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  Junie peered at the document, said, “Yes.”

  Yuki read the entire form, stopping at each point to fire the question at Junie: “Did you understand this? Are these your initials?” Bang, bang, bang.

  And after each question, Junie scrutinized the paper and said, “Yes.”

  “And here at the bottom is a waiver of rights. It says that you understand your rights, that you don’t want a lawyer, that no threats have been made against you, that you weren’t coerced. Did you sign this?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

  “And did you tell the police that Michael Campion died in your house and that you disposed of his body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you feel tricked or intimidated by the police?”

  “No.”

  Yuki walked to the prosecution table, put down the form, collected a nod from Parisi, and turned back to the defendant.

  “Why did you make this confession?”

  “I wanted to help the police.”

  “I’m confused, Ms. Moon. You wanted to help them. So first you said you never met Mr. Campion. Then you said he died in your arms. Then you said you left his body parts in a Dumpster. Then you said you made up the story to please the police – because that’s the kind of person you are.

  “Ms. Moon. Which lie do you want us to believe?”

  Junie shot a startled look to her attorney, then stared at Yuki, stuttered incoherently, her lips quivering, tears sliding down her pale face, before choking out, “I’m sorry. I don’t know… I don’t know what to say.”

  A woman’s voice sounded out from the gallery, directly behind the defense table. “STOP!”

  Yuki turned toward the voice, as did every other person in the courtroom. The speaker was Valentina Campion, wife of the former governor, mother of the dead boy. She was standing, resting a hand on her husband’s shoulder for support.

  Yuki felt her blood drain to her feet.

  “I can’t stand what she’s doing to that poor child,” Valentina Campion said to her husband. Then she edged past him to the aisle, and as two hundred people swiveled in their seats to watch her, Mrs. Campion exited the courtroom.

  Chapter 85

  YUKI HAD SPENT THE NIGHT flopping like a beached tuna, and she was still sweating this morning, thinking how first she’d been sandbagged by her fricking boss. And then Valentina Campion had thrown her under an eighteen-wheeler!

  People bond during trials, Yuki knew that, and strange attachments were made. But Mrs. Campion protecting the defendant? That was crazy! Didn’t she realize that Yuki was on her side? That she was trying to do the right thing by her son?

  Now the buzz in the courtroom grew as spectators and reporters watched L. Diana Davis take her seat. Davis looked smug, Yuki thinking that her opponent must’ve gotten drunk last night on self-congratulation.

  Junie Moon was escorted into the courtroom. Davis stood, sat when her client sat, and immediately after they were both seated, the bailiff called out, “All rise.”

  There was a muffled whoosh of people standing as the judge limped to the bench. The jury filed in, dropped their bags, settled into their seats. Judge Bendinger spoke to the jury, reminded them of his instructions. Then he asked Yuki if she was ready to give her summation, and she said that she was.

  But she wasn’t sure.

  She gathered her notes, stood tall in her Jimmy Choos, and walked to the lectern. She put her notes in front of her and blocked out everyone but the jury. She ignored Parisi’s placid bulk, Twilly’s mocking smile, Davis ’s hauteur, and the defendant’s pathetic fragility. She even looked past Cindy, who gave her a thumbs-up from the back row.

  Yuki stood a poster-sized photo of Michael Campion on the easel, turned it so it faced the jury. She paused to let everyone see the face of the boy who was so beloved that citizens of the world included him in their prayers at night.

  Yuki wanted to be sure the jury understood that this trial was about Michael Campion’s death, not the sad story of the prostitute who’d let him die.

  Yuki put her hands on the sides of the lectern and began to speak from her heart.

  Chapter 86

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, Junie Moon is a prostitute,” Yuki said. “She’s in violation of the law every time she works, and her clientele is made up largely of schoolboys below the age of consent. But we don’t hold the defendant less credible because of what she does for a living. Ms. Moon has her reasons – and that doesn’t make her guilty of the charges against her.

  “So, please judge her as you would anybody else. We’re all equal under the law. That’s the way our system works.

  “Ms. Moon is charged with tampering with evidence and with murder in the second degree.

  “In my opening statement, I told you that in order to prove murder, we have to prove malice. That is, that the person acted in such a way as we can construe them to have had ‘an abandoned and malignant heart.’

  “What does an abandoned and malignant heart look like?

  “Ms. Moon told the police that she ignored Michael Campion’s pleas for help, she let him die, and then she covered up this crime by dismembering and disposing of that young man’s body.

  “Could any of you cut up a person’s body?” Yuki asked. “Can you imagine what’s involved in dismembering a human being? I have a hard time cutting up a chicken. What would it take to dismember a person who was living and breathing and speaking only hours before – someone who was sharing your bed?

  “What kind of soul, what kind of character, what kind of person, what kind of heart, would it take to do that?

  “Wouldn’t that behavior define an abandoned and malignant heart?

  “The defendant made this confession when she thought she was off the record and in the clear. But Junie Moon got it wrong. A confession is a confession, ladies and gentlemen, on tape or off. It’s as simple as that. She made an admission of guilt, and we’re holding her to it.

  “Now, the People have the burden of proving our case beyond a reasonable doubt. So if you can’t answer every question in your mind, that’s normal. That’s human. That’s why your charge is to find the defendant guilty beyond reasonable doubt – but not beyond all doubt.”

  Yuki’s voice was throbbing in her throat when she said, “We don’t know where Michael Campion’s body is. All we know is the last person to see him is sitting in that chair.

  “Junie Moon confessed again and again and again.

  “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is all you need to find her guilty and to give justice to Michael Campion and his family.”

  Chapter 87

  NO ONE HAD YET DISCOVERED what the L. stood for in L. Diana Davis. Some said it was something exotic; Lorelei or Letitia. Some said that Davis had stuck the initial in front of her name to add mystique.

  Yuki guessed the L. stood for “lethal.”

  Davis was wearing Chanel for her closing argument: a pink suit with black trim, calling up memories of Jackie Kennedy, although there was nothing of the former president’s wife in Davis ’s strident voice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. You remember what I asked in my opening statement,” she demanded rather than asked. “Where’s the beef? And that’s the bottom line here. Where’s the body? Where’s the DNA? Where’s the confession? Where’s the proof in this case?

  “The prosecution is trying to convince us that a person confesses to a crime and the police have her in custody and they don’t record her confession – and that doesn’t mean anything? They say that there’s no blood evidence and no body – and that doesn’t mean anything either?

  “I’m sorry, folks, but something is wrong here,” Davis said, her hands on the railing of the jury box.

  “Something is very wrong.

  “Dr. Paige, a distinguished psychiatrist, got on the stand and said that in her opinion, Junie Moon falsely confessed because her self-esteem is so low it’s off the charts, and that Ms. Moon wanted to please the police. She also said that in he
r opinion, Ms. Moon feels guilty about being a prostitute and so she confessed to discharge some of that guilt.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you the dirty little secret about false confessions. Every time a major crime is committed, false confessions pour into the hotlines. Hundreds of people confessed to the Lindbergh baby kidnapping. Dozens of people told police they killed the Black Dahlia. Maybe you remember when John Mark Karr caused an international brouhaha by confessing to the murder of JonBenet Ramsey ten years after her death.

  “He didn’t do it.

  “People confess to crimes when they’ve been cleared by DNA evidence. Go figure. People confess for reasons you and I would find hard to understand, but it’s the role of a good investigator to separate false confessions from real ones.

  “Junie Moon’s confession was false.

  “The absence of evidence in this case is remarkable. If the name of the so-called victim was Joe Blow, there probably wouldn’t have been an indictment, let alone a trial. But Michael Campion is a political celebrity and Ms. Moon is at the bottom of the social totem pole.

  “It’s showtime!

  “But this isn’t Showbiz Tonight, ladies and gentlemen. This is a court of lawwww,” Davis trumpeted. “So we’re asking you to use your common sense as well as the facts in evidence. If you do that, you can only find Junie Moon not guilty of the charges against her, period.”

  Chapter 88

  IT WAS AFTER SEVEN when I got to Susie’s. The patrons at the bar had achieved a high degree of merriment. I didn’t recognize the plinky tune the steel band was playing, but it was all about sun and the sparkly Caribbean Sea.

  Made me want to move to Jamaica and open a dive shop with Joe. Drink passion fruit mai tais and grill fish on the beach.

  I reached our table in the back room as Lorraine was clearing away a plate of chicken bones. She took my order for a Corona and dropped off the menu. Claire was taking up one side of our booth, what she called “sitting for two,” while Cindy and Yuki sat across from her – Yuki pressed up against the wall as if she’d been smushed there like a bug.

  It looked like she’d lost a fight.

  I dragged up a chair, said, “What’d I miss?”

  “Yuki gave a great closing argument,” Cindy said, and then Yuki broke in.

  “But Davis obliterated it!”

  “You are nuts. You got the final damned word, Yuki,” Cindy said. “You nailed it.”

  I didn’t have to beg. As soon as we ordered dinner, Yuki launched into her impeccable L. Diana Davis impression, screaming, “Where’s the beef? Where’s the beef?”

  When Yuki paused for breath, Cindy said, “Do your rebuttal, Yuki. Do it like you mean it.”

  Yuki laughed a little hysterically, wiped tears from her eyes with a napkin, downed her margarita – a drink she could barely handle on a good day. And then she belched.

  “I hate waiting for a verdict,” she said.

  We all laughed, Cindy egging Yuki on until she said, “Okay.” And then she was into it, eyes glistening, hands gesturing, the whole Yuki deal.

  “I said, ‘Was a crime committed? Well, ladies and gentlemen, there’s a reason the defendant is here. She was indicted by a grand jury and not because of her relative social standing to the deceased. The police didn’t throw a dart at a phone book.

  “ ‘Junie Moon didn’t call the police and make a false confession.

  “ ‘The police developed information that led them to the last person to see Michael Campion. That person was Junie Moon – and she admitted it.’ ”

  “That’s gooood, sugar,” Claire murmured.

  Yuki smiled, continued on. “ ‘We don’t have Michael Campion’s body, but in all the months since he saw Ms. Moon, he has never called home, never used his credit card, his cell phone, or sent an e-mail to his parents or friends to say he’s all right.

  “ ‘Michael wouldn’t do that. That’s not the kind of boy he was. So where is Michael Campion? Junie Moon told us. He died. He was dismembered. And his body was dumped in the garbage. She did it.

  “ ‘Period.’ ”

  “See?” Cindy said, grinning. “She totally nailed it.”

  Chapter 89

  CLAIRE AND I were sitting up in her bed that night after our outing at Susie’s, having a two-girl pajama party. Edmund was on tour with the San Francisco Symphony, and Claire had said, “I really, really don’t want to go into labor here all by myself alone, girlfriend.”

  I looked over at her, lying in the huge divot she’d made in her memory-foam mattress with her rotund 260 pounds.

  “I can’t get any bigger,” she said. “It’s not possible. I wasn’t this big with two boys, so how can this little girl-child turn me into the blimp that ate the planet?”

  I laughed, thinking it was possible that when she’d had her first baby twenty years ago, she was a few sizes smaller than when she’d conceived Ruby Rose, but I didn’t say so.

  “What can I get you?” I asked.

  “Anything in the freezer compartment,” Claire said.

  “Copy that,” I said, grinning at her. I returned with a carton of Chunky Monkey and two spoons, climbed back into the bed, saying, “It’s cruel to call an ice cream Chunky Monkey when that’s what it turns you into.”

  Claire cackled, pried off the lid, and as we took turns dipping our spoons in, she said to me, “So how’s it going with you and Joe?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Living together, you idiot. Are you thinking of getting seriously hooked up? As in married?”

  “I like the way you kind of edge into a subject.”

  “Hell. You’re not such a subtle creature yourself.”

  I tipped my spoon in her direction – touché, my friend – then I started talking. Claire knew most of it: about my failed marriage, about my love affair with Chris, who’d been shot dead in the line of duty. And I talked about my sister, Cat, divorced with two young kids, holding down a big job, and having a bitter relationship with her ex.

  “Then I look at you, Butterfly,” I said. “In your grown-up four-bedroom house. And you have your darling husband, two great kids off into the world, and now you have the guts and love enough to make another baby.”

  “So where are you in all this, sugar?” Claire said. “You going to let Joe make the decision you don’t love him enough to marry him? Let some other girl make off with Joe, the perfect man?”

  I threw myself back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. I thought about the Job, about working with Rich seventeen hours a day and loving that. How little time I had for anything but work; hadn’t done Tai Chi in ages, stopped playing the guitar, even turned the nightly run with Martha over to Joe.

  I put my mind on how different it would all be if I were married and had a baby, if there were people who worried about me every time I left the house. And damn – what if I got shot?

  And then I considered the alternative.

  Did I really want to be alone?

  I was about to run all this by Claire, but I’d been quiet for so long, my best friend picked that moment to jump in.

  “You’ll figure it out, sweetheart,” she said, capping the empty ice-cream container, resting her spoon in a Limoges saucer on the nightstand. “You’ll work on it and then, snap. You’ll just know what’s right for you.”

  Would I?

  How could Claire be so sure, when I was without a clue in the world?

  Chapter 90

  ONLY THREE BLOCKS from the Hall, Le Fleur du Jour is a popular morning hangout for cops. At 6:30 a.m. the smell of freshly baked bread made noses quiver up and down the flower market. Joe, Conklin, and I were at one of the little tables on the patio with a view of the flower stalls in the alley. Having never been with Joe and Conklin together, I felt an uneasiness I would have hated to explain.

  Joe was telling Conklin some of his thoughts about the arson-homicide cases, saying he agreed with us, that one person couldn’t have subdued the victims al
one.

  “These kids are show-offy smart,” Joe said. “Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum videtur.”

  “And that means what?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Did everyone know Latin but me?

  Joe flashed me a grin. “It means, ‘Anything said in Latin sounds profound.’ ”

  Conklin nodded, his brown eyes sober this morning. I’d seen this precise look when he interrogated a suspect. He was taking in everything about Joe, and maybe hoping that my boyfriend with his high-level career in law enforcement might actually have a theory.

  Or better yet, Joe might turn out to be a jerk.

  No doubt, Joe was appraising Richie, too.

  “They’re definitely smart,” Conklin said, “maybe a little smarter than we are.”

  “You know about Leopold and Loeb?” Joe asked, sitting back as the waiter put strawberry pancakes in front of him. The waiter walked around the table distributing eggs Benedict to me and to Conklin.

  “I’ve heard their names,” Conklin said.

  “Well, in 1924,” Joe said, “two smart and show-offy kids who were also privileged and sociopathic decided to kill someone as an intellectual exercise. Just to see if they could get away with it.”

  Joe had our attention.

  “Leopold had an IQ that went off the charts at around 200,” Joe said, “and Loeb’s IQ was at least 160. They picked out a schoolboy at random and murdered him. But with all their brilliance they made some dumb mistakes.”

  “So you’re thinking our guys could have a similar motive. Just to see if they could get away with it?”

  “Has the same kind of feel.”

  “Crime TV has been educational for this generation of bad guys,” Conklin said. “They pick up their cigarette butts and shell casings… Our guys have been pretty careful. The clues we’re finding are the ones they’re leaving on purpose.”