was docking in San Francisco, the defendant saw Andrea Canello having a discussion with her little boy, a cute nine-year-old lad by the name of Tony.
“For a reason known only to Mr. Brinkley, he pulled out his gun and shot that thirty-year-old mother in her chest.
“She died almost instantly, right in front of her small son,” Parisi said. “Then Mrs. Canello’s boy turned his huge, terrified eyes to face the man who had just shot his mother — and what did Alfred Brinkley do?
“He shot Tony Canello, a little boy who was armed with a strawberry ice-cream cone. Tony was in the fourth grade, look-ing forward to Thanksgiving and to getting a mountain bike for Christmas and to growing up to become a man.
“Mr. Brinkley took all that away from Tony Canello. He died in the hospital later that day.”
The pained faces of the jury showed that Parisi had already moved them. One of the jurors, a young woman with shocking magenta hair, bit her lips as tears coursed down her cheeks.
Leonard paused in his speech respectfully and let the juror cry.
Chapter 64
AT THIS POINT, Judge Moore spoke to the six men and six women of the jury. “Do you need to take a break? Okay then, please continue, Mr. Parisi.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Parisi said. He flicked his eyes over to the defense table, saw that Mickey Sherman was whispering to his client, his back turned away from the proceedings, a dismissive gesture meant to show that Parisi’s opening hadn’t disturbed the defense in the least.
Smart move. Parisi knew he would’ve done the same thing.
“I’ve told you that the Del Norte was coming into dock when Mr. Brinkley shot Andrea and Tony Canello. The docking operation was noisy, much louder than two shots from a gun.
“But a couple of people understood what had happened.
“Mr. Per Conrad was working on the Del Norte as an engineer that day. He was a family man, with a wife and four beautiful kids, and he was about two years away from retirement. He saw Alfred Brinkley with his gun in hand and he saw the fallen bodies of Andrea and Tony Canello bleeding out on the deck.
“Mr. Conrad moved to disarm Mr. Brinkley, who took aim and shot Mr. Conrad between the eyes.
“Mr. Lester Ng was an insurance broker in Larkspur, coming into San Francisco to make a business call. He, too, was a family man, a former U.S. Air Force pilot. And he, too, tried to wrest Mr. Brinkley’s gun away from him. He was shot in the head. Mr. Brinkley’s gun was the last thing Mr. Ng saw in his life.
“Both men were selfless. They were heroes. And they died because of it.
“And still Mr. Brinkley was not finished.”
Parisi walked over to the jury box, put his hands on the rail, looked at each of the jurors as he spoke.
“Mr. Brinkley was standing beside a woman this community holds in high regard, Dr. Claire Washburn, San Francisco’s chief medical examiner. Dr. Washburn was terrified, but she had the presence of mind to say to Mr. Brinkley, ‘Okay, son . . . give me the gun.’
“Instead, Mr. Brinkley gave her a bullet in the chest. And when Dr. Washburn’s teenage son, Willie, went to her assistance, Mr. Brinkley shot at him, too.
“Luckily, the boat bumped the pier at that moment, and Mr. Brinkley’s sixth and final shot missed its mark. And because that shot went wild, two brave people, Claire and Willie Washburn, survived, and Dr. Washburn will be a witness in this trial.”
Parisi paused, letting the horror of the shooting imprint on the jurors’ minds before he spoke again.
“There’s no question that everything I’ve told you actually happened.
“There’s no question that without regard to sex, age, race, or reason, Alfred Brinkley shot and killed four people he didn’t know, and attempted to kill two others.
“Mr. Jack Rooney, who will also be a witness in this trial, videotaped the shootings, which we will show you. And Mr. Brinkley confessed to these brutal killings, and we’ll show you his taped confession, too.
“There is no DNA in this case. No blood-spatter evidence and no partial palm prints or any of the kind of forensic evidence that you see every night on TV crime shows. That’s because this case is not a ‘whodunit.’
“We know who did it. He’s sitting right there.”
Parisi pointed to the man in the blue suit. Brinkley’s head had sunk down on his shoulders so that his neck seemed to have retracted. His dulled eyes stared straight ahead. The man looked so medicated, Parisi wondered how much of this Brinkley even heard or understood.
“The defense is going to try to convince you that Mr. Brinkley is psychotic and therefore not responsible for his actions,” Parisi said, walking back to the lectern. “Defense medical experts may have the nerve to stand up here and tell you that the defendant needs ‘treatment,’ not punishment.
“No problem. We have great doctors treating all our death-row inmates.
“Acting insane does not exempt you from the rule of law. And it doesn’t mean that you don’t understand that killing people is wrong.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Alfred Brinkley brought a loaded gun onto the ferry. He targeted his victims with intent and deadly aim. He murdered four of them. And then he ran from the scene of his crime.
“Because Alfred Brinkley knew that what he’d done was wrong.
“The People will prove to you that Mr. Brinkley was legally sane when he committed four acts of murder and two acts of attempted murder. And we will ask you to find him ‘guilty’ on all counts.
“We thank you for your attention. I’m sorry I made some of you cry, but these murders are a tragedy.”
Chapter 65
YUKI WATCHED MICKEY SHERMAN STAND UP from the defense table and confidently cross the courtroom floor to the podium.
Sherman introduced himself to the jury, his hands-in-pockets demeanor and easy charm captivating them with his first sentence.
“Folks, everything the prosecutor told you is true,” he began. It was a daring de
claration, Yuki thought. In fact, she’d never heard opposition counsel take that position before.
“You all know what happened on the Del Norte on November first,” Sherman said. “Mr. Brinkley did in fact bring a loaded gun onto the ferry. He shot those people without regard for the consequences to them — or to himself.
“He was surrounded by two hundred fifty people, some of whom witnessed the shooting. Mr. Brinkley didn’t throw his gun away after he fled the Del Norte. He didn’t get rid of the evidence.
“This was not what you’d call a perfect crime. Only an insane person would do these acts and behave in this way.
“So what happened is no mystery.
“But why it happened is what this trial is about.
“Mr. Brinkley did not understand his actions because when he shot those unfortunate people, he was legally insane.
“Since the issue of ‘legal insanity’ will be the basis for your judgment of Mr. Brinkley and his actions, this is a good time to define the term,” Sherman said.
“The issue is this: Did Mr. Brinkley understand the wrong-fulness of his acts when he committed the crimes? If he didn’t understand that those acts were wrong because he suffered from a mental disease or defect at the time the crimes were committed, then he was ‘legally insane.’ ”
Mickey Sherman paused, shuffled his notes on the lectern, and began speaking again in a tone of voice that Yuki admired and feared. It was soft on the ear, personal, as if he trusted that the jurors wouldn’t need theatrics, that his reasoning was not only credible but true.
“Mr. Brinkley has been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder,” Sherman told the jury. “He has an illness, like cancer, or diabetes, a disabling disease that came to him genetically and also through childhood trauma.
“He didn’t ask for this disease, but he got it.
“It could have happened to you or me or anyone in this room. And what disease could be worse than to have your own brain turn against you and cause you to have thoughts and take actions that are completely against your character and nature?
“I want to say right now that our hearts go out to all the victims of this tragedy. If there was some way we could turn back the clock, if Fred Brinkley could take a magic pill or an injection that would heal him on November first and restore those people’s lives, he would do it in a second.
“If he had known that he was mentally ill, Mr. Brinkley would have gotten treatment. But he didn’t know why he felt the way he did.
“Mr. Brinkley’s life brings true meaning to the expression ‘living hell.’ ”
Chapter 66
MICKEY SHERMAN FELT THE NICE, STEADY FLOW of adrenaline that came from knowing his stuff and from believing in his client. Brinkley, the poor schmuck, was just waking up to the real world after fifteen years of slow decompensation as his illness had progressed.
And what a sorry world it was. Going on trial for his life under a thick blanket of antipsychotic medication.
It was a damned tragedy all the way around.
“Mr. Brinkley heard voices,” Mickey Sherman said as he paced in front of the jury box. “I’m not talking about the ‘little voice’ we all hear in our own heads, the interior monologue that helps us figure out problems or write a speech or find our car keys.
“The voices in Mr. Brinkley’s head were directive, intrusive, overwhelming, and cruel.
“These voices taunted him unrelentingly, called him derogatory names — and they goaded him to kill. When he watched television, he believed that the characters and the news anchors were talking directly to him, that they were accusing him of crimes, and also that they were telling him what to do.
“And after years of fighting these demons, Fred Brinkley finally obeyed the voices.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, at the time of the shooting, Fred Brinkley was not in touch with reality.
“He didn’t know that the people he shot on the ferry were made of flesh and blood. To him they were part of the painful hallucinations in his own mind.
“Afterward, Mr. Brinkley saw the TV news report of himself shooting people on the ferry, and because the pictures were on TV, he realized what he had done. He was so overcome with remorse and guilt and self-hatred that he turned himself in to the police of his own volition.
“He waived all his rights and confessed, because in the aftermath of his crimes, the healthy part of his brain allowed him to understand the horror of his actions.
“That should give you a window into this man’s character.
“The prosecution would like you to believe that the hardest decision you’ll have to make in this trial is picking your foreperson.
“But you haven’t heard the full story yet.
“Witnesses who know Mr. Brinkley and psychiatric professionals who have examined him will attest to Mr. Brinkley’s character and his past and present state of mind.
“When you’ve heard our case in its entirety, I am confident that you will find Fred Brinkley ‘not guilty’ by reason of mental defect or disease.
“Because the truth is, Fred Brinkley is a good man who is afflicted with a terrible mind-altering disease.”
Chapter 67
AT 6:30 THAT NIGHT, Yuki and Leonard Parisi were seated in the cavernous sunken dining room at Restaurant LuLu, an old warehouse turned popular eatery not far from the Hall of Justice.
Yuki felt sharp, part of the A-team. The winning A-team. She carved into her rotisserie chicken and Len tucked into his spicy prawn pizza, the two of them reviewing the day as they ate, trying on potential roadblocks, planning how to detonate those roadblocks in their next day’s presentation of the People’s case against Alfred Brinkley.
Leonard refilled their wineglasses with a sixty-dollar merlot, saying, “Grrrrr. Beware of Team Red Dog.”
Yuki laughed, sipped, put her papers into a large leather bag as the dinner plates were taken away. Working as a civil litigator had never felt as good as this.
The large brick oven across the room perfumed the air with burning hickory wood, and as the restaurant and bar filled up, conversation and laughter caromed off the walls and high ceilings.
“Coffee?” Len asked Yuki.
“Sure,” she said. “And I’m so stoked, I think I’m gonna go for the profiteroles.”
“I’ll second that,” Leonard said, raising his hand to signal their waitress. And then, in midgesture, his face went slack. Len put his hand on his chest and half stood, leaning against the seat back, which caused the chair to topple over, throwing him onto the floor.
Yuki heard a tray fall behind her. Dishes broke, and someone screamed.
She realized that the scream had come from her.
She jumped from her seat, crouched beside the big man who was rolling from side to side and moaning.
“Leonard! Len, where does it hurt?”
He mumbled, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying over the roar of concern all around them.
“Can you raise your arms, Len?”
“My chest,” he groaned. “Call my wife.”
“I can drive him to the hospital,” a man was saying over Yuki’s shoulder. “My car is right out front.”
“Thanks, but that’ll take too long.”
“Look, the hospital is only ten minutes —”
“Please. No, thank you. EMS brings the hospital to him, okay?”
Yuki pulled her satchel toward her, emptied it onto the floor, and located her cell phone. She blocked out the well-meaning guy behind her, pictured the traffic jam, the three hours’ wait outside the emergency room — which is what would happen if anything but an ambulance took Len to the hospital.
That was the mistake they’d made with her dad.
Yuki gripped Len’s hand as she listened intently to the ring tone. She hissed, “Come on, come on,” and when the 911 operator answered, she spoke distinctly and urgently.
“This is an emergency. Send an ambulance to Restaurant LuLu at 816 Folsom. My friend is having a heart
attack.”
Chapter 68
CONKLIN AND I WERE WORKING phone leads on the Ricci/Tyler case when Jacobi popped out to the squad room, said to us, “You two look like you need some air.”
Fifteen minutes later, just before seven p.m., we pulled up to an apartment building near Third and Townsend. Three patrol cars, two fire rigs, and the medical examiner’s van had gotten there before us.
“This is weird. I know this place,” I told Conklin. “My friend Cindy lives here.”
I tried to reach Cindy but got a busy signal on her cell. No answer on her home phone, either.
I looked for but didn’t see Cindy among the tenants standing in tight knots on the sidewalk, giving their statements to the uniforms walking among them, looking up at the brick face of the Blakely Arms and the pale curtains blowing out of windows on the fifth floor.
Cindy lived on three. My relief was sudden and short-lived. Someone had damned well died prematurely in Cindy’s building.
The doorman, a middle-aged man with a sloping forehead and frizzy gray hair springing out from his hatband, paced outside the main door. He had a fading flower-power look, as if he’d been beached by the ’60s revolution. He told us that his name was Joseph “Pinky” Boyd and that he’d been working at the Blakely Arms for three years.
“Miss Portia Fox in 5K,” he told us. “She’s the one who smelled the gas. She called down to the desk a half hour ago. Yeah,” he said, looking at his watch.
“And you called the fire department?”
“Right. They were here in about five minutes.”
“Where’s the complainant? Miss Fox.”
“She’s probably outside here. We cleared the whole fifth floor. I saw her . . . Mrs. Wolkowski. Terrible thing to see some-one dead in real life, someone you know.”
“Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt Mrs. Wolkowski?” Conklin asked the doorman.
“Nah. She was a bit of a crank. Complained about getting the wrong mail in her box, scuff marks on the tile, stuff like that. But she was a pussycat for an old girl.”
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