‘The Trial’ Chapters 17-20

Richie introduced us, said how sorry we were, that we knew Barry, that this was our case.

“We’re devastated,” Richie said.

But I don’t think Barry’s wife heard us.

She turned away from the door, and we followed her into the aromatic kitchen and, from there, into the living room. She looked around at her things and bent to line up the toes of a pair of men’s slippers in front of a reclining chair.

I asked her the questions I knew by heart. “Do you have a security camera?”

She shook her head.

“Has either of you received any threats?”

“I want to go to him. I need be with him.”

“Has anyone threatened you or Barry, Mrs. Schein?”

She shook her head. Tears flew off her cheeks.

I wanted to give her something, but all I had were rules and platitudes and a promise to find Barry’s killer. It was a promise I wasn’t sure we could keep.

I promised anyway. And then I said, “Witness Protection will be here in a few minutes to take you and the children to a safe place. But first, could we talk with Stevie for just a minute?”

Mrs. Schein led us down a hallway lined with framed family photos on the walls. Wedding pictures. Baby pictures. The little girl on a pony. Stevie with an oversized catcher’s mitt.

It was almost impossible to reconcile this hominess with the truth of Barry’s still-warm body lying outside in the cold. Mrs. Schein asked us to wait, and when she opened the bedroom door, I was struck by the red lights flashing through the curtains. A little boy sat on the floor, pushing a toy truck back and forth mindlessly. What did he understand about what had happened to his father? I couldn’t shake the thought that an hour ago Barry had been alive.

With Mrs. Schein’s permission Richie went into the room and stooped beside the child. He spoke softly, but we could all hear his questions: “Stevie, did you see a car, a truck, or an SUV?...Car? What color car?...Have you seen it before?...Did you recognize the man who fired the gun?...Can you describe him at all?...Is there anything you want to tell me? I’m the police, Stevie. I’m here to help.”

Stevie said again, “Was a gray car.”

Conklin asked, “How many doors, Stevie? Try to picture it.” But Stevie was done. Conklin opened his arms and Stevie collapsed against him and sobbed.

I told Mrs. Schein to call either of us anytime. Please.

After giving her our cards, my partner and I took the steps down to the halogen-lit hell in front of the lovely house.

In the last ten minutes the street had thickened with frightened neighbors, frustrated motorists, and cops doing traffic control. The medical examiner’s van was parked inside the cordoned-off area of the street.

Dr. Claire Washburn, chief medical examiner and my dearest friend, was supervising the removal of Barry Schein’s bagged body into the back of her van.

I went to her and she grabbed my hands.

“God-awful shame. That talented young man. The doer made damned sure he was dead,” said Claire. “What a waste. You okay, Lindsay?”

“Not really.”

Claire and I agreed to speak later. The rear doors to the coroner’s van slammed shut and the vehicle took off. I was looking for Conklin when an enormous, pear-shaped man I knew very well ducked under the tape and cast his shadow over the scene.

Leonard Parisi was San Francisco’s district attorney. He wasn’t just physically imposing, he was a career prosecutor with a long record of wins.

“This is … abominable,” said Parisi.

“Fucking tragedy,” Conklin said, his voice cracking.

I said, “I’m so sorry, Len. We’re about to canvass. Maybe someone saw something. Maybe a camera caught a license plate.”

Parisi nodded. “I’m getting a continuance on the trial,” he said. “I’m taking over for Barry. I’m going to make Kingfisher wish he were dead.”

CHAPTER 19

 

A WEEK HAD PASSED since Barry Schein was killed fifteen hours before Sierra’s trial had been scheduled to begin. We had no leads and no suspects for his murder, but we had convincing direct evidence against Sierra for the murders of Lucille Stone and Cameron Whittaker.

Our case was solid. What could possibly go wrong?

The Hall of Justice was home to the offices of the DA and the ME, as well as to the county jail and the superior court of the Criminal Division. For his security and ours, Sierra was being housed and tried right here.

Rich, Cindy, Yuki, and I sat together in the back row of a blond-wood-paneled courtroom that was packed with reporters, the friends and families of Sierra’s victims, and a smattering of law students who were able to get in to see the trial of the decade.

At 9:00 a.m. Sierra was brought in through the rear door of Courtroom 2C. A collective gasp nearly sucked up all the air in the room.

The King had cleaned up since I’d last seen him. He’d had a nice close shave and a haircut. The orange jumpsuit had been swapped out for a gray sports jacket, a freshly pressed pair of slacks, a blue shirt, and a paisley tie. He looked like a fine citizen, except for the ten pounds of shackles around his ankles and wrists that were linked to the belt cinched around his waist.

He clanked over to the defense table. Two marshals removed the handcuffs and took their seats in the first row behind the rail, directly behind Sierra and his attorney, J. C. Fuentes.

Sierra spoke into his lawyer’s ear, and Fuentes shook his head furiously, looking very much like a wild animal.

At the prosecution counsel table across the aisle, Red Dog Parisi and two of his ADAs represented the side of good against evil. Parisi was too big to be a snappy dresser, but his navy-blue suit and striped tie gave him a buttoned-up look and set off his coarse auburn hair.

He looked formidable. He looked loaded for bear.

I was sure of it. Kingfisher had met his match. And my money was on Red Dog.

CHAPTER 20

 

THE BUTTERFLIES IN MY stomach rose up and took a few laps as the Honorable Baron Crispin entered the courtroom and the bailiff asked us all to rise.

Judge Crispin came from Harvard Law, and it was said that he was a viable candidate for the US Supreme Court. I knew him to be a no-nonsense judge, strictly by the book. When he was seated, he took a look at his laptop, exchanged a few words with the court reporter, and then called the court to order.

The judge said a few words about proper decorum and instructed the spectators in what was unacceptable in his court. “This is not reality TV. There will be no outcries or applause. Cell phones must be turned off. If a phone rings, the owner of that phone will be removed from the courtroom. And please, wait for recesses before leaving for any reason. If someone sneezes, let’s just imagine that others are saying ‘God bless you.’”

While the judge was speaking, I was looking at the back of Kingfisher’s head. Without warning, the King shot to his feet.

His attorney put a hand on his arm and made a futile attempt to force him back down.

But Kingfisher would not be stopped.

He turned his head toward DA Parisi and shouted, “You are going to die a terrible death if this trial proceeds, Mr. Dog. You, too, Judge Crispy. That’s a threat and a promise. A death sentence, too.”

Judge Crispin yelled to the marshals, “Get him out of here.”

Parisi’s voice boomed over the screams and general pandemonium. “Your Honor. Please sequester the jury.”

By then the marshals had charged through the gate, kicked chairs out of their way, and cuffed Sierra’s wrists, after which they shoved and pushed the defendant across the well and out the rear door.

I was also on my feet, following the marshals and their prisoner out that back door that connected to the private corridor and elevators for court officers and staff.

Attorney J. C. Fuentes was at my heels.

The door closed behind us and Sierra saw me. He said, “You, too, will die, Sergeant Boxer. You are still on my list. I haven’t forgotten you.”

I shouted at Sierra’s guards, “Don’t let him talk to anyone. Anyone. Do you understand?”

I was panting from fear and stress, but I stayed right on them as they marched Sierra along the section of hallway to the elevators, keeping distance between Sierra and his lawyer. When Sierra and his guards had gotten inside the elevator, the doors had closed, and the needle on the dial was moving up, I turned on Fuentes.

“Remove yourself from this case.”

“You must be kidding.”

“I’m dead serious. Tell Crispin that Sierra threatened your life and he will believe you. Or how does this sound? I’ll arrest you on suspicion of conspiring to murder Barry Schein. I may do it anyway.”

“You don’t have to threaten me. I’ll be glad to get away from him. Far away.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Let’s go talk to the judge.”

NEXT: Chapters 21-24

 

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