The girls each patted his good arm, and I put my hand on his, and after a while we said good-bye and headed down to the cafeteria. We made hasty selections from the assorted hot trays and salad bars, and Cindy grabbed a booth for four.
Normally, it’s kind of a party when the four of us meet for a meal. But not today. The bombing disaster had nearly crushed San Francisco and it also hit home.
I asked Claire for her professional opinion of Joe’s condition.
She reached across the table and took my hands.
She said, “The shunts are out. He’s not in a coma anymore, he’s in a stupor. He’s healing. He has spoken since the accident. His memory may be jumbled, but that he spoke makes me think he’s doing a little better than could be expected.”
The cafeteria was loud at dinnertime. The PA system crackled and squealed. Trays clashed in bins, and loud conversation burst from folks gathered at the small tables.
Cindy asked what I’m sure everyone was thinking.
“Linds, can you talk about the science teacher? Off the record—or on.”
It’s a long-standing joke that Cindy has to be warned and muzzled when we’re talking shop. She’s a crime reporter who has broken murder cases using grit, tenacity, and insight. Of course we all love those qualities in her, but still. Reporters report, right? If we don’t say “off the record,” it’s our own fault if something said at the table appears on the Chronicle’s front page.
“Off the record, Cindy,” I said over the din. “If Conklin didn’t tell you, Grant compiled a book-length manuscript on Bomb Making 101, and one of the bombs he describes is a compression bomb. That’s probably what was used in Sci-Tron.”
Three asked as one, “What’s a compression bomb?”
I said, “As I understand it, you fill a metal container with gas and a chemical that makes oxygen. You attach a detonator and maybe a timer, and when the gas ignites, the explosion changes the atmospheric pressure of, say, Sci-Tron, and that’s what blows up the structure. It’s called a hard-force explosion. The second blast may have been C-4, also triggered by a timer on a detonator. The pieces of that second bomb may never be found, but a fire extinguisher with the ends blown off has been dredged out of the bay. No prints on it, of course.”
“It’s better than nothing,” Yuki said. “Grant describes a similar bomb in his manuscript and he made a few drawings. Plus, we have the remains of the exploded bomb. Too bad he didn’t take a selfie of himself planting it in Sci-Tron.”
Cindy asked, “So he just brought it in and left it there? How?”
“Don’t know,” I told her. “Maybe he came to the museum disguised in a service uniform, like he was there to replace the old fire extinguisher. Maybe he came in as a science teacher. There’s an idea. He could have used his real ID to get in and inserted the canister into an exhibit. At the same time he slapped up a glob of C-4—anywhere. It’s a plausible theory.”
I went on, telling my girls that Grant’s laptop had finally given in to our CSI, but what they found wasn’t illegal or even incriminating.
“Yes, he did research on bombs, also nanotechnology, astronomy, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the Entertainment section of the Chronicle.
“Forensics also went through his phone, read his texts, chased down his frequently called phone numbers. We’ve got names, school administrators, take-out pizza, utility companies. There were absolutely no calls to Syria or Pakistan or Brussels, or they were untraceable. No calls to known criminals, either,” I said. “Needless to say, we also have no hits on his fingerprints or DNA in criminal databases.”
“The guy is a closed book,” said Cindy.
“A ghost,” said Claire. “Or a wraith.”
“A very dangerous person,” said Yuki.
I asked, “So why did he leave that manuscript in his lab? Just an oversight?”
“Maybe it was his joke on law enforcement,” said Claire. “A fake lead to make this even more exciting for him.”
I nodded.
“That feels right, Claire. He’s definitely screwing with us.”
I know I looked defeated, and right then I felt that way. I said, “Cindy, you can’t quote me on any of this, but I’ll get you a one-on-one phoner with Jacobi.”
“Excellent. Thanks, Linds.”
“I owe you,” I said.
Cindy asked Yuki, “You have enough to make a case against Grant?”
Yuki said, “Right now all we have is circumstantial evidence, but if Joe remembers what Grant said, that could be a clincher. Either way, I’m going to have to convince twelve men and women that that mild-mannered science teacher built a bomb capable of leveling a seventy-fivethousand-square-foot building, and that he set that bomb, ignited it, witnessed it, and left not a trace.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER 28
YUKI FELT THE tension spanning courtroom 2A from corner to corner as Connor Grant’s trial was about to begin.
The jury had been seated and Judge Philip R. Hoffman had taken the bench, where, flanked by Old Glory and the California state flag, he had instructed the jury. The eight men and four women and their alternates in the jury box looked expectant and dead serious.
This was a trial of a lifetime and they knew it.
Hoffman was in his midfifties, had thick hair and glasses, was well known in San Francisco for presiding over highprofile cases—notably, the trial of a teenage girl who had returned from college on spring break and gunned down her family of six.
Yuki had history with Phil Hoffman. She had gone up against him in two trials when he was a criminal defense attorney. She’d lost to him the first time, beat him the next, and in both cases thought Hoffman was a gentleman. And she admired his taut, no-frills style. As a judge, he was fair, and he didn’t stand for what he called funny business.
Yuki had had moments of regret about leaving the Defense League, but today, sitting beside Len Parisi at the prosecution table, she felt fully satisfied with her decision. The opportunity to lock up Connor Grant was monumental. If ever there was a case for the death penalty, this was it.
She and Len had discussed every aspect of the case, the strengths and weaknesses, and now Len was very still, no doubt silently rehearsing his opening. Yuki used the pretrial moments to steady her nerves with an affirmation: You’re prepared. Len’s the best. The case is solid. Trust the jury. Repeat.
Yuki shot a quick glance across the aisle to the defense table, where opposition counsel, Elise Antonelli, sat with her unfathomable client, Connor Grant. She and Grant were speaking together behind their hands. Yuki read conflict in their expressions, but their voices never rose above a whisper.
The gallery, the rows of seats behind the bar, was full. The victims’ families, survivors of the blast, and reporters waited expectantly for the trial to start.
At the bench, Judge Hoffman repositioned his glasses, spoke to the court reporter and then to the bailiff, who read the charges against Connor Grant, and called the court into session.
Hoffman looked to the prosecution table and said, “Mr. Parisi. Are the People ready?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Then let’s proceed with opening statements.”
Red Dog Parisi got slowly to his feet. He was six foot four, three hundred pounds more or less. His skin was acnescarred and he had coarse, rust-colored hair. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and red tie. He’d once been described as looking like a cross between a yeti and a superpower avenger. When this large, homely man said that he was doing the people’s work, it felt good to have him on your side.
Parisi lumbered out to the well of the courtroom and fixed his eyes on the jury. Their eyes were also fixed on him.
CHAPTER 29
PARISI WALKED TO the podium that had been set up in the well, halfway between the bench and the jury box, and addressed the court.
“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it’s been a while since I’ve personally tried a case. In my job as district attorne
y of San Francisco County, and I am responsible for over one hundred attorneys ADAs in my office, and I oversee dozens of cases and trials.
“So, why am I standing before you today? Because Connor Grant, the smiling man in the cheerful blue sports coat sitting at the defense table, is a mass murderer who deliberately, with malice aforethought and considerable skill, destroyed Sci-Tron, a science museum on Pier 15. In so doing, he killed twenty-five of the people who were inside.”
Yuki felt a thrill as she heard Len’s voice. He was keeping his anger to a slow burn. The jurors could hear the fury. They could feel the heat.
Parisi went on.
“Those twenty-five people—in fact, all of the people who happened to be inside the museum that day—were of no interest to Mr. Grant. He never even thought about them. Mr. Grant simply wanted to blow the museum into billions of little pieces, and the living people were, as far as we can tell from Mr. Grant, utterly inconsequential.”
Yuki watched the jurors, who had fixed their attention on Len. He swept his gaze across the length of the box, looking at each one, before he picked up the thread of his opening.
“Ladies and gentlemen, among the twenty-five deceased are three firefighters, three selfless men who were caught in the secondary blast. Some fifty other people were injured, maimed, traumatized. And then there are all of the unnamed friends and families of the victims, hundreds of people who are grieving, emotionally damaged, who will never be the same again.
“During the course of this trial, you will hear that Connor Grant confessed to the police that he had blown up Sci-Tron even as the aftershock of the bomb reverberated in the air and the sirens and the screams echoed along the Embarcadero.
“Later, when Mr. Grant realized that he had trapped himself and that he was going to be tried for this terrible crime, he recanted his confession. Too late. We will present witness testimony that Mr. Grant proudly admitted to perpetrating this conscienceless attack. He was bragging. He was self-congratulatory.”
Parisi shook his head, conveying his disgust with the defendant’s actions. Yuki, having gone over his opening remarks with him, knew he was about to lay down the foundation of their case.
He said, “But even if Mr. Grant hadn’t confessed, the proof against him is overwhelming. As you will learn during this trial, he had not only the means, but the motive and the opportunity to blow up Sci-tron.
“Did Connor Grant have the means to make a bomb of sufficient size and force to blow up this large glass-and-steel building? Yes, he did. We will show you that Mr. Grant, a science teacher, had an unusual degree of interest in explosives, and all of the tools necessary to blow up … anything.
“We will show you photos of the bomb-making laboratory in the defendant’s garage and his book-in-progress that describes in detail how to build bombs of all types with ingredients easily obtained in your local pharmacy and hardware store. He even described how to create the type of bomb that was used to take down Sci-Tron.
“He had the knowledge and the tools.
“Did Connor Grant have the opportunity to place this bomb and detonate it? Yes, he did. The museum was open seven days a week. He had a membership card, frequented this museum, and is familiar to many of the people who worked there. He could easily have brought in the bomb, which was disguised as a fire extinguisher, and armed it without alarming anyone. And after he left the building, the sight of a fire extinguisher wouldn’t alert anyone to its real purpose.
“As to motive,” Parisi went on, “that is complicated.”
Yuki watched Len pause, reload, and fire.
“You do not have to buy into Mr. Grant’s motive in order to convict him. But in the face of all this death, destruction, and traumatic injury, we do want to understand why this defendant did what he did. And he told us.
“Here’s why Connor Grant blew Sci-Tron into smithereens. Because he wanted to do it. And we will prove to you that he could and that he did.
“At the end of this trial, we will ask you, the jury, to find the defendant guilty of murder in the second degree in the deaths of twenty-five innocent people, to guarantee that this man”—Len pointed at Connor Grant—“can never harm anyone ever again.”
Len thanked the jury, and if Yuki could have applauded him, she would have done so.
Instead, she scrawled on her notepad, “Great job, Len.”
“Tremendous.”
CHAPTER 30
JUDGE HOFFMAN PEERED over his bench and exchanged a few words with the bailiff as Len Parisi returned to the prosecution table. Then he looked across his courtroom at attorney Elise Antonelli, who was seated at the defense table beside her client, Connor Grant.
Hoffman said, “Ms. Antonelli, are you ready with your opening statement?”
Elise Antonelli stood and said, “Sidebar, Your Honor?”
Yuki almost said, What?
What was defense counsel up to?
Hoffman signaled to the lawyers to approach, and the three of them walked across the well to the bench.
“What is it, Ms. Antonelli?” said Hoffman. “I can’t wait to hear.”
Antonelli said, “Mr. Grant just fired me. He says that he wants to represent himself.”
Hoffman said, “Fired you? Okay, step back.”
Then, to the jurors, he said, “I’m calling a ten-minute recess. Sit tight.”
The court officers, guns on their hips, grouped behind the defendant. The judge opened the door behind the bench, and prosecution and defense counsel followed him down the corridor and assembled in his book-lined office. Parisi and Yuki took the brick-red love seat, and Elise Antonelli sat in the chair across from Hoffman’s desk.
Hoffman asked Antonelli, “Why did he dismiss you? What did he give as a reason?”
Antonelli said, “Paraphrasing now, he said, ‘I’m sure you’re very good, Elise, but I’m the best person to take my case to the jury.’”
“Really?” the judge said. “While facing twenty-five counts of murder two? What took your client so long to arrive at this staggeringly stupid decision?”
“He never mentioned that he was thinking about this, Judge, until I brought him his wardrobe this morning. I guess he got some jailhouse advice, or maybe he thinks if he defends himself and he loses, he gets a mistrial on the grounds that he’s got incompetent counsel.”
“Is he delusional?” Parisi asked.
Hoffman said, “Elise, don’t answer that. Well, let me ask you, Len. You want to go back to the table, try to negotiate a deal with the defendant?”
“Judge, I’m not opposed to his confession in open court in exchange for twenty-five life sentences served concurrently rather than consecutively with no possibility of parole. I offered this previously and was turned down.”
Elise Antonelli leaned forward in her seat. She said, “Judge, he won’t take a deal. He wants a trial and he believes that he can win. He plans to walk free. That’s what he said. That, and that he has a constitutional right for a pro se defense.”
Yuki recalled only three mass murderers who had defended themselves. Ted Bundy was found guilty and had been executed. Colin Ferguson, also found guilty, was given six life sentences. Only Lee Anthony Evans had defended himself successfully against multiple homicide charges. Connor Grant’s odds of winning were better if Antonnelli defended him, and that would be better for the prosecution as well. Yuki knew that a pro se defendant was a prosecutor’s worst nightmare. Juries tended to feel sorry for them because they were inexperienced. Accordingly, they got away with mistakes, misstatements, and meritless objections. Whether these missteps were calculated or not, they could influence the jury in the defendant’s favor.
Hoffman said to Antonelli, “Oh, boy. I’ll talk with him, alone, and see if I can get him to change his mind.”
CHAPTER 31
YUKI AND LEN went upstairs to Len’s office and tried to figure out what Connor Grant was trying to pull. Whatever it was, Judge Hoffman clearly wasn’t going to tolerate it. Right?
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Yuki fired off a text to her husband, Homicide lieutenant Jackson Brady, telling him in a few words the twist of events: Grant wants to defend himself. Says he’s best person for the job.
Brady texted back, Huge ego. No legal experience. Good for the white hats.
Yuki hoped Brady was right.
Courtroom 2A was still empty when the prosecution team returned to their table. Moments later Elise Antonelli came in through the side door with the defendant.
Grant wore a very pleased expression and a different jacket. Apparently, Len’s remarks about “cheerful blue sports coat” had prompted his attorney to quickly find him a more subdued replacement. The bailiff opened the door for the twelve jurors and four alternates, who filed in and got settled, putting handbags under seats, coughing politely, crossing legs, and exchanging questioning looks when they realized that the gallery was empty.
They stood when the judge returned and took the bench, then sat again as he addressed the jurors, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a change to the proceedings that I’m going to tell you about right now. We can deal with any questions before the public comes in.”
Yuki said softly, “Uh-oh.”
Hoffman said, “Here’s the story. The defendant, Mr. Grant, is exercising his legal right to defend himself.”
There was a gasp from some of the jurors, and Yuki felt her heart speed up. She had really thought the judge would convince Grant that he was going to hurt his chances by becoming his own counsel.
Hoffman explained that every defendant had a right to a pro se defense, that pro se meant “on one’s own behalf.” He told the jurors that he had questioned Mr. Grant and that he was convinced that the defendant could do an adequate job of presenting his case to the jury.
The judge went on.
“Ms. Antonelli is acting as Mr. Grant’s standby counsel. She is well versed in this case and will guide Mr. Grant on points of law. Mr. Grant has assured me that he is of sound mind, that he understands what is at stake, and that he will not be given any breaks because of his lack of legal experience.
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