The 6th Target (Women's Murder Club 6)

“ ‘Be prepared for anything.’ ”

“Sometimes I hate it when I’m right. What can you tell me, apart from the fact that Sherman’s never seen a camera he doesn’t like?”

“He’s a big-picture guy,” Yuki said. “Leaves the details to others. Stuff might fall through the cracks.”

Yuki was thinking how she’d read that Mickey Sherman had resigned his job as deputy corporation counsel for the City of San Francisco and opened a small private practice. He’d do the Brinkley case pro bono, but the media attention would be a hell of a launching pad for Sherman and Associates — if he won.

“Well, he hasn’t got a big staff anymore,” Parisi said. “We’ll just have to find those cracks and pry them open with a crowbar. Meanwhile, I already see his first big problem.”

“Yeah.” Yuki nodded. “Alfred Brinkley doesn’t look insane. But Len, Mickey Sherman knows that, too.”

Chapter 63

YUKI STOOD AT ATTENTION as Judge Norman Moore took the bench, Old Glory on one side, flag of the State of California on the other, thermos of coffee and a laptop in front of him.

The two hundred people in the courtroom sat down as court was called into session.

Judge Moore was known to be fair, with a tendency to let lawyers run out ahead a jot too far before bringing down his gavel.

Now Moore spent a good fifteen minutes instructing the jury before turning his bespectacled blue eyes on Leonard Parisi. “Are the People ready to begin?”

“We are, Your Honor.”

Leonard Parisi stood, fastened the middle button of his suit jacket, walked toward the jury box, and greeted the jurors. Red Dog was truly large, his hips broad and his shoulders sloping and wide. His red hair was fuzzy, and his skin was pocked and rough.

Leonard Parisi was no heartthrob, but when he spoke, he had the stage presence of a character actor, one of the greats like Rod Steiger or Gene Hackman.

You just couldn’t keep your eyes off him.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, when you were selected for this jury, you all said that you’d seen the ‘Rooney tape’ of the Del Norte ferry tragedy. You said that you could keep an open mind about the defendant’s guilt or innocence. And you promised that you’d judge Mr. Brinkley by what’s proven to you in this courtroom.

“That’s why I want to tell you what it was like November first on the Del Norte, so that you will see it fresh in your mind’s eye.

“It was a real nice day for a ferry ride,” Parisi began. “About sixty degrees, with intermittent sun. A lot of the tourists were wearing shorts because, hey, San Francisco is in California, right?”

Laughter rippled across the courtroom as Parisi warmed to his opening statement.

“It was a beautiful day that turned into a day in hell because the defendant, Alfred Brinkley, was on that ferry.

“Mr. Brinkley was penniless, but he’d found a round-trip ticket at the farmer’s market and decided to take a ride. He had a loaded gun in his pocket, a revolver that held six

rounds.

“On this particular day, Mr. Brinkley rode the ferry to Larkspur without incident, but on the return trip, as the boat was docking in San Francisco, the defendant saw Andrea Canello having a discussion with her little boy, a cute nine-year-old lad by the name of Tony.

“For a reason known only to Mr. Brinkley, he pulled out his gun and shot that thirty-year-old mother in her chest.

“She died almost instantly, right in front of her small son,” Parisi said. “Then Mrs. Canello’s boy turned his huge, terrified eyes to face the man who had just shot his mother — and what did Alfred Brinkley do?

“He shot Tony Canello, a little boy who was armed with a strawberry ice-cream cone. Tony was in the fourth grade, look-ing forward to Thanksgiving and to getting a mountain bike for Christmas and to growing up to become a man.

“Mr. Brinkley took all that away from Tony Canello. He died in the hospital later that day.”

The pained faces of the jury showed that Parisi had already moved them. One of the jurors, a young woman with shocking magenta hair, bit her lips as tears coursed down her cheeks.

Leonard paused in his speech respectfully and let the juror cry.

Chapter 64