10th Anniversary Part 3

Yuki was satisfied with the jury selection. The case folders stored on her laptop were in perfect order. She had exhibits in an accordion file, and a short stack of index cards to prompt her in case she got stuck while giving her opening statement.

She'd been practicing her opener for several days, rehearsing with her boss and several of her ADA colleagues. She'd rehea.r.s.ed again with her deputy and second chair, Nick Gaines.

She had her opening statement down cold, and the case would simply flow from there.

Just then, Nick came into the conference room, bringing coffee for two, a smile on his face, his s.h.a.ggy hair hanging over his collar.

"You look hot," he said to her.

Yuki waved away the compliment. She was in what she called her "full-court dress": a white b.u.t.ton-down silk-blend shirt, her late mother's pearls, a navy-blue pin-striped suit, and short stacked heels. One magenta streak blazed in her shoulder-length black hair.

"I want to look cool cool," she said. "Unflappable. Prepared. And I want to scare the snot out of the defense."

Gaines laughed. And then Yuki did, too.

"What do you say, Nicky? Let's get there early," she said.

The two ADAs walked through the maze of cubicles out to the hallway. They got on the elevator and rode down to the third floor, where doors to the courtrooms lined both sides of the main corridor.

Yuki was inside her head, psyching herself up as she made this walk. She reminded herself that she was dedicated. She was smart. She was b.u.t.toned up to her chin and she knew what she was going to say.

And now for the hardest thing.

She had to kick doubt's a.s.s right out of her mind.

Chapter 8.

GAINES HELD THE DOOR for Yuki, then followed her into the wood-paneled courtroom. The defense table was empty. There were only half a dozen people in the gallery.

They settled in at the prosecutors' table behind the bar. Yuki straightened her jacket and her hair and then squared her notebook computer with the edge of the table.

"If I get stuck, just smile at me," Yuki said to her second chair.

Gaines grinned, gave her a thumbs-up, and said, "You've heard of Cool Hand Luke? Cool Hand Luke? When you see this, it means Cool Hand Yuki." When you see this, it means Cool Hand Yuki."

"Thanks, Nicky."

Yuki was always prepared, but she'd lost a number of cases she had been favored to win. And that losing streak had taken a bite out of her confidence. She'd won her last case, but her opponent had given her a parting shot that still stung.

"What's that, Yuki?" the jerk had said. "Your first win in how long?"

Now she was going up against Philip Hoffman, and she'd lost to him before. Hoffman was no jerk. In fact, he was a gentleman. He wasn't theatrical. He wasn't snide. He was a serious dude, partner in a law firm of the highest order, and he specialized in criminal defense of the wealthy.

Hoffman's client, Dr. Candace Martin, was a well-known heart surgeon who'd killed her philandering louse of a husband.

Candace Martin was pleading not guilty. She said she didn't kill Dennis Martin, but that was a monumental lie. There was enough evidence to convict her a few times over. And yes, the People even had the smoking gun.

Yuki's nervousness faded.

She knew her stuff. And she had the evidence to prove it.

Chapter 9.

CINDY THOMAS was one of two dozen people in the editorial meeting in the big conference room at the San Francisco Chronicle San Francisco Chronicle. The meeting had started an hour ago and it looked as though it could go on for another hour.

Used to be that these meetings were collegial and fun, with people making cracks and busting chops, but ever since the economic downturn and the free-and-easy access to the Internet as a news source, editorial meetings had a scary subtext.

Who would keep their job?

Who would be doing the job of two people?

And could the paper stay in business for another year?

There was a new gunslinger in town: Lisa Greening, who had come in as managing editor under the publisher. Lisa had eight years of management experience, two years at the New York Times New York Times, three at the Chicago Tribune Chicago Tribune, and three at the L.A. Times L.A. Times.

Her claim to fame had been an investigative report for the latter on the PC Killer, a smooth con man with a foot fetish who'd terrorized the Pacific Coast, luring women, killing them, and keeping their feet in his freezer as trophies.

Greening had won a Pulitzer for that story and had parlayed it into her new post at the Chronicle Chronicle.

Since Cindy was the Chronicle's Chronicle's crime desk reporter, she felt particularly vulnerable. Lisa Greening knew the crime beat as well as Cindy did - probably better - and if she failed to live up to a very high standard, Cindy knew she could become a budget cut. Greening would pick up her territory, and Cindy would become a freelancer working for sc.r.a.ps. crime desk reporter, she felt particularly vulnerable. Lisa Greening knew the crime beat as well as Cindy did - probably better - and if she failed to live up to a very high standard, Cindy knew she could become a budget cut. Greening would pick up her territory, and Cindy would become a freelancer working for sc.r.a.ps.

Half the editors in the room had given status reports, and Abadaya Premawardena, the travel editor, was up.

Prem was talking about cruise ship packages and discounts on Fiji and Samoa when Cindy got up and went to the back of the room and refilled her mug at the coffee urn.

Her last big story, which was about h.e.l.lo Kitty, a jewel thief who preyed on the rich and famous, had been a huge and splashy success. The thief had either skipped town or retired, probably due to the work Cindy had done. But that was old news now, and the next big story, the kind that sold newspapers, had yet to appear.

Cindy sat back down as Prem finished his report, and Lisa Greening turned her sharp gray eyes on Cindy.

"Cynthia, what's coming up for us this week?"

"My ATM mugger story is wrapping up," Cindy said. "The kid was arraigned and is being held without bond."

"That was in your column yesterday, Cynthia. What's up for today?"

"I'm working on a couple of ideas," she said.

"Speak up if you need a.s.sistance."

"I'm good," said Cindy. "Not a problem."

She flashed a smile at Greening, a smile that was both charming and confident, and the editor moved on to the next in line. Cindy couldn't have reported anything about the next hour.

Only that it was finally over.

Chapter 10.

CINDY LEFT the editorial meeting in a deep funk. She walked down the hall to her office and before even sitting down called Hai Nguyen, her cop contact in Robbery.

"Anything new on ATM Boy?" she asked.

Nguyen said, "Sorry, Cindy, but we've got no comment at this time."

Cindy believed that Nguyen would help her if he could, but that woulda-coulda sentiment was of no help to her. While the cops and robber worked out their deal, Cindy still had eight column inches to fill by four o'clock today.

How was she going to do that?

She had just hung her coat on the hanger behind her office door when her desk phone rang.

The caller ID read "Metro Hospital ER."

She grabbed the receiver and said, "Crime desk. Thomas."

"Cindy, it's me, Joyce."

Joyce Miller was an ER nurse, smart, compa.s.sionate, and companionable. She and Cindy had once lived in the same apartment building and had bonded over single-girl nights, drinking cheap Bordeaux and watching movies on Sundance.

"Joyce. What's wrong?"

"My cousin Laura, she's acting weird. Like she's just visited an alternate universe. You met her at my birthday. She works for a law firm. She loved loved you. Listen, I talked her into coming into the ER by saying I'd get her some sleep meds, but she won't let a doctor touch her and she won't call the police." you. Listen, I talked her into coming into the ER by saying I'd get her some sleep meds, but she won't let a doctor touch her and she won't call the police."

"What do you mean, she's 'acting weird'?"

"She must've been drugged. And I think something happened to her while she was out. For eight hours eight hours. Woke up in the shrubbery near her front door. That's what I mean by acting weird. I love this girl, Cindy. Will you come here while I've got her? I think together we can get her to talk."

"Right now?" Cindy asked. She looked at her Swatch. Only six hours until her drop-dead deadline at four o'clock. Eight empty column inches that she'd told Lisa Greening she could fill. It was a creva.s.se of empty s.p.a.ce.

"She's like a sister to me, Cindy," Joyce said, her voice breaking with emotion.

Cindy sighed.

She forwarded her calls to the front desk and left the building. She took BART to 24th, walked four blocks to Metropolitan Hospital at Valencia and 26th, and met Joyce just outside the ambulance bay. The friends hugged, and then Joyce led Cindy into the crush and swarm of the ER.

Chapter 11.

LAURA RIZZO sat at the edge of a hospital bed in the ER. She was about Cindy's age, around thirty-five, raven-haired with an athletic build, and she was wearing jeans and a dark blue Boston U sweatshirt. Her movements were jerky and her eyes were open so wide, you could see a margin of white completely surrounding her irises. She looked like she'd been plugged into an electric outlet.

"Laura," Joyce said. "You remember Cindy Thomas?"

"Yeah.... Hi. Why - why are you here?"

Joyce said, "Cindy is smart about things like this. I want you to tell her what happened to you."

"Look. It's nice of you to come, I guess, but what is this, Joyce? I didn't tell you so that you'd bring in reinforcements. I'm fine fine. I just need something for sleep sleep."

"Listen, Laura. Get real, would you, please? You called me because you're freaked out, and you should be freaked out. Something happened to you. Something bad bad."

Laura glared at Joyce, then turned and said to Cindy, "I have to say, my mind's a blank. I was coming home from work last night. I remember thinking about getting pizza for dinner and a bottle of wine. I woke up lying in the hydrangeas outside my apartment building at around 2 a.m. No pizza. No wine. And I don't know how I got there."

"Good lord," Joyce said, shaking her head. "So you just got up and went inside?"

"What else could I do? My bag was right there. Everything was in it, so I hadn't been robbed. I went upstairs and took a shower. I noticed then that I felt sore -"

"Sore where? Like you'd been in a fight?" Cindy asked.

"Here," Laura said, pointing to the crotch of her jeans.

"You were a.s.saulted?"

"Yeah. Like that. And as I'm standing there in the shower, I have like this vague memory of a man's voice. Something about winning a lot of money, but I sure don't feel like I won anything."

"Did you go somewhere after work? A bar or a party?"

"I'm not a party girl, Cindy. I'm like a nun. I was going home. Somehow, I - I don't know," Laura said. "Joyce, even if I let a doctor examine me, I don't want to tell the cops. "I know know cops. My uncle was a cop. If I tell them that I don't know anything about what happened to me, they're going to think I'm a wacko." cops. My uncle was a cop. If I tell them that I don't know anything about what happened to me, they're going to think I'm a wacko."

Chapter 12.

PHIL HOFFMAN PACED in front of the reception desk at the seventh-floor jail in the Hall of Justice. He was waiting for his client Dr. Candace Martin, who was changing out of her prison uniform in preparation for her first day of trial.