The 8th Confession (Women's Murder Club 8)

“Stacey was being a good daughter. Her parents were getting old. She checked on their policy because she wanted to be sure they were protected.

“In sum, folks, there’s no forensic evidence whatsoever linking my client to this crime. None.

“And because the police have the questionable testimony of a severely injured woman, they have pinned this crime on Stacey — and they never considered anyone else. Is there reasonable doubt in this case? I submit to you there’s nothing but reasonable doubt.

“Rose Glenn lost her husband and almost died. And now the prosecution is asking you to compound this poor woman’s tragedy by taking away her daughter as well.

“Stacey didn’t do it, folks.

“And there’s no evidence to support that she did.

“I urge you to find Stacey Glenn not guilty on all charges. And I thank you.”

Chapter 16

CINDY, FRESH IN a pink wraparound dress under her coat, hair gleaming, looking as though she’d stepped from a department-store window, skirted the filthy drug addicts loitering outside the three-story redbrick building on Fifth off Townsend and thanked a toothless young man who held open the door for her.

The ground floor of “From the Heart” was one large, green room, with a cafeteria-style hot table along one wall, folding tables and chairs set up in rows, and ragged people milling — some talking to themselves, others eating eggs from paper plates.

Cindy noticed a thin black woman eyeing her from a spot near the entrance. She looked about forty years old and was wearing a bold print blouse over black stretch pants. Purple-framed eyeglasses hung from a cord around her neck, and a badge pinned to her blouse read, MS. LUVIE JUMP, DAY ROOM SUPERVISOR.

Ms. Jump continued to scan Cindy skeptically, then said, “Help you?”

Cindy told the woman her name and that she was writing a story about Bagman Jesus for the San Francisco Chronicle.

“I’m following up on his murder,” Cindy said, taking the morning’s paper out of her computer bag. She flipped it open to page three, exposed the headline above the fold.

The black woman squinted at the paper, said, “You had your coffee yet?”

“Nope,” said Cindy.

“Then sit yourself down.”

Luvie Jump returned a minute later with two mugs of coffee, a basket of rolls, and foil-wrapped pats of butter.

“Will you read me that story?” she asked, sitting across from Cindy, laying out plastic flatware and napkins. “I don’t have my reading glasses.”

Cindy smiled, said, “Love to. I don’t get to do readings too often.” She flattened the paper, said, “The headline is ‘Street Messiah Murdered. Police Have No Leads.’ ”

“ Uh-hunh. Go on.”

“Okay, so then it says, ‘Sometime after midnight on May sixth, a homeless man was beaten and shot to death outside the Caltrain yard on Townsend Street.

“ ‘More than a hundred homeless people die on our streets from neglect and violence every year, and the city buries and forgets them.’ ”

“Can say that again,” Luvie murmured.

Cindy went on, “ ‘But this man won’t be forgotten easily. He was a friend to the castoffs, the shadow people of the underclass. He was their shepherd, and they loved him.

“ ‘We don’t know his name, but he was called Bagman Jesus.’ ”

Cindy’s throat caught and she looked up, saw Luvie Jump smiling at her, the woman’s mouth quavering as if she might cry.

“He delivered my oldest child in an alley,” Luvie said. “That’s why he wore that baby on the cross around his neck. Jesus saves. Jesus saves. What can I do to help you, Cindy Thomas? Just tell me.”

“I want to know everything about him.”

“Where should I start?”