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The new ADA was Travis Cummings, in his first year out of law school and about to try his first case. His cuffed pants were too short, his eyeglass frames were bent, and his cuticles were torn, but to his credit he was smart and he worked fast and well.
Conklin and I took turns briefing the young attorney. We told him that we’d been the first officers on the scene and that we’d found Holly holding a smoking double-barreled shotgun and he
r husband bleeding out on the floor.
We told him that Ms. Restrepo told us that she did not remember the circumstances of the shooting, but gunpowder residue had been detected on her hands. And we reported that her little boy had said that she had threatened her husband, his father, and he was sure that she had killed him.
We went over all of this in detail until Cummings felt comfortable, and a half hour later, Conklin and I went with him to the small blond-wood-paneled courtroom on the third floor, where my partner and I took seats in the back row.
Holly’s case was called first and she pled not guilty, of course.
Her court-appointed attorney argued that Holly had two small children whose father was severely injured and might never recover, and so they needed their mother now more than ever before. Furthermore, said Holly’s attorney, she was not a flight risk because of said children and the fact that she had no available funds.
Cummings stepped up and argued that Restrepo’s children had told Child Protective Services that their mother had killed their father, and he made a strong request for remand, which the judge granted.
Bail was refused and a trial date was set.
The judge told Holly that her kids, Leon and Christine Restrepo, ages eight and four, were to remain in the custody of CPS pending foster care, which, no kidding given the option of being returned to their mother, was the best thing for them.
In my opinion he was absolutely right.
Holly screamed and cried that she was the victim here, and Conklin and I slipped out the door. Despite the importance of arraignments, the reality is that in most cases, even murder cases, arraignments take about five minutes.
We took the one flight of stairs to our squad room on the fourth floor, and as we headed for our desks, Conklin said he hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast and wanted to run out for a midmorning snack.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I need to check my mail.”
I was waiting for a call back from Donna Timko, Chuck’s Prime’s product-development manager, who had seemed willing, even eager, to help us sort through names of personnel who might be the belly bomb extortionist.
I asked Conklin to hang on because there was, in fact, an e-mail from Timko in my in-box, a brief message sent from her iPhone.
“I’m back from my business trip. Could we meet at ten-thirty this morning in my office? I can give you a half hour.”
I wrote back that that Conklin and I would see her then. As I relayed this to Conklin, I noticed an e-mail at the very bottom of my inbox. It was from Yuki, and it had come in many hours ago, at two a.m. this morning.
The subject heading read “Help.”
She had to be kidding. What is it, Yuki? Too much love and sex? An overabundance of four-star food and five-star views of nature’s wonders?
Conklin muttered, “You need something while I’m out, Boxer?”
I said, “Okay. Surprise me,” and I clicked on Yuki’s e-mail.
There was no text, but I watched the attached ten-second video. And I could not believe what I was seeing with my own eyes.
Rich was heading out the squad room door, but I yelled out, “Rich. Look at this. Come over here and look at this.”
CHAPTER 49
CONKLIN WASN’T MOVING fast enough for me, so I screamed at him again, even louder.
“Come here, quick! Look at this video from Yuki.”
I had seen the ten-second video Yuki had attached to her blank e-mail, but all I could comprehend for sure was that something unthinkable was happening on the FinStar.
“Run it again,” Richie said reasonably. “And bring up the sound.”
I replayed the too-short video. The phone Yuki had used as a camera whipped around and from side to side as her clip opened with an unfocused view of a bright orange lounge inside the ship. I saw streaks of tables, a sofa, and what might have been a piano. And I saw blurred groups of people in defensive postures.
