“I guess it was,” Yates said.
Giftos asked, “What kind of gun was it, Mr. Yates?”
“A .38-caliber Smith and Wesson.”
“Very good. It’s common knowledge that’s the type of gun Ms. Hill carried, right?”
“I guess.”
Giftos said, “Mr. Yates, what I’m going to do is show you pictures of various handguns. Please point out the .38 Smith and Wesson, the type of gun that you’ve testified Ms. Hill used to terrify you.”
Giftos started slapping eight-by-ten photos down on the arm of the witness stand, one after the other, and asking, “Like this one? How about this one, Mr. Yates? Was it like this one? This?”
Yuki watched as Giftos worried Yates like he was a dog with a bone. “Is it this? This? This?”
Paul Yates shook his head, saying, “I don
’t know. Maybe. I don’t think so. No.”
Giftos picked up the last photo of a handgun that Yates had dismissed and turned it over.
“Will you please read the notation on the back of this photograph?”
Yates said, “This isn’t fair.”
“Your Honor?” Giftos said to the judge.
“The witness will read the caption.”
Yates glanced down, then turned his eyes back to James Giftos, saying, “It says that it’s a Smith and Wesson .38-caliber handgun.”
Giftos gathered the photos together, handed them to Yuki, and said, “Let the record show that the witness failed to identify the gun of the type he testified was used in his terrifying encounter with the defendant.”
Yuki glanced through the photos, then handed them back to Giftos, and he entered them into evidence. Just when Yuki thought Giftos was going to say that he had no more questions, he turned back to Yates and said, “One more thing, Mr. Yates. When you decided to come forward with this story, did you check out the statutes? Do you understand that perjury is a crime?”
Yuki objected. Paul Yates looked like he’d been punched.
Rathburn said, “Sustained, and I want that stricken from the record.”
“Withdrawn. I’m done with this witness,” Giftos said, turning his back, again returning to the counsel table. Once seated, he took the defendant’s hand.
Judge Rathburn said, “Mr. Yates. You are excused.”
CHAPTER 49
TWELVE HOURS HAD passed since an unarmed middle-aged woman was shot dead on Geary Street for no apparent reason.
Conklin and I were thinking about the victim as we faced each other across our desks that morning, trying to get a handle on the why in the hope that it would lead to a who.
Why? She hadn’t been robbed. She hadn’t put up a fight. She’d simply been shot to death at close range.
Who did it?
We had no witnesses, no forensics, no motive, no videotape, and it wasn’t our case. But we did have our CI, Millie Cushing, the most productive confidential informant with whom I’d ever had the pleasure of working.
Millie had called me last night within minutes of the murder, and it was her call that had sent me and my partner out into the night.
“It’s the same pattern, Lindsay,” Millie had said. “It’s another execution. Lou was homeless. She frequented Union Square. Someone is trying to rub us out,” Millie said before her voice melted into sobs.