Yuki greeted her witness and began with questions that established his identity and his role in the case.
“Mr. Durden, what is your address?”
“Fifty-seven Lopez Avenue.”
“Is Mr. Keith Herman your neighbor?”
“Yes. He lives directly across the street from me.”
Yuki noticed that Durden’s hands were shaking. It was understandable. The man was a witness against a killer. If Keith Herman got off, Graham Durden would still be living directly across the street from him.
“Mr. Durden, did anything unusual happen on the morning of March first last year?”
“Yes. I’ll never forget it.”
“Please tell the court about that morning.”
“I had gone out to get the newspaper off the porch and I saw Mr. Herman carry his daughter’s dead body out to his car. I could tell that Lily was dead. He put her into the backseat and drove away.”
There was a gasp in the gallery, a satisfying intake of breath, and the jury appeared absolutely gripped by what they had heard.
“Did you call the police?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did the police question the defendant because of your phone call?”
“Yes. The day after I called nine-one-one, I was asked to come into the station for a lineup. I positively identified the man who put the body of Lily Herman into his car.”
“Do you see that man here today?”
Durden said he did, and at Yuki’s request he pointed to the man sitting next to John Kinsela at the defense table.
“How well do you know Mr. Herman?” she asked.
“I’ve known him for about five years. I knew Lily since she was three. She likes my dog, Poppy. They used to play on my lawn. I know the man’s car, too. Lexus. A 2011 four-door sedan.”
“So you are absolutely sure that the man you saw on the day in question, the man putting Lily Herman into the back of the Lexus, was the defendant, Keith Herman?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“Thank you, Mr. Durden. I have no further questions.”
Yuki returned to her seat at the prosecution table. There was some foot shuffling in the gallery, and people coughed on both sides of the aisle.
Judge Nussbaum scratched his nose, made a note on his laptop, then said, “Mr. Kinsela, your witness.”
Chapter 13
JOHN KINSELA STOOD. He didn’t snort or mug for the jury. In fact, he looked quite grave as he faced the witness.
“Mr. Durden, have you ever testified in court before?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s a little nerve-racking, isn’t it?”
Yuki thought it was a question meant to rattle the witness, but it allowed the jury to see defense counsel as sympathetic, treating the witness with respect. If she objected, she could irritate the jury.
“I’m feeling fine,” said Graham Durden. He folded his hands in front of him.
“Good. Now, Mr. Durden, you swore to tell the truth, and yet in truth, you weren’t a hundred percent sure that the man you saw on March first was Mr. Herman, isn’t that right?”
“It was Mr. Herman. I know Mr. Herman.”
“You told the police—and I’m reading from the transcript of your phone call to nine-one-one—‘I’m ninety percent sure that the man getting into the car was Keith Herman.’”
“I said that, but it was a figure of speech. It was definitely him. And Keith Herman was carrying Lily out to the car. Put her body into the backseat.”
“What kind of car was that again, Mr. Durden?”
“A late-model Lexus sedan, 2011.”
“And what color was the car?”
“Black.”
“Now, you told the police it was a dark-colored Lexus, isn’t that correct?”
“Black is dark. I should know.”
There was a smattering of nervous laughter in the gallery. Yuki wasn’t concerned. Graham Durden was a high school principal. He was about as credible a witness as there was. He had described the car as “dark.” And yes, black was dark. He had told the police he was 90 percent sure he saw Herman. He was being careful.
“So just to be sure we’re both on the same page,” Kinsela said, turning to give the jury a good long look at the gravity of his expression. “You saw Mr. Herman put his daughter into a dark Lexus sedan on the street outside his house.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you get the license plate number?”
“That car is always parked right there. I know the car.”
“Yes or no: did you get the license plate number of that dark Lexus, Mr. Durden?”
“No.”
“Now, as to the body of the girl you say you saw the defendant bring out to the car: did you one hundred percent identify that body as Lily Herman’s?”
“One hundred percent,” Durden said angrily. “One hundred percent.”
“And how do you know she was dead?” Kinsela asked mildly.
“Her head was hanging back. She was limp.”
“Could she have been asleep? Did you feel her pulse?”
“What?”
Yuki said from her seat, “Your Honor, counsel is badgering the witness.”
Judge Nussbaum said, “Overruled. Mr. Kinsela, pick one question and ask it again.”
Chapter 14
YUKI FELT TREMORS as the ground shifted beneath the witness box. Graham Durden darted a look in her direction, and she could see from the tight set of his lips that he was angry.
Durden didn’t like to have his integrity questioned. And Kinsela was working him over with the finesse of a fishmonger wielding a boning knife. Yuki had rehearsed with Durden, warned him that Kinsela would try to impeach his testimony. Durden had assured her that he felt confident and steady, saying repeatedly, “I know what I saw.”
Kinsela said, “Okay, Your Honor. I apologize for running on like that. Mr. Durden, how did you know that the child was dead?”
“She looked dead.”
“She looked dead. And how far were you from the man who put the child into a dark sedan?”
“I saw them from my front steps. Fifty yards.”
“Fifty yards.” Kinsela paused to let the jury think about fifty yards. A hundred and fifty feet. Kind of far away. Then he said, “And did you have an unobstructed view, Mr. Durden?”
“Yes.”
Kinsela walked to an easel, yanked down a piece of paper, and revealed an aerial photograph of Lopez Avenue between Sotelo and Castenada. The easel was positioned so that both the jury and the witness could see the image clearly.
Kinsela said to Durden, “Is this a photograph of your street?”
“Yes.”
“And this house marked A—is this your house?”
“It is.”
“This house marked B. It’s Mr. Herman’s house, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“What do you see between your house and Mr. Herman’s house?”
“The street.”
“Yes, we all see the street. And do you see trees? A line of trees on both sides of the street?”
“I could see Keith Herman plainly, carrying his daughter in his arms, putting her into the backseat of his Lexus—”
“You saw a man putting a girl into which side of the car, Mr. Durden? The side of the car facing your house? Or did he open the door on the side closest to the Herman house, so that the car was between you and the action you’ve described?”
“I saw Keith Herman carrying Lily.”
“Please answer the question, Mr. Durden.”
“He put her into the car on the side nearest his house.”
“Okay. Thank you. Now, after that … when the man you saw that morning got into the driver’s side of the car, his back was to you, wasn’t it, sir? How could you possibly tell that it was Keith Herman, and not another man of average height and build, getting into a dark sedan?”
Kinsela paced in the well, head down as he continued with his
battery of questions.
“Isn’t it possible, sir, that you saw a car like Mr. Herman’s car parked in front of Mr. Herman’s house, and from that you drew an understandable conclusion that the man was Mr. Herman? Isn’t it possible that you actually saw the kidnapper taking the child, not Mr. Herman?”
“Your Honor, I object to Mr. Kinsela bombarding the witness with questions. Again, if there is a real question in there, what is it?”
“Sustained. Please phrase one question, Mr. Kinsela. That’s a warning. Don’t do this again, or you will be fined.”
“Sorry, Judge. I got carried away. Mr. Durden, given the distance, the visual obstacles, and that there are over sixty thousand dark Lexus sedans in San Francisco, could you have been mistaken when you stated that Keith Herman brought his daughter out to the car parked across the street from your house?”
“I saw Keith Herman,” Durden said doggedly. “I saw him. I saw him one hundred percent.”
“I have no further questions for this witness,” Kinsela said, turning his back on Graham Durden.
Judge Nussbaum said, “Ms. Castellano?”
Yuki stood.
“Mr. Herman, you’re wearing glasses. Were you wearing them on the morning of March first?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And what is your vision when you’re wearing your glasses?”
“Twenty-twenty.”
“Have you ever been diagnosed with a mental disorder?”
“No. Never.”
“Thank you. That’s all I have, Your Honor.”
“The witness may step down,” said the judge.
Chapter 15
YUKI ELBOWED HER way out of the courtroom, smiled at the members of the press who were jamming the hallway, and said, “Hi, Georgia. Yeah, thanks. All’s well, Lou,” then, as John Kinsela and his client stood in the hall for an impromptu interview, Yuki headed for the fire stairs with Cindy Thomas on her heels.
“Aren’t you popular?” Cindy said, going through the door behind Yuki.
“Sooo popular,” Yuki said, her voice ringing in the cement-lined stairwell. “By the way, Cindy, you’d better behave yourself. Every word I say to you is off the record.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Yeah,” Yuki said. “You’ve been known to forget. So I’m saying it loud and clear. Don’t mess with me.”
“When did I ever mess with you? When?”
The door on the ground floor, behind the back wall of the grand lobby, swung out into the daylight under the flat of Yuki’s palm and she and her blond-haired, determined friend filed out onto Harriet Street.
“Where to?” Cindy asked, catching up with Yuki.
Fringale was a cute, cozy bistro just a few blocks from the Hall of Justice, a little slice of France on the corner of 4th and Freelon Streets.
When Yuki walked through the door into the little place with its eggshell-colored walls, the aroma of rosemary and thyme filling the air, she felt the stress of the trial fade—all but the hard stone of worry in the part of her skull right between her eyes.
Could she really convict Keith Herman?
Had she forgotten what kind of lawyer John Kinsela was? Kinsela had eviscerated Red Dog Parisi.
The two women ordered salads as entrées, and when the waiter left the table, Yuki asked, “How bad did he hurt us?”
“You talking about how Kinsela gored your witness?”
“‘Gored’ him? It was that bad, huh?”
“Actually, Yuki, I think it made Kinsela look like a bully and a dirtbag. But did it discredit Durden? Yeah, I think so. Depends on what else you have. I take it Lynnette Lagrande is going to put you over the top.”
The waiter placed a salad in front of each of them: a beautiful dish of frisée with bacon dressing, pine nuts, and a poached egg. Yuki broke the yolk with her fork, speared a leaf of lettuce, chewed it, and sipped her water.
“I feel good about my case. It’s solid. But let’s face it, John Kinsela has about twenty years of criminal law to my three.”
“Lay out your case for me,” Cindy said.
Yuki told Cindy the details of her case in the rapid, machine-gun style she was known for. She talked about the bruises on the child, and the fact that Jennifer Herman had confided in a friend, saying that her husband might harm her. She cited Keith Herman’s paramour, Lynnette Lagrande, who not only refuted Herman’s alibi for the time of Jennifer Herman’s murder but would also testify to and document the fact that Keith Herman wanted out of his marriage.
“It’s a good case,” Cindy said. “What does Red Dog say?”
“He says that I’ve got Herman nailed on the evidence, and that he has total faith in me,” said Yuki.
She and Cindy both nodded, Yuki wishing that she weren’t remembering cases she’d lost.
“It’s always about life and death,” Yuki said.
“I have faith in you,” said Cindy. “You can do this.”
Yuki saw doubt in her good friend’s eyes.
Chapter 16
CLAIRE WASHBURN DIDN’T mind putting on a dog and pony show as long as nobody sneezed or puked on the body. A high-profile case like this one would be scrutinized for mistakes, and the last thing she wanted was to have to explain to the court how random DNA got on the victim.
There was a bark of laughter outside the frosted glass of her office door. Claire sighed once, forwarded her phone calls to the front desk, then went to the conference room.
The twelve people who were waiting for her turned as one.
Claire couldn’t stop herself from laughing. To a man, and to a woman, her visitors were dressed in baby-yellow paper surgical scrubs and Tyvek gowns. Most hilarious of all was Rich Conklin, Mr. September in the 2011 Law Enforcement Officers Beefsteak Calendar.
Great big handsome man, outfitted like a hospital kitchen worker.
Claire said, “Good morning, Easter chicks,” and she laughed again, this time joined by the group of cops, junior techs from the crime scene unit, and law school grads from the DA’s office who were getting on-the-job education this morning.
She caught her breath and said, “If we’ve never met, I’m Dr. Washburn, chief medical examiner, and before I begin this morning’s autopsy, please introduce yourselves.”
Claire had everyone’s attention, and when the introductions were concluded, she began a condensed lecture on the purpose of an autopsy—to discover the cause and manner of death.
“You’ll see that the victim will be wearing what she had on when she was recovered from the scene. She’ll have bags on her hands to preserve any DNA she may have scraped from a possible attacker. She will have a complete external exam, including total body X-rays, before we do an internal exam, which I’ll conduct.
“If Ms. Farmer’s death is determined to be a homicide—not saying it was a homicide, but if the evidence leads to an indictment—the defense may try to prove that our evidence was contaminated, that we’re a bunch of fumble-fingered idiots. Remember O.J.? Protecting the integrity of this postmortem is critical to catching and holding a bad guy. Because of lousy forensics, there are innocent people in jail for crimes they never committed and murderers walking the streets.
“To the dead, we owe respect. To the living, we owe the truth. Nothing less, nothing more, no matter where the evidence leads us.
“House rules: keep your prophylactic outerwear in place. Masks must be worn in the surgery and kept on. Understand? If you forgot to turn off your cell phone, do it now. Save your questions until I ask for them. When I’m done, I’ll memorialize my findings for the record. Everything you see or hear from now on is highly confidential and leaks will not be tolerated.
“Are there any questions?
“All right, then. If we’re all clear on the house rules …” Claire turned to her assistant, the fetching Bunny Ellis, her hair done up to look like mouse ears, reverent eyes turned toward her boss.
“Bunny, will you please wheel Ms. Farmer into the aut
opsy suite? Everyone else, follow me.”
Chapter 17
CLAIRE HIP-BUTTED THE swinging door and entered the autopsy suite. The cops and junior-grade personnel behind her were excited, speaking in whispers that seemed to cut loose, rise in volume, loop around her, then die down to a hush again.
Conklin had the summer intern under his wing. Mackie Morales seemed bright and eager and maybe a little bit too much into Richie—the way she looked at him, the way he was a little puffed up, explaining things to her. Cindy would not be happy if she saw this.
And not too much escaped Cindy.
Claire laughed quietly but didn’t say anything to Conklin. She went to the far corner of the room and pushed the button that turned on the video camera. The light on the camera didn’t go on. She punched it a couple of times and still the little red eye was dark.
That was weird. The camera had been fine yesterday.
She pressed the intercom button, said, “Ryan, check the video setup, please.”
“Yes, ma’am. It was unplugged. It’s on now.”
“Why was it unplugged?”
“I don’t know. I just found it this way.”
Bunny entered the room from the door that led to the morgue. She signaled to Claire as if to say, I need to talk to you.
“What’s the holdup, Bunny?”
“I need to see you for a second, Doctor.”
Claire sighed, crossed the room, and followed Bunny to the morgue, a refrigerated room lined with stacks of stainless steel drawers, each designed to hold a body. Some of Claire’s patients had recently checked in. Some had been waiting for months for someone to ID them before they were buried as nameless corpses.
“What is it, Bunny?”
The girl’s blue eyes were shifting and her lips were trembling. Claire didn’t get it. What the hell?
“I can’t find her,” Bunny said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Faye Farmer,” Bunny said. “She’s gone.”
“What’s her drawer number?” Claire asked, exasperated. She went to the whiteboard, ran her finger down the list.
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