‘The Trial’ Chapters 21-24

James Patterson

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Published July 19, 2023

Illustration for The Trial chapters 21-22

Illustration by Anson Chan

CHAPTER 21

CHIEF OF POLICE WARREN Jacobi’s corner office was on the fifth floor of the Hall, overlooking Bryant.

Jacobi and I had once been partners, and over the ten years we had worked together, we had bonded for life. The gunshot injuries he’d gotten on the job had aged him, and he looked ten years older than his fifty-five years.

At present his office was packed to standing room only.

Brady and Parisi, Conklin and I, and every inspector in Homicide, Narcotics, and Robbery were standing shoulder to shoulder as the Kingfisher situation was discussed and assignments were handed out.

There was a firm knock on the door and Mayor Robert Caputo walked in. He nodded at us in a general greeting and asked the chief for a briefing.

Jacobi said, “The jury is sequestered inside the jail. We’re organizing additional security details now.”

“Inside the actual jail?” said Caputo.

“We have an empty pod of cells on six,” Jacobi said of the vacancy left when a section of the women’s jail was relocated to the new jail on 7th Street. He described the plan to bring in mattresses and personal items, all of this calculated to keep the jury free of exposure to media or accidental information leaks.

“We’ve set up a command center in the lobby, and anything that comes into or out of the sixth floor will go through metal detectors and be visually inspected.”

Jacobi explained that the judge had refused to be locked down but that he had 24/7 security at his home. Caputo thanked Jacobi and left the room. When the meeting ended, Brady took me aside.

“Boxer, I’m putting two cars on your house. We need to know where you are at all times. Don’t go rogue, okay?”

“Right, Brady. But—”

“Don’t tell me you can take care of yourself. Be smart.”

Conklin and I took the first shift on the sixth floor, and I made phone calls.

When I got home that evening, I told my protection detail to wait for me.

I took my warm and sleepy Julie out of her bed and filled Mrs. Rose in on my plan as we gathered toys and a traveling bag. When my bodyguards gave me the all clear, I went back downstairs with my still-sleepy baby in my arms. Mrs. Rose and I strapped her into her car seat in the back. Martha jumped in after us.

Deputy sheriffs took over for our beat cops and escorted me on the long drive to Half Moon Bay. I waited for their okay, and then I parked in my sister’s driveway.

I let Martha out and gently extricated my little girl from the car seat. I hugged her awake. She put her hands in my hair and smiled.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, my sweets. Did you have a good nap?”

Catherine came out to meet me. She put her arm around me and walked me and Julie inside her lovely, beachy house near the bay. She had already set up her girls’ old crib, and we tried to put a good spin on this dislocation for Julie, but Julie wasn’t buying it. She could and did go from smiles to stratospheric protests when she was unhappy.

I didn’t want to leave her, either.

I turned to Cat and said, “I’ve texted Joe. He’s on call for whenever you need him. He’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Sounds good,” she said. “I like having a man around the house. Especially one with a gun.”

“Don’t worry,” Cat and I said in unison.

We laughed, hugged, kissed, and then I shushed Julie and told Martha that she was in charge.

I had my hand on my gun when I left Cat’s house and got into my car. I stayed in radio contact with my escorts, and with one car in the lead and the other behind me, we started back up the coast to my apartment on Lake Street.

I gripped the wheel so hard my hands hurt, which was preferable to feeling them shake. I stared out at the taillights in front of me. They looked like the malevolent red eyes of those monsters you see in horror movies. Kingfisher was worse than all of them put together.

I hated being afraid of him.

I hated that son of a bitch entirely.

CHAPTER 22

AN HOUR AFTER I got home to my dark and empty apartment, Joe’s name lit up the caller ID.

I thumbed the On button, nearly shouting, “What’s wrong?”

“Linds, I’ve got information for you,” he said.

“Where are you?”

“On 280 South. Cat called me. Julie is inconsolable. I know I agreed that it was safe to take her there, but honestly, don’t you think it would have made more sense for me to come over and stay with the two of you on Lake Street?”

I was filled with complex and contradictory rage.

It was true that it would have been easier, more expeditious, for Joe to have checked into our apartment, slept on our sofa instead of Cat’s. True that along with my security detail, we would have been safe right here.

But I wasn’t ready for Joe to move back in for a few nights—or whatever. Because along with my justifiable rage, I still loved a man I no longer completely trusted.

“I had to make a quick decision, Joe,” I snapped. “What’s the information?”

“Reliable sources say that there’s Mexican gang activity on the move in San Francisco.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Hey. Blondie. Could you please take it easy?”

“Okay. Sorry,” I said. The line was silent. I said, “Joe. Are you still there?”

“I’m sorry, too. I don’t like anything about this guy. I’ve heard that Mala Sangre ‘killer elites’ have come to town to deliver on Kingfisher’s threats. Los Toros activity has also been noted.”

“Gang war?”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“Thanks, Joe. Drive safe. Call me if Julie doesn’t settle down.”

“Copy that,” said Joe. “Be careful.”

And the line went dead.

I stood with the phone pressed against my chest for a good long while. Then I called Jacobi.

Illustration for The Trial chapters 23-24

Illustration by Anson Chan

CHAPTER 23

I WATCHED FROM THE top of the steps up to the Hall the next morning as hundreds of people came to work, lined up to go through the metal detectors, and walked across the garnet-marbled lobby to the elevator banks.

They all looked worried.

That was both unusual and understandable. Kingfisher’s presence on the seventh floor felt like a kryptonite meteor had dropped through the roof and was lodged in the jail. He was draining the energy from everyone who worked here.

I went inside, passed through metal detection, and then took the stairs to the squad room.

Brady had called a special early-morning meeting because of the intel from Joe. He stood at the head of the open-space bullpen, his back to the door, the muted TV hanging above his head.

Cops from all departments—the night shift, the swing shift, and our shift—were perched on the edges of desks, leaned against walls. There were even some I didn’t recognize from the northern station crammed into the room. I saw deputy sheriffs, motorcycle cops, and men and women in plain clothes and blue.

Brady said, “I’ve called y’all together because we could be looking at a citywide emergency situation.”

He spoke about the possibility of drug gang warfare and he answered questions about Mala Sangre, about Kingfisher, about cops who had been killed at the King’s order. They asked about the upcoming rescheduled trial and about practical issues. The duty rosters. The chain of command.

Brady was honest and direct to a fault. I didn’t get a sense that the answers he gave were satisfying. But honestly, he had no idea what to expect.

When the meeting was over, when the dozen of us on the day shift were alone with our lieutenant, he said, “The jurors are having fits. They don’t know what’s going on, but they can see out the windows. They see a lot of cops.

“The mayor’s coming over to talk to them.”

The mayor was a great people handler.

I was in the sixth-floor dayroom when Mayor Caputo visited the jurors and explained that they were carrying out their civic duty. “It’s not just that this is important,” he said. “This could be the most important work of your entire lives.”

That afternoon one of the jurors had a heart attack and was evacuated. A second juror, a primary caregiver for a dependent parent, was excused. Alternates, who were also in our emergency jury lockup, moved up to full jurors.

When I was getting ready to leave after my twelve-hour day, Brady told me that an ambitious defender, Jake Penney, had spent the last four days with Jorge Sierra and had said that he was good to go.

The countdown to Sierra’s trial had begun again.

CHAPTER 24

I WAS SLEEPING WHEN Joe called.

The time on my phone was midnight, eight hours before the trial was to begin.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Julie’s fine. The SFPD website is down. The power is out at the Hall.”

I turned on the TV news and saw mayhem on Bryant Street. Barricades had been set up. Reporters and cameramen shouted questions at uniformed officers. The Hall of Justice was so dark it looked like an immense mausoleum.

I nuked instant coffee and sat cross-legged in Joe’s chair, watching the tube. At 1:00 a.m. fire could be seen leaping at the glass doors that faced the intersection of Bryant and Boardman Place.

A network reporter said to the camera, “Chet, I’m hearing that there was an explosion inside the lobby.”

I couldn’t take this anymore. I texted Brady. He was rushed. He typed, Security is checking in with me up and down the line. Don’t come in, Boxer.

Then, as suddenly as they had gone out, the lights in the Hall came back on.

My laptop was on the coffee table and I switched it on. I punched in the address for the SFPD site, and I was watching when a title appeared on our own front page: This was a test.

It was signed Mala Sangre.

Kingfisher’s cartel.

This had been their test for what? For shutting down our video surveillance? For sending out threatening messages? For disabling our electronic locks inside the jail? For smuggling bombs into the Hall?

It would have been a laughable threat if Kingfisher hadn’t killed two people from the confines of his windowless cell. How had he pulled that off? What else could he do?

I called Cat. She said, “Lindsay, she’s fine. She was in sleepy land when the phone rang.”

I heard Julie crying and Joe’s voice in the background saying, “Julie-Bug, I’m here.”

“Sorry. Sorry,” I said. “I’ll call you in the morning. Thanks for everything, Cat.”

I called Jacobi. His voice was steady. I liked that.

“I was just going to call you,” he said. “The bomb was stuck under the lip of the sign-in desk. It was small, but if it had gone off during the daytime… ” After a pause Jacobi began again. “Hounds and the bomb squad are going through the building. The trial is postponed until further notice.”

“Good,” I said. But I didn’t feel good. It felt like anything could happen. That Kingfisher was in charge of it all.

My intercom buzzed. It was half past one.

Cerrutti, my designated security guard, said, “Sergeant, Dr. Washburn is here.”

Tears of relief filled my eyes and no one had to see them. I buzzed my friend in.