The 9th Judgment (3 page)

But that was okay.

She just had to give the greatest closing of her life, as if the dead scumbag victim were the best and brightest of men, and
as if this were the last case she would ever try.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” she said, “Dr. Lincoln Harris is dead because this man, Adam J. Johnson, knew Dr. Harris was in mortal
danger and let him die with willful disregard for his life. In California, that’s manslaughter in the first degree.

“We know what happened on the night of March fourteenth because, after waiving his right to remain silent, after waiving his
right to counsel, Mr. Johnson told the police how and why he let Dr. Harris expire when he could have easily saved his life.”

Yuki let her words resonate in the chamber, shuffling her cards on the lectern before continuing her closing argument.

“On the evening in question, the defendant, who had been employed by Dr. Harris as a handyman, went out to get cocaine for
the doctor and himself.

“He returned within the hour, and the defendant and the plaintiff ingested this cocaine. Shortly after that, Dr. Harris OD’d.
How do we know that?

“The defendant told the police—and it was borne out by medical experts—that it was clear Dr. Harris was in extremis. He was
foaming at the mouth and eventually lost consciousness. But, rather than call an ambulance, the defendant used this opportunity
to remove a thousand dollars and an ATM card from Dr. Harris’s wallet.

“Mr. Johnson then used Dr. Harris’s ATM card, took another thousand dollars, and bought himself a new leather jacket and a
pair of boots at Rochester Big & Tall.

“After that,” Yuki told them, “the defendant bought more cocaine and hired a prostitute, Elizabeth Wu, whom he brought back
to Dr. Harris’s home.

“Over the next several hours, Ms. Wu and Mr. Johnson snorted coke, had sex a few times, and at one point, according to Mr.
Johnson’s statement, discussed how to dispose of Dr. Harris’s body once he died. That, Ladies and Gentlemen, shows ‘consciousness
of guilt.’

“Adam Johnson absolutely knew that the doctor was dying. But he didn’t call for help for fifteen hours,” Yuki said, slapping
the lectern. “Fifteen hours. Finally, at the behest of Ms. Wu, Mr. Johnson finally called nine one one, but it was too little,
too late. Dr. Harris died in the ambulance en route to the hospital.

“Now, we all know that the defense has no defense.

“When facts are against them, defense lawyers resort to theatrics and to blaming the victim.

“Mr. Asher has told you that Dr. Harris lost his license to practice medicine because he used drugs. And that he cheated on
his wife. That’s true, and
so what?
The victim wasn’t a saint, but even imperfect people have a right to humane treatment. And they have a right to justice.

“The defense has portrayed Adam Johnson as a hapless gofer who didn’t know an OD from a CD.

“That’s fiction. Adam Johnson knew what he was doing. He’s admitted to all of it: the willful disregard as well as the fun
he had that night, stealing and shopping and snorting coke and having sex while Dr. Harris lay dying.

“That’s why there can be only one verdict. The People ask you to find Adam Johnson guilty on three counts: of grand larceny,
of intent to deal narcotics, and of reckless disregard for the life of a human being—that is, manslaughter in the first degree.”

YUKI HUDDLED WITH Gaines in the hallway outside the courtroom during the ten-minute recess.

“You knocked their socks off,” Gaines told her.

Yuki nodded. She combed her mind for mistakes and didn’t find any. She hadn’t blanked, hadn’t sputtered or blown her lines,
hadn’t come off as rehearsed. She had no regrets. She only wished her mom could have been here to see her.

She said to her number two, “Jo-Jo did it. He said he did it, and we proved it.” Yuki’s heart was still pumping adrenaline,
the good kind. A bit like champagne.

Nicky nudged her, and Yuki looked up. She saw that the bailiff had opened the leather-paneled door. The pair re-entered the
courtroom and took their seats. Yuki’s mouth went suddenly dry as the court was called into session.

And now the fear factor started nibbling at her confidence. Asher would have the last word. Could he convince the jury to
let Johnson off? She thought ahead to the worst possible result—a finding in favor of the defendant. After that, Asher’s dad
would give his son a party at the Ruby Skye, and she would slink home alone.

The humiliation would be all hers.

Beside her, Nicky doodled a caricature of her with a star on her chest and a halo behind her head. She managed a smile, and
then the room fell silent.

Judge Rabinowitz asked Asher if the defense was ready to close, and he answered, “Yes, Your Honor, we are.”

Like a Thoroughbred into the starting gate, Asher nearly pranced toward the jury box. He put his hand on the railing and—while
standing no more than a yard away from the jurors in the front row, close enough for the foreperson to see the comb marks
in his hair and the sparkle on his dental veneers—began his summation.

“Folks, I don’t have any notes because Adam Johnson’s defense is as simple and as clear as day.

“He’s not a doctor. He doesn’t know anything about sick people or about medicine. He didn’t know that Dr. Harris was in serious
distress.

“Adam Johnson is a handyman.

“Lincoln Harris was a doctor of medicine.

“And, as the medical examiner told you, Lincoln Harris didn’t die from cocaine overdose. He died from cocaine and a self-injected
dose of heroin.

“What happened is that those drugs interacted, and that proved fatal. Dr. Harris knew what drugs did to the body, and he took
them anyway. For all anyone knows, he intended to die.

“I think Mr. Johnson would agree that if he had it to do again, when he saw that Dr. Harris was ill, he would have immediately
called nine one one. He probably would have done everything different that night, but he made some mistakes.

“Yes, he’s guilty of stealing two thousand dollars from a rich boss who had given him his ATM pin number.

“Yes, he’s guilty of giving those drugs to Ms. Wu, a known drug user and a prostitute, and while this is true, it’s a technicality.
He wasn’t actually dealing. He used drugs for recreation.

“As for consciousness of guilt, I submit to you folks that my client was just shooting the bull with Ms. Wu when they discussed
‘dumping the body.’

“They didn’t do it, did they?” Asher asked rhetorically. “Mr. Johnson called for an ambulance. The facts are clear. My client
didn’t know if Dr. Harris was dying or if he was going to wake up with a bad headache. He’s no genius, but he’s not a bad
guy.

“And so we ask you to find him ‘not guilty’ of manslaughter, because he simply
did not do it
.”

I LEFT THE Homicide squad room in a hurry that evening, determined to get out of Jacobi’s line of sight before I got drafted
into someone else’s case. I’d just stepped into the elevator when, damn it, my cell phone buzzed.

It was Yuki; she was funny, passionate, and going through a rough time, so I pressed the phone to my ear and she peppered
me with her customary rat-a-tat speech.

“Lindsay, my head’s spinning off my neck. Can you meet me at MacBain’s? Like, now?”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re busy.”

“I’ve got plans,” I said, “but I can have a quick beer—”

“I’ll meet you in five.”

MacBain’s Beers O’ the World Pub is a cops-and-lawyers hangout two blocks from the Hall of Justice. I got my car out of the
all-day lot and headed east on Bryant, telling myself that I’d still have time to pick up the shrimp on the way home.

I entered the bar, found a tiny table near the window, and had just ordered two Coronas from the waitress when I saw Yuki
elbowing her way through the crowd, coming toward me. She was talking before she sat down.

“You ordered? Good. How are you? Okay?”

The waitress brought the beer, and Yuki asked for a burger well-done with cheese fries.

“You’re not eating?” she said.

“I’m cooking a late dinner for Joe.”

“Ah.”

She put a hand to her brow as if shielding her eyes from the light bouncing off my engagement ring.

“Must be nice.”

“Yeah,” I said, grinning at her.

Being engaged was still new to me after months and months of a cross-country roller-coaster romance. Now Joe and I lived together,
and we still hadn’t sat down to dinner at the same time in two weeks. I’d promised him shrimp pomodoro tonight, and I was
looking forward to the whole deal: the cooking, the supping, the afterglow. “So what’s going on?” I asked Yuki.

She drained half her glass before answering. “My victim isn’t just scum, he’s dead scum, and Jo-Jo is cute and stupid. The
women jurists looked at him, Linds, like they wanted to breast-feed him.”

I’d stopped by the courtroom to watch Yuki’s closing argument, and I had to agree. Dr. Lincoln Harris was dead slime, and
while Jo-Jo Johnson was hardly better—he was alive. And he looked like a man without a clue.

“Asher could actually win,” Yuki wailed. “I quit private practice for
this?
Help me, Linds. Should I find a good-paying job in a corporate law firm?”

My phone vibrated on my hip again. I looked down at the caller ID. Jacobi. My ex-partner and current boss, whose gut reaction
to everything is to call me. Old habits die hard. I keyed the button and said, “Boxer,” into the mouthpiece.

“There’s been a double homicide, Lindsay. It’s got ‘psycho’ written all over it.”

“Did you call Paul Chi? He’s back from vacation. I’ll bet he’s home right now.”

“I want you on this,” Jacobi growled.

After more than ten years of working together, we were almost able to read each other’s mind. Jacobi sounded freaked out,
like someone had walked over his grave.

“What’s this about, Warren?” I asked him, already knowing my best-laid plans for the evening were shot.

“One of the vics is a young kid,” Jacobi said.

He gave me the address—the parking garage near the galleria. “Conklin just left. He’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

“I’m on my way,” I told him.

I CLOSED MY phone and promised Yuki a longer, better talk about her career after the jury came back. I said, “Your closing
was outstanding, girlfriend. Don’t quit.” I kissed her cheek and fled the bar.

I drove my Explorer toward Market and got gridlocked. I put the Kojak light on my roof and hit the siren. Vehicles parted
reluctantly, and I finally reached the entrance to the garage near the Stonestown Galleria.

The mouth of the garage was cordoned off and blocked by a grumbling crowd of car owners. I held up my shield, ducked under
the tape, and signed the log. Officer Joe Sorbero looked gray, as if he’d never seen death before.

“You’re the first officer on the scene?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You okay, Joe?”

“I’ve been better, Sergeant,” he said, smiling weakly. “I’ve got kids, you know.” He pointed out a blue RAV4 parked toward
the far end of the row. “Your next nightmare is right over there.”

I followed Sorbero’s finger and saw Inspector Rich Conklin standing between a couple of vehicles at the end of the aisle,
peering into the driver’s-side window of the RAV4.

When Jacobi moved up to lieutenant, Conklin became my partner. He’s smart and disturbingly handsome, and he’s got the makings
of a first-class detective. It wouldn’t shock anyone if he made captain one day, but right now he reports to me.

He came toward me before I could reach the scene.

“Brace yourself, Linds.”

“Fill me in.”

“White female, about thirty, name of Barbara Ann Benton. The other victim is an infant. Might be a year old. Both were shot
point-blank. The ME and CSU are on the way.”

“Who called it in?”

“A lady who was parked in the spot next to the RAV4. I interviewed her and sent her home. She didn’t see anything. So far,
no one did. Unis are going through the trash cans, and we’ve collected the surveillance tape.”

“Are you thinking the baby was collateral damage?”

“No way,” Conklin said. “He was capped on purpose.”

I approached the SUV and sucked in my breath as I looked inside. Barbara Ann Benton was slumped awkwardly in the front seat,
half facing the rear as if she’d tried to climb over the divide.

I saw two obvious gunshot wounds: one to the neck and another to the side of her chest. Then I forced myself to look past
the mom to the child in his car seat.

The baby boy had a glaze of pink candy on his lips and on the fingers of his right hand. The rear window was spattered with
blood. The child had been shot through the temple at close range.

Conklin was right.

The baby’s death was no accident. In fact, the shot was so precise, the kid could have been the prime target.

I hoped that the little boy hadn’t realized what was happening.

I hoped he hadn’t had time to be afraid.

“WHAT DO YOU make of this, Linds?”

Conklin called to my attention the vivid red letters printed on the windshield. I stared, riveted by the sight. This is what
Jacobi had been talking about when he’d said that the crime scene had “‘psycho’ written all over it.”

He hadn’t said it was written in lipstick.

The letters “WCF” meant nothing to me, except the fact that only wacko killers deliberately leave a signature. It reminded
me of cases I’d caught where the killer had signed his crimes. And it brought back the bad old days when the Backstreet Killer
had terrified San Francisco in the ’90s, a murderer who took eight innocent lives, left signatures and notes for the police,
and was never caught. A chill went down the back of my neck.

“Those shopping bags in the rear,” I said to Conklin. “Were they looted?” I was hoping.

My partner shook his head no and said, “Looks like a hundred bucks in the victim’s wallet. This wasn’t a robbery. This was
an execution. Two of them.”