Joe’s testimony had been terrific.
Would the jury believe him?
Yuki’s silent mantra started up without prompting.
You’re prepared. Len’s the best. The case is solid. Trust the jury.
CHAPTER 38
YUKI, LEN, AND I sat around the big man’s desk with our sandwiches, accompanied by the sounds of traffic whizzing by on Bryant.
As a witness, I wasn’t allowed inside the courtroom except to give my testimony, but Yuki filled me in on what I’d missed, crowing, “Linds, Joe was perfect. He got it all right, and being a victim of the blast added to his credibility. I wish you could have seen him.”
Yuki was pumped. Len was confident. I was bummed that Grant had chopped my testimony into pieces with four short, sharp questions.
“Geez, that’s great. What a relief. And by the way, I want a do-over.”
“You were fine,” said Red Dog. “You laid it out. The jury got you. Grant’s cross didn’t hurt you, Lindsay.”
“No,” I said. “So why am I worried?”
Yuki said, “You’re worried about our lack of physical evidence. Can’t be helped. God knows we turned over every stone—his house, his friends, his story, the pier. Still, if there hadn’t been such a public outcry, if we’d had more time, maybe we could have found something physical in that vast pile of wreckage on Pier 15.”
I nodded. I understood the pressure. The bombing of Sci-Tron had been worldwide news when it happened and was superheated now because of the trial. Reporters were ambushing court workers in the parking lot. Clogging the street with their satellite trucks. Calling us at all hours for quotes. Until a political or celebrity scandal or an even bigger tragedy pushed the bombing off the front page, the media would feed the beast at our expense.
And there was also i
nternal pressure to move smartly ahead and get a conviction. Parisi was up for reelection this year. So was the mayor.
“You think we missed something?” I asked.
Parisi’s brow wrinkled and he put down his grilled cheese to answer me.
“No. I don’t, or I would have put the brakes on this thing. Lindsay, you know as well as we do, the city had to crash that crime scene quickly. Had to search for survivors and bodies. Had to reopen the piers and the street. Look, there’s no way that nutjob committed the perfect crime. He’s going away. For good.”
“Better believe it,” Yuki said.
When I’d handed Connor Grant off to the squad car in front of Pier 15 two months before, I’d been sure we had the right guy headed for a probable slam-dunk conviction. That was once upon a time, long, long ago.
Parisi chucked pickles and used paper goods into the trash. He checked the time on the wall clock with the growling red bulldog graphic on its face, and then he addressed my concern again.
“Lindsay. Juries do what they do. Our case is good and it’s the case we have.”
“I know.”
I believed in Parisi and Yuki. I also believed in Connor Grant’s shrewdness. His audacious crime reminded me of the Boston Marathon bombing, with one exception. Connor Grant didn’t run and hide.
It hit me for the first time.
Yuki read my expression.
“What is it, Lindsay?”
“New thought. Grant wanted to be caught. He stood there. He confessed to a cop. Maybe this trial is part of his ‘magnificent masterwork.’”
Len said, “Then he’s going to have a lot of time in a cage to think about what he did wrong.”
CHAPTER 39