Women's Murder Club [06] The 6th Target Read online

  “There’s no such thing as a slam dunk,” Parisi roared. “O. J. was a slam dunk.”

  “Robert Durst,” said Yuki.

  “Bingo,” Parisi said, staring around at all of them. “Durst admitted that he killed his neighbor, chopped him into a dozen parts, and dumped him into the ocean — and a jury of his peers found him ‘not guilty.’

  “And that’s our challenge with Brinkley, David. We have a taped confession and more witnesses than we can count. The crime was caught on tape. And still, it’s not a slam dunk.”

  “But, Leonard,” Hale said, “that tape of the crime makes the killer in the act. It’s admissible and indisputable.”

  Parisi grinned. “You’re quite the bulldog, David. Good for you. You all know about Rodney King?” Parisi asked, loosening his tie.

  “Rodney King, a black parolee, refused to exit his car after he was stopped for speeding. He was pulled out of his vehicle and struck fifty-six times by four white cops — a massive, bloody beating, all caught on videotape. The case went to trial. The cops were acquitted, and so began the race riots in LA.

  “So the tape didn’t make the case a slam dunk. And maybe this is why: First time you see the Rodney King tape, you’re horrified. Second time, you’re outraged. But once you see it for the twentieth time, your brain has been around every corner of that scene, and you remember it, sure, but the shock power’s gone.

  “Everyone in this country with a television set has seen Jack Rooney’s tape of Alfred Brinkley shooting those people over and over and over again. By now it’s lost its shock power. Understand?

  “That said, the tape is in. We should win this case. And we’re going to do everything we can to put Brinkley on death row.

  “But we’re going against a smart and tenacious attorney in Barbara Blanco,” Parisi said, leaning back in his chair. “And she isn’t working this crap public-defender job for the money. She believes in her client, and the jury is going to feel that.

  “We’ve got to be prepared for anything. And that’s the end of today’s lecture.”

  A respectful silence fell over the conference room. Len Parisi was definitely “da man” around here.

  “Yuki, anything we forgot to go over?”

  “I think we’re covered.”

  “Feeling good?”

  “Feeling great, Len. I’m ready to go. Can’t wait.”

  “Sure. You’re twenty-eight. But I need my beauty sleep. I’ll see you here at seven thirty a.m. Everyone else, stay tuned. We’ll have a postmortem at close of day tomorrow.”

  Yuki said good night to her colleagues and left the room, feeling charged up and lucky that tomorrow morning, she’d be Leonard Parisi’s second chair.

  And despite Parisi’s cautionary rant, Yuki did feel confident. Brinkley wasn’t O. J. or even Robert Durst. He had no star wattage, no media appeal. Only weeks ago he was sleeping on the street with a loaded gun in his pocket. He’d killed four total strangers.

  No way a jury would chance letting that maniac back on the streets of San Francisco again. Would they?

  Part Four

  THE PEOPLE VS. ALFRED BRINKLEY

  Chapter 62

  YUKI PUT HER BRIEFCASE next to Leonard’s on the table outside Department 21. They passed through the metal detectors, walked through the first set of double doors into the small anteroom, then through the second set of doors and directly into the courtroom.

  There was a definite buzz from the gallery as Red Dog, at six two in navy-blue pinstripes, walked next to Yuki, at five three in heels, a hundred pounds in her pearl-gray suit, down the center aisle of the courtroom. Leonard yanked open the gate that separated the gallery from the bar, let her go ahead of him. Then he followed and immediately began setting up at the prosecution table.

  Yuki’s thrill of anticipation was cut sharply with first-day jitters. There was nothing more she could do to prepare, and she couldn’t bear to wait. She straightened her lapels and her stack of papers, glanced at her watch. Court was due to begin in five minutes sharp, and the defense table was empty.

  The room stirred again, and what she saw almost stopped her heart. She nudged Leonard, and he turned.

  Alfred Brinkley was coming up the aisle. His beard had been shaved, his long hair had been buzzed short, and he was wearing a blue polyester suit and tie, looking about as dangerous as rice pudding.

  But it wasn’t Brinkley who’d made her stomach clench and her mouth drop open.

  Barbara Blanco wasn’t at Brinkley’s side. Instead, there was a man in his early forties, prematurely gray, dressed in a charcoal-gray Brioni suit and yellow-print Armani tie. She knew Brinkley’s new attorney.

  Everyone did.

  “Aw, fuck,” Parisi said, smiling stiffly. “Mickey Sherman. You know him, don’t you, Yuki?”

  “Sure do. We were cocounsel when we defended a friend of mine only months ago.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Homicide lieutenant charged with wrong-ful death.” Parisi took off his glasses, polished them with his handkerchief, said to Yuki, “What’d I say last night?”

  “ ‘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

  AT THIS POINT, Judge Moore spoke to the six men and six women of the jury. “Do you need to take a break? Okay then, please continue, Mr. Parisi.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Parisi said. He flicked his eyes over to the defense table, saw that Mickey Sherman was whispering to his client, his back turned away from the proceedings, a dismissive gesture meant to show that Parisi’s opening hadn’t disturbed the defense in the least.

  Smart move. Parisi knew he would’ve done the same thing.

  “I’ve told you that the Del Norte was coming into dock when Mr. Brinkley shot Andrea and Tony Canello. The docking operation was noisy, much louder than two shots from a gun.

  “But a couple of people understood what had happened.

  “Mr. Per Conrad was working on the Del Norte as an engineer that day. He was a family man, with a wife and four beautiful kids, and he was about two years away from retirement. He saw Alfred Brinkley with his gun in hand and he saw the fallen bodies of Andrea and Tony Canello bleeding out on the deck.

  “Mr. Conrad moved to disarm Mr. Brinkley, who took aim and shot Mr. Conrad between the eyes.

  “Mr. Lester Ng was an insurance broker in Larkspur, coming into San Francisco to make a business call. He, too, was a family man, a former U.S. Air Force pilot. And he, too, tried to wrest Mr. Brinkley’s gun away from him. He was shot in the head. Mr. Brinkley’s gun was the last thing Mr. Ng saw in his life.

  “Both men were selfless. They were heroes. And they died because of it.

  “And still Mr. Brinkley was not finished.”

  Parisi walked over to the jury box, put his hands on the rail, looked at each of the jurors as he spoke.

  “Mr. Brinkley was standing beside a woman this community holds in high regard, Dr. Claire Washburn, San Francisco’s chief medical examiner. Dr. Washburn was terrified, but she had the presence of mind to say to Mr. Brinkley, ‘Okay, son . . . give me the gun.’

  “Instead, Mr. Brinkley gave her a bullet in the chest. And when Dr. Washburn’s teenage son, Willie, went to her assistance, Mr. Brinkley shot at him, too.

  “Luckily, the boat bumped the pier at that moment, and Mr. Brinkley’s sixth and final shot missed its mark. And because that shot went wild, two brave people, Claire and Willie Washburn, survived, and Dr. Washburn will be a witness in this trial.”

  Parisi paused, letting the horror of the shooting imprint on the jurors’ minds before he spoke again.

  “There’s no question that everything I’ve told you actually happened.

  “There’s no question that without regard to sex, age, race, or reason, Alfred Brinkley shot and killed four people he didn’t know, and attempted to kill two others.

  “Mr. Jack Rooney, who will also be a witness in this trial, videotaped the shootings, which we will show you. And Mr. Brinkley confessed to these brutal killings, and we’ll show you his taped confession, too.

  “There is no DNA in this case. No blood-spatter evidence and no partial palm prints or any of the kind of forensic evidence that you see every night on TV crime shows. That’s because this case is not a ‘whodunit.’

  “We know who did it. He’s sitting right there.”

  Parisi pointed to the man in the blue suit. Brinkley’s head had sunk down on his shoulders so that his neck seemed to have retracted. His dulled eyes stared straight ahead. The man looked so medicated, Parisi wondered how much of this Brinkley even heard or understood.

  “The defense is going to try to convince you that Mr. Brinkley is psychotic and therefore not responsible for his actions,” Parisi said, walking back to the lectern. “Defense medical experts may have the nerve to stand up here and tell you that the defendant needs ‘treatment,’ not punishment.

  “No problem. We have great doctors treating all our death-row inmates.

  “Acting insane does not exempt you from the rule of law. And it doesn’t mean that you don’t understand that killing people is wrong.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, Alfred Brinkley brought a loaded gun onto the ferry. He targeted his victims with intent and deadly aim. He murdered four of them. And then he ran from the scene of his crime.

  “Because Alfred Brinkley knew that what he’d done was wrong.

  “The People will prove to you that Mr. Brinkley was legally sane when he committed four acts of murder and two acts of attempted murder. And we will ask you to find him ‘guilty’ on all counts.

  “We thank you for your attention. I’m sorry I made some of you cry, but these murders are a tragedy.”

  Chapter 65

  YUKI WATCHED MICKEY SHERMAN STAND UP from the defense table and confidently cross the courtroom floor to the podium.

  Sherman introduced himself to the jury, his hands-in-pockets demeanor and easy charm captivating them with his first sentence.

  “Folks, everything the prosecutor told you is true,” he began. It was a daring declaration, Yuki thought. In fact, she’d never heard opposition counsel take that position before.

  “You all know what happened on the Del Norte on November first,” Sherman said. “Mr. Brinkley did in fact bring a loaded gun onto the ferry. He shot those people without regard for the consequences to them — or to himself.

  “He was surrounded by two hundred fifty people, some of whom witnessed the shooting. Mr. Brinkley didn’t throw his gun away after he fled the Del Norte. He didn’t get rid of the evidence.

  “This was not what you’d call a perfect crime. Only an insane person would do these acts and behave in this way.

  “So what happened is no mystery.

  “But why it happened is what this trial is about.

  “Mr. Brinkley did not understand his actions because when he shot those unfortunate people, he was legally insane.

  “Since the issue of ‘legal insanity’ will be the basis for your judgment of Mr. Brinkley and his actions, this is a good time to define the term,” Sherman said.

  “The issue is this: Did Mr. Brinkley understand the wrong-fulness of his acts when he committed the crimes? If he didn’t understand that those acts were wrong because he suffered from a mental disease or defect at the time the crimes were committed, then he was ‘legally insane.’ ”

  Mickey Sherman paused, shuffled his notes on the lectern, and began speaking again in a tone of voice that Yuki admired and feared. It was soft on the ear, personal, as if he trusted that the jurors wouldn’t need theatrics, that his reasoning was not only credible but true.

  “Mr. Brinkley has been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder,” Sherman told the jury. “He has an illness, like cancer, or diabetes, a disabling disease that came to him genetically and also through childhood trauma.

  “He didn’t a
sk for this disease, but he got it.

  “It could have happened to you or me or anyone in this room. And what disease could be worse than to have your own brain turn against you and cause you to have thoughts and take actions that are completely against your character and nature?

  “I want to say right now that our hearts go out to all the victims of this tragedy. If there was some way we could turn back the clock, if Fred Brinkley could take a magic pill or an injection that would heal him on November first and restore those people’s lives, he would do it in a second.

  “If he had known that he was mentally ill, Mr. Brinkley would have gotten treatment. But he didn’t know why he felt the way he did.

  “Mr. Brinkley’s life brings true meaning to the expression ‘living hell.’ ”

  Chapter 66

  MICKEY SHERMAN FELT THE NICE, STEADY FLOW of adrenaline that came from knowing his stuff and from believing in his client. Brinkley, the poor schmuck, was just waking up to the real world after fifteen years of slow decompensation as his illness had progressed.

  And what a sorry world it was. Going on trial for his life under a thick blanket of antipsychotic medication.

  It was a damned tragedy all the way around.

  “Mr. Brinkley heard voices,” Mickey Sherman said as he paced in front of the jury box. “I’m not talking about the ‘little voice’ we all hear in our own heads, the interior monologue that helps us figure out problems or write a speech or find our car keys.

  “The voices in Mr. Brinkley’s head were directive, intrusive, overwhelming, and cruel.

  “These voices taunted him unrelentingly, called him derogatory names — and they goaded him to kill. When he watched television, he believed that the characters and the news anchors were talking directly to him, that they were accusing him of crimes, and also that they were telling him what to do.

  “And after years of fighting these demons, Fred Brinkley finally obeyed the voices.