The judge turned his eyes to the defense table and said, “Mr. Grant, are you ready to present your case?”
Grant said, “Your Honor, I’d like to add a witness to my list, Ms. Annalee Shaw.”
Len Parisi got to his feet and said, “Approach, Your Honor?”
The judge beckoned to counsel on both sides, and when the four were in front of him, Parisi said, “This is very late for the defense to be coming up with a new witness.”
Grant said, “Your Honor, I only became aware of this person’s name yesterday, and it took our investigator until now to locate her. She can speak to my whereabouts and frame of mind before the bombing.”
Parisi said urgently, “This is completely out of bounds. We haven’t deposed the witness, Judge. We must have time to do that before she can testify.”
Hoffman said, “Mr. Grant, make this witness available to the prosecution immediately. Mr. Parisi, take the rest of the day and all of tomorrow to check her out. We’ll resume the proceedings on Thursday.”
The judge adjourned the court, leaving Yuki to wonder about the open switch of this new witness. What the hell was Connor Grant pulling now?
CHAPTER 41
JULIE AND I were sitting together on a lounge chair beside the indoor pool at Pacific Rehab Center, where Joe had been living since his release from the hospital.
The pool room was large, with many floor-to-ceiling windows, a huge aqua-blue pool with ropes separating the lanes, and a lifeguard perched in a tall chair mid-pool. Families grouped around small tables, and a half dozen swimmers did laps to the soft music coming through the speakers.
Julie-Pie was wearing a candy-striped tutu of a bathing suit, her dark hair in two little pigtails above her ears. I wore jeans and a white cotton blouse over my two-piece, not sure if I would swim or watch Julie and her daddy from the sidelines.
Julie shrieked.
I looked up and saw Joe rolling toward us in his chair, the scars showing vividly on his scalp and arm, his right leg still encased in a walking boot. I had been afraid of Julie’s reaction to seeing Joe this way, but I’d worried for nothing.
She screamed again, this time, “It’s Daddy,” and she ran across the tiles in her bare feet and into his open arms. She climbed onto Joe’s lap, and he hugged her to him and rolled over to my chaise.
I got up and gave Joe a gentle hug.
“So glad to see my girls,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. Julie didn’t notice. She was singing out, “Let’s go. Let’s go in.”
Joe said, “Next time, sweetheart.”
“Noooooo.”
I watched and listened as Joe explained to our two-yearold that he still needed help getting in and out of the pool, but that he was getting better really fast.
He asked me, “Lindsay. You brought a suit?”
“I did.”
I stood up and wriggled out of my jeans. I tried not to make a big production out of it, but I knew Joe was watching me undress. It had been eight months since we’d lived together, made love, had breakfast with the baby, been a family.
I turned away while unbuttoning my blouse, flashing on our last delicious romp before Joe went off the radar without warning, without sending even a text message. His voice mailbox had been full, his car had been gone. No one had seen him. Those lost days were agonizing. I’d thought he was dead.
By the time Joe resurfaced two weeks later, it was because our cases were entwined. Of course, I hadn’t known he even had a case. He offered an explanation but not much of an apology. He expected me to understand that his secret assignment from the CIA was a duty and a sacrifice, and that when he said “country first,” it didn’t mean that I was second in his heart.
But his actions told the truth.
He had put me second, and there had been no hiding from myself what I’d started to piece together about a mysterious blonde, a double life in his past, and the real possibility of more of the same in the future.
So for my own protection I’d kicked Joe out and armorplated my heart. Who could blame me?
Now I walked over to the curved tile steps and into the pool, and once I was seated there in the shallow end, I reached for Julie. My little girl, who looks so much like her father, toddled over to me and wrapped her arms around my neck.
I held her and danced with her and helped her swim with the noodle and the boogie board, while Joe cheered from his chair.
Once I was sufficiently wrinkled and cold, I took Julie and my bag to the dressing room to shower and dress. When we reemerged, our dear and precious child broke away from me and ran to Joe.
“Hey, Jules,” I said, sitting down on the chaise. “Shall we have dinner with Daddy before we go home?”
Joe said, “Sorry, but I can’t, Lindsay. I’ve got PT in a couple of minutes. Rain check?”
“Sure.”
I tucked in my blouse, tied my shoelaces. Joe said my name and caught my eye.
He said, “I’m going to make everything right, Lindsay. I mean it.”
I nodded. Could he do that? Was it possible?
“Mommy. Let’s go. Okay?”
I kissed Joe on the cheek and said, “Take care.”
I saw the question on his face as I picked up Julie and headed for the door. I understood the question. But I didn’t know the answer.
I settled Julie into the car seat in back and saw a folded piece of paper on the floor. I knew it was the list of the dead and injured that Brady had handed me after Sci-Tron.
I opened it up and read the list. I found Joe’s name on the injured list. And then I saw another name that I’d either not read two months ago or not remembered.
Sophie Fields was on the list of fatalities of the tragedy at Sci-Tron. Sophie Fields had died.
CHAPTER 42
IT WAS THURSDAY morning, the second day of Connor Grant’s trial, and Yuki was very ready for it to begin.
The jurors were in their box. The judge was at the bench in conversation with his clerk. The gallery was full and the doors were closed. The court officers had formed a line blocking the door, and two others flanked the bench, guns on hips, eyes scanning the room.
Cameras rolled from the corners of the ceiling.
Yuki and Len had deposed the late-breaking witness, Ms. Shaw, the day before. Apparently, this recently added witness was Grant’s idea, and in Yuki’s opinion, he was taking an unnecessary risk. But Antonelli looked relaxed. No doubt, she was glad enough to shift the burden of the outcome to her former client. Win or lose, there would be plenty of media exposure for Antonelli.
Judge Hoffman spoke. “Is the defense ready, Mr. Grant?”
Yuki glanced at the defense table and saw that Grant and Antonelli were conferring behind their hands.
Grant stood up. “The defense calls Annalee Shaw.”
A court officer opened the door and a young woman entered. She wore a slim leather skirt, a tight knit top, and high heels, and her glossy auburn hair fell loose to the middle of her back. Ms. Shaw took the stand, and after she’d been sworn in, Mr. Grant began his direct exam.
“Ms. Shaw, what is your occupation?”
“I’m a graduate student, going for my doctorate in literature.”
“Have you met me before?”
“Yes.”
Grant asked, “Were we together the evening of August between 6:00 p.m. and 7:30?”
Parisi said, “Objection. Leading the witness, Your Honor.”
“Overruled. I’m going to allow it.”
Grant repeated his question, and the witness said, “That is correct.”
“Why do you remember the exact time?”
“Because,” Ms. Shaw said quietly, “you hired me for an hour and a half starting at four.”
The judge asked Shaw to speak up, and after she repeated her answer, Grant asked his next question.
“We spent this time together in the Hotel Slocum on Battery Street, a few minutes’ walk from Sci-Tron, is that correct?”
“
Yes.”
“Was I carrying a bag of any kind?”
“No, nothing.”
“How did I seem to you?” Grant asked.
“When we were together?”
“Let me be more specific. During the time we spent together, did I have an attitude that would suggest to you that I was going to blow up Sci-Tron? Was I nervous? Or agitated?”
Parisi rose ponderously to his feet.
“Objection. Mr. Grant is asking the witness to speculate.”
The judge sustained the objection, and Grant said, “I asked for her interpretation of my behavior. But I’ll rephrase. Ms. Shaw, did I tell you anything that would lead you to believe that I had plans to blow something up?”
“No.”
“Thank you. I have no other questions.”
Parisi got up, scraping his chair legs loudly against the floor, and approached the witness.
“Ms. Shaw, how do you know Mr. Grant?”
“A friend gave him my name.”
“I see. For what purpose?”
Shaw said, “It was … transactional. I needed to buy books. Connor gave me five hundred dollars.”
“I see. Do you have any knowledge of the defendant’s whereabouts before he met you at the hotel at four o’clock?”
“No. I only met him the one time.”
“So he could have rigged bombs to blow up prior to your … assignation?” said Parisi.
Grant stood up and yelled, “Objection.”
Yuki knew the judge would sustain the objection, and he did. Connor Grant was … impressive.
Parisi said, “Thank you, Ms. Shaw. That’s all.”
The witness stood up, and Parisi, who had started back to the prosecution table, wheeled around.
“I’m sorry, I have one other question. You’re still under oath, Ms. Shaw.”
The witness sat back down.
“Ms. Shaw, you have testified that Mr. Grant paid you for your time. Did Mr. Grant also pay you for your testimony today?”
The witness recoiled. Then she said, “He only told me to tell the truth.”
“Thanks, Ms. Shaw. No more questions.”
CHAPTER 43
GRANT LOOKED QUITE at ease when he called his next witness. “The defense calls Lieutenant Jackson Brady.”
Yuki was well aware that Brady was on the defense witness list, which was pretty outrageous and another of Connor Grant’s risky moves. Still, it was a little shocking to see her husband come through the doors and walk to the witness stand.
After swearing to tell the truth, he took his seat in the box.
Grant said, “Just a few questions, Lieutenant. You head up the homicide squad of the SFPD’s Southern Station, is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You and your team were responsible for finding and arresting the person or persons who blew up Sci-Tron, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Sergeant Boxer works for you, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you two were the members of the police department who interrogated me the morning after the bombing?”
“Correct again.”
Grant shot a look at the jury, as if saying, Get this. He asked, “During that long interview did I ever say or indicate that I had anything to do with Sci-Tron disaster?”
“No, you did not.”
“But you investigated me anyway.”
“Of course,” Brady said evenly. “You were our primary suspect. You had told Sergeant Boxer that the bombing was your work.”
“So she says. As a result of whatever she thought she heard, you went to my house, my place of business, spoke to my neighbors, my banker, my dry cleaner. The list is long.”
Yuki could see the muscle in Brady’s cheek twitch. She thought, Please, sweetie, don’t let him get to you.
Brady said, “We spoke to anyone who might know your whereabouts before the bombing and anyone who might have insight into your character.”
“Lieutenant, did you find any direct evidence linking me to the bombing at Sci-Tron?”
“We found circumstantial evidence, Mr. Grant. Your presence at the incident. Your avid interest and expertise in explosives. Your notes found in your laboratory.”
“So to be sure we all understand, the answer is no. You found no physical evidence at the site of the bomb—no DNA, no fingerprints—and there were no witnesses who could connect me to the bombing, isn’t that correct?”
“Most homicide cases are built on circumstantial evidence.”
“Please answer the question, Lieutenant. Did you find any direct evidence connecting me to the bombing, yes or no?”
“No,” said Brady. “But we have plenty of reason—”
“Your answer is no. You have found no direct evidence, right, Lieutenant Brady?”
“Right.”
Yuki reminded herself to breathe. Brady was doing fine, walking a narrow line between answering the question and underscoring the truth. Grant pressed on.
“Lieutenant, did you have any other suspects?”
“No.”
“None at all? No one who had a grudge of some kind? Maybe a terrorist group? GAR, for instance?”
“The video purporting to be from GAR was a frat-boy prank. So no.”
“So you concluded that even lacking physical evidence against me, I was the person who perpetrated this horrible tragedy?”
Brady just stared at Grant.
“Answer the question, Lieutenant. Lacking physical evidence against me, did you have no other suspects but me, yes or no?”
“You admitted to the bombing before you claimed ignorance,” said Brady.
Grant shouted, “Your Honor.”
The judge asked the witness to answer the question.
Brady said, “We had no other suspects.”
Grant put his hands in his jacket pockets, looked down, and seemed to be gathering himself for his next charge.
“You’ve stated that I was your only suspect, isn’t that right, Lieutenant Brady? And still you charged me and are part of a conspiracy of law enforcement to tar and feather me on my way to the gallows.”
Yuki stood, saying, “Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Grant is argumentative. Move to strike Mr. Grant’s remarks.”
Judge Hoffman said, “Sustained.” He ordered the statement to be stricken from the record and instructed the jury to disregard Mr. Grant’s characterization of the proceedings. “Don’t do that again, Mr. Grant.”
Grant said, “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I didn’t realize that was against the rules.”
The judge said, “Move on, Mr. Grant. Do you have any other questions for your witness?”
“Yes, I do.” Grant asked, “Lieutenant Brady, are you related to anyone involved in this trial?”
Brady shifted in his seat. Yuki felt her heart contract and then resume beating with a hard, rapid patter. A dense silence pervaded the courtroom as everyone listened for Brady’s answer.
Brady said, “ADA Castellano is my wife.”
“I see,” said Grant. He pivoted to look at the jury. A sunbeam came through the windows at just that moment, lighting his face. He went on. “So let me see if I’ve got this right. You’re in charge of this one-suspect case, and your wife is prosecuting me. Is that collusion or something? I’m not sure of the term.”
“It’s nothing,” said Brady. “My wife and I are professionals. We have never discussed this case together.”
“That’s what you’d like us to believe, but I think otherwise. We have the sergeant’s husband, Mr. Molinari, backing up my so-called confession, and now—”
Parisi was on his feet, yelling, “Objection,” and Grant shouted over him.
“You and your wife are nailing me to the cross. What would you call that, Lieutenant? Conspiracy? Railroading?”
“I call it bullshit,” said Brady.
The judge banged his gavel and admonished counsel and instructed the jury to disregard. He then told the gall
ery to quiet down immediately or people would be removed from the courtroom.
Yuki was watching Connor Grant. For the first time she saw rage cross his face, and he was transformed from the mild high school teacher to something twisted and monstrous.
Grant shouted at Brady, “One suspect. No evidence.”
Judge Hoffman slammed down his gavel and shouted back at Grant.
“Sit down, Mr. Grant. Speak out of turn again, or cause any disruption at all, and you will be watching this trial on closed-circuit TV. Do you understand me?”
Grant apologized to the court and said, “Judge, I ask that this be stricken from the record.”
“No, there’s no reason to strike that, Mr. Grant. Is the prosecution ready for cross?”
Parisi stood.
“Lieutenant Brady, have you colluded with ADA Castellano?”
“No. We have a Chinese wall at our house, and we respect it.”
“Please tell the jury what a Chinese wall is.”
“We don’t discuss the case together. Ever. Period.”
“Lieutenant, thank you,” said Parisi. “Now here’s a hypothetical question. If you were going to destroy evidence—DNA, fingerprints, video cameras, et cetera—would blowing up the crime scene with a hard-force explosion accompanied by a flash fire do the job?”
“Absolutely. There was nothing left of Sci-Tron but six tons of granulated rubble.”
Parisi thanked Brady and told him that he could step down.
CHAPTER 44
AFTER THE LUNCH break, as everyone resumed their places, Yuki took her seat at the prosecution table. Len sat down heavily beside her.
Len seemed to have recovered his composure, but Yuki was still reeling from the accusation that she and her husband had colluded, when in fact they had carefully, rigorously avoided any talk about the case. But the worst part of the assault on Brady’s credibility was how Grant had brilliantly summarized his defense in four words.
One suspect. No evidence.
If Antonelli had coached him to do this, kudos to her.
Antonelli sat quietly by as Grant introduced his character witnesses: his priest, his banker, and last, Kenneth Evan Miller, an eighteen-year-old student at Saint Brendan who was president of the senior class.
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