Yuki found it disorienting, both familiar and strange, to revisit a past that she’d thought was securely behind her.
Yesterday while she was driving home from work, Len had called. She let the call go through to voice mail, then thumbed the keys until it played back.
“Yuki, it’s Len. Parisi. Uh … Yuki, I have to talk to you. Call me.”
He left his cell and home numbers.
Having worked under Len Parisi for four years, Yuki had to fight her powerful reflex to call him right back.
She thought about how much she had loved working for Len, prosecuting bad guys, becoming an ace litigator in the nuclear-charged atmosphere of the DA’s office.
Then, a year ago, after a near-death experience, Yuki had a change of heart and mind about her career with the DA. She wanted to give back, use her skills to do good works for less-fortunate people who couldn’t afford a lawyer.
She expected Len to understand, but she misgauged his attachment to her. She was his protégé, and he didn’t take her resignation well. In one short meeting she lost him as a boss, as a mentor, and as a friend. That had hurt. Bad.
It had been a year since she took the job with the not-forprofit Defense League, and she hadn’t spoken with Len in that time. What could he possibly want to discuss with her now?
She pulled off Highway 92 onto an overlook and hit Return Call. She pressed her phone hard to her ear and listened to it ring. Then Parisi was on the line.
“Yuki?”
“Len.”
They exchanged a very short volley of awkward pleasantries, after which Parisi got to the point.
“We have a suspect under arrest on Sci-Tron bombing.”
“I heard. The science teacher.”
“I need a lead ADA who thinks like I do to work with me on the trial. Look, Yuki. Will you come back? I need you. The city needs you. Tell me what you want and I’ll break down doors to get it for you. How’s that for an easy-breezy negotiation?”
Pro: Len was going to make her lead ADA, second chair to him, on this enormous and very important trial.
Con: it was going to be unrelenting, exhausting work. There were so many victims and intense public scrutiny and everything at once—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Bottom line, it would be a return to a life not her own.
This morning, as she waited in the hectic area outside Len’s office, Yuki silently continued to debate the possible outcomes of this meeting. After hearing Len out, would she be even more determined to stay in her job at the not-for-profit Defense League? Or was helping Len Parisi put a mass murderer away just too challenging an opportunity to turn down?
The frosted glass-panel office door opened, and the large, rough-looking man came toward her.
She stretched out her hand to shake his, and he bent to her, hugging her so hard that her feet almost left the ground.
“So good to see you, Yuki,” said Len. “Please come home.”
CHAPTER 24
THREE DAYS AFTER we pulled in the Ingleside Four, they were arraigned and remanded to a federal jail, awaiting their hearing by a grand jury. Their video taking responsibility as GAR had been seen throughout the USA, and therefore, their crime of threatening communications was the first charge against them and enough to hold them during further investigation. Now, all four were fully in the hands of the federal judicial system and not in ours at all.
Several rough versions of the GAR video had been filed in a folder on Yang’s computer, but to date the government techs had found nothing about explosives on any of the kids’ computers.
Red Dog Parisi saw nothing to indicate that those kids had actually been involved in the Sci-Tron bombing.
But he felt otherwise about Connor Grant.
Yuki was waiting for me at MacBain’s, the designated Hall of Justice watering hole conveniently located across Bryant and down the street, wedged between two bail bondsmen’s storefronts. As usual, the homey bar and grill was loud, and customers had packed it to the walls.
We hugged, pulled our chairs up to the little table at the front of the room. She looked beautiful. Her straight, dark, shoulder-length hair with a blue streak in front framed her face. She was wearing a perfect size-two midnight-blue designer suit with excellent accessories.
Best of all, she was beaming.
“How’d it go with Red Dog?” I asked, referring to her meeting three days ago with San Francisco’s larger-than-life, red-haired, no-holds-barred district attorney.
“I’m back on the city payroll,” she said, “with a 2 percent increase, and they gave me a one-time exemption. My benefits are restored. Plus, I get reimbursed for overtime parking and two full weeks of vacation, circumstances permitting.”
I laughed along with her.
“So no vacation, right?”
“I pretty much got my old work-till-you-drop job back.”
We ordered BLTs with steak fries and near beer, and then Yuki got into it.
“We’ve got an arraignment in Judge Rabinowitz’s court tomorrow at three,” Yuki told me. “I’ve got some paperwork from Parisi, but you were the arresting officer. Tell me everything.”
Lunch was served. Yuki ate and I just talked and talked. She was not just my friend and member in good standing in the Women’s Murder Club, she was responsible now for getting Connor Grant officially charged and remanded without bail.
I told Yuki that I didn’t even want to think of him getting bail and walking free. And then I told her everything else, including date night at the Crested Cormorant, the sunset-lit explosion, the arrest of the bizarre Mr. Grant, quoting his comments to me in front of Pier 15. And I answered her questions about the evidence we had found in his house.
“CSI is still hacking into his computer, but apparently, he has all kinds of hack blockers in place. Conklin and I are going through reams of school papers he thoughtfully boxed up and stored in his lab,” I told her. “The FBI checked him out. As Grant says, he’s been a science teacher for over twenty years. He’s been written about in local papers for his science projects, et cetera, but this unpublished how-to book was all we found related to bombs.”
I asked, “You think this book could give you enough to make the charges stick?”
“I’m going to reserve my opinion until I see the book.”
We finished lunch, returned to the Hall, and went directly to the property room, where Yuki checked out Connor Grant’s manuscript on how to build a bomb cheap, fast, and well.
“It’s not proof of anything, but it goes to intent,” she said cautiously.
I had hoped for more enthusiasm, but Yuki was right to have low expectations. The manuscript was circumstantial at best.
Yuki said, “The book might incriminate him, but we need Joe’s testimony to corroborate Grant’s confession. That’s critical. But even that doesn’t guarantee a slam-dunk conviction.”
Joe was no longer comatose, but his consciousness was impaired. It was impossible to know what he would recall when or if he recovered from his traumatic head injury.
Yuki and I talked about Grant’s computer, our hope that the explosive material in Grant’s house would be found at the bomb site. Then we split up. She went down one floor to Len’s office, and I worked with Richie in the squad room for the rest of the day.
We were thorough, but slogging through half of Connor Grant’s hundred-plus boxes of tests and term papers was exhausting and fruitless.
When the day was finally done, I called home and spoke to my little Julie and my dear, lifesaving Mrs. Rose. Then I drove to the hospital.
Joe had a new room with a chair and a window and a whole lot of flowers. I taped an abstract crayon drawing to the window, signed by the almost-two-year-old artist in residence on Lake Street. I told Joe about Yuki, and Grant’s arraignment, and then I watched TV in Joe’s room for about an hour.
He never opened his eyes, and he never spoke a word about Sophie Fields, me, Julie, or anyone else.
He slept.
&nbs
p; CHAPTER 25
CONKLIN AND I sat in the back row of Judge Steven Rabinowitz’s arraignment courtroom in the San Francisco Superior Court, located on the second floor of the Hall of Justice. We were there to support Yuki and to see for ourselves that Connor Grant’s attorney didn’t Houdini him out of our jail with a low bail.
The blond-wood-paneled courtroom was standing room only. The victims’ families filled the rows, wanting to see the killer in the flesh and to help the judge understand the depth of their horror and loss.
Yuki was ready when Connor Grant’s case was called and his lawyer walked him to the bench.
Grant turned to look at the gallery full of people. I don’t think he saw me, but I got a look at him—a man who had spent five full days in jail, sleeping with his eyes open, standing with his back to the wall. He wore a classic orange jumpsuit, clanking bracelets and shackles, and a chain belt hooking all his metallic restraints together.
I had met his attorney, Elise Antonelli, a four-hundreddollar-an-hour lawyer who, my guess, had taken this appalling case because of the career-building opportunities in criminal defense.
She was about five two, fair skinned, and brown eyed, and she had an easy smile. She was also sharp and, in my opinion, eager to join the battle.
The charges were read—twenty-five counts of murder two—and the deceased were named in alphabetical order. Every time a name was read, someone in the room moaned or cried out. Judge Rabinowitz threatened to clear the courtroom. I thought he didn’t want to do that, but he would if the spectators in the gallery got out of hand.
Rabinowitz asked Grant, “Do you understand the charges against you?”
Connor Grant said, “Do I understand them?”
I sucked in my breath. What was the psycho killer going to say?
“No, I don’t understand them,” he said. “I was a passerby when Sci-Tron was detonated. I was a very unlucky passerby, Your Honor. I didn’t have anything to do with that bombing.”
Rabinowitz said, “Let me rephrase the question, Mr. Grant. Do you understand that you are being charged with twenty-five counts of murder in the second degree?”
“Well. I heard the charges.”
“Good. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty twenty-five times.”
Antonelli spoke up. “Your Honor, we ask that the charges against Connor Grant be dismissed. He had nothing whatsoever to do with bombing Sci-Tron and, therefore, nothing to do with these tragic deaths.”
Yuki said, “Your Honor, Mr. Grant confessed at the scene to Sergeant Lindsay Boxer of the SFPD, Homicide Division, and her husband, Joseph Molinari, who was injured in the secondary blast. We have bomb-making materials taken into evidence by Crime Scene Investigation from Mr. Grant’s premises. These materials, plus written materials in the defendant’s handwriting, go to show that Mr. Grant, a science teacher, is quite knowledgeable in the making of explosives. He also had the means and the opportunity to set off this blast.”
Rabinowitz said, “Let’s talk about bail. Ms. Castellano.”
“We request that bail be denied and that Mr. Grant be remanded to the maximum security jail in the Hall of Justice.”
The judge said, “Ms. Antonelli?”
“Mr. Grant is a law-abiding citizen with strong ties to the community, Your Honor. He is gainfully employed by Saint Brendan High School. He has no prior charges, nothing so much as a littering ticket in his life, and the evidence against him is completely based in police mistakes and hysteria. Furthermore, Mr. Grant has no passport and is not a flight risk.”
Judge Rabinowitz glanced at Yuki, then at Antonelli. Last, he gave Connor Grant a good long look.
“Bail denied,” said Rabinowitz. “Defendant is remanded to the custody of the court.”
Bam.
It was clear to me what the judge had been thinking when he denied bail. A suspected terrorist was in custody, a man who had possibly killed twenty-five people, and if he was released and then disappeared, this one decision would be the only act Judge Rabinowitz would be known for. It would be paragraph two in his obituary. It would probably be chiseled on his headstone.
As his gavel slammed down, two court officers came forward and escorted Connor Grant out of the courtroom through the side exit that led into the back stairs, which were restricted to courthouse personnel.
As they reached the door, there was a struggle. Conklin and I were on our feet, hands to our guns.
But Grant wasn’t trying to make a break for freedom. He turned to face the judge and shouted, “I’m being framed. I have a life and I want it back. I demand a speedy trial. That is my right. Short date, Your Honor.”
The judge said to the court officers, “Please remove the defendant from the courtroom.”
We waited for Yuki out in the hallway as the bomb victims’ friends and families blew through the double doors. When the room was nearly empty, Yuki stepped into the corridor.
“Great job,” I said to my friend.
“Terrific,” said Richie. “You were brilliant.”
“I felt … like myself,” said Yuki. She looked surprised when she said, “It’s good to be back.”
CHAPTER 26
CLAIRE CALLED THE next morning as Conklin and I were going through ninth-grade science classwork on earth and life sciences.
“Lindsay,” Claire said, “I got some info on that dead lady who came in with the bomb victims,” she said. “You know who I mean? Presumed heart attack, but she had a needle mark in her posterior?”
“I remember. Puncture mark and a small bruise.”
“Correct,” said Claire. “Come on down.”
“I’ll be right there,” I said. I pulled on my jacket and said to my partner, “Be back in a few.”
“I know what you’re doing, you know.”
“Guilty of leaving you with dead dinosaurs, Inspector. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Want to come with?”
He glared. “You go,” he said. “You two have fun.”
I grinned at him, and then I took off.
Claire was waiting for me in the reception area. We walked back to her office, and she opened a folder and spread eight-by-ten morgue photos across her desk.
“Meet Ms. Lois Sprague,” she said. “I finally had a minute to do a real thorough search for her, and guess what? Found her in a Washington State missing persons database. She was reported missing two days after Sci-Tron. I took the liberty of calling the Spokane police, and I have some information.”
“Shoot,” I said, sitting down.
I looked at the morgue photos of the dead woman, and she was as Claire had described. White. Forty. Caramel-colored hair, well-nourished. Lacerations and abrasions on her legs from having been clipped by a car. And she had a round bruise, the size of a half-dollar, on her left buttock.
Claire said, “What I learned from Spokane PD is that Ms. Sprague was single, in private practice as a family lawyer. Her sister told the police that Lois was a workaholic, had social anxiety and a few cats. That’s the worst that could be said of her.”
“No enemies?”
“According to the sister, Lois was a peacemaker. No one threatened or stalked her. She was on vacation and had no friends here. It was a solo trip, a week-long change-of-scene type vacation.”
“So what killed her?”
Claire went on. “Like I told you, I put a rush on the tox screen,” she said, “and no drugs were found in her body. But you know, Lindsay, there are drugs that leave the system quickly. If you’re not on it fast, and not looking specifically for that drug, you may not find a trace of it. I can’t put on the death certificate that I’m 100 percent certain that Lois Sprague was murdered, but in my opinion, it’s the only possible cause of death.
“Remember I told you I’d seen something like this two months ago? Presumed heart attack? I chased down the death certificate and morgue photos of Anthony George, cabdriver, white, fifty-five years old, probable cause of death cardiac arrest. Dr. G. did the post,
and the heart was healthy, but no one insisted on further investigation, and the puncture mark just seemed irrelevant. Look at the death certificate. Here. Manner of death: ‘Undetermined.’”
Claire opened a second folder, took out a photo of the hind section of Mr. George, the dead cabdriver, and placed it beside a matching image of Ms. Sprague’s derriere.
The puncture wounds and bruises looked the same, and both were located in an awkward place for a person to inject themselves.
“So that’s two dead people, possibly killed the same way and with no known relationship to each other,” said Claire. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say that someone is on a random-victim killing spree. And that victim number three is coming to a morgue near us real soon.”
My phone vibrated and buzzed.
It was Conklin.
He said, “Clapper just called. The divers pulled something out of the bay not far from the piers. It’s a large fire extinguisher with the ends blown off. Clapper says it may be what’s left of the bomb.”
CHAPTER 27
CLAIRE WALKED ME out to the front door of her offices and asked me, “Okay if I come with you to see Joe this evening?”
“Sure. Yes. Of course.”
“Yuki and Cindy want to see him, too.”
“Claire, he’s nonresponsive.”
“We’re coming. Okay?”
We all met up in the lobby after work, and I drove us to the hospital, my car filled with my girlfriends and a whole lot of flowers.
The light was dimmed in Joe’s private room and he was asleep, looking like he’d played chicken with a locomotive and lost. As my friends spoke encouraging words to my husband, I scrutinized his face. He showed no sign of hearing them. He just breathed in and out, while the vital-signs monitor registered the rhythmic beating of his heart.
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