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I asked, “You think this book could give you enough to make the charges stick?”
“I’m going to reserve my opinion until I see the book.”
We finished lunch, returned to the Hall, and went directly to the property room, where Yuki checked out Connor Grant’s manuscript on how to build a bomb cheap, fast, and well.
“It’s not proof of anything, but it goes to intent,” she said cautiously.
I had hoped for more enthusiasm, but Yuki was right to have low expectations. The manuscript was circumstantial at best.
Yuki said, “The book might incriminate him, but we need Joe’s testimony to corroborate Grant’s confession. That’s critical. But even that doesn’t guarantee a slam-dunk conviction.”
Joe was no longer comatose, but his consciousness was impaired. It was impossible to know what he would recall when or if he recovered from his traumatic head injury.
Yuki and I talked about Grant’s computer, our hope that the explosive material in Grant’s house would be found at the bomb site. Then we split up. She went down one floor to Len’s office, and I worked with Richie in the squad room for the rest of the day.
We were thorough, but slogging through half of Connor Grant’s hundred-plus boxes of tests and term papers was exhausting and fruitless.
When the day was finally done, I called home and spoke to my little Julie and my dear, lifesaving Mrs. Rose. Then I drove to the hospital.
Joe had a new room with a chair and a window and a whole lot of flowers. I taped an abstract crayon drawing to the window, signed by the almost-two-year-old artist in residence on Lake Street. I told Joe about Yuki, and Grant’s arraignment, and then I watched TV in Joe’s room for about an hour.
He never opened his eyes, and he never spoke a word about Sophie Fields, me, Julie, or anyone else.
He slept.
&nbs
p; CHAPTER 25
CONKLIN AND I sat in the back row of Judge Steven Rabinowitz’s arraignment courtroom in the San Francisco Superior Court, located on the second floor of the Hall of Justice. We were there to support Yuki and to see for ourselves that Connor Grant’s attorney didn’t Houdini him out of our jail with a low bail.
The blond-wood-paneled courtroom was standing room only. The victims’ families filled the rows, wanting to see the killer in the flesh and to help the judge understand the depth of their horror and loss.
Yuki was ready when Connor Grant’s case was called and his lawyer walked him to the bench.
Grant turned to look at the gallery full of people. I don’t think he saw me, but I got a look at him—a man who had spent five full days in jail, sleeping with his eyes open, standing with his back to the wall. He wore a classic orange jumpsuit, clanking bracelets and shackles, and a chain belt hooking all his metallic restraints together.
I had met his attorney, Elise Antonelli, a four-hundreddollar-an-hour lawyer who, my guess, had taken this appalling case because of the career-building opportunities in criminal defense.
She was about five two, fair skinned, and brown eyed, and she had an easy smile. She was also sharp and, in my opinion, eager to join the battle.
The charges were read—twenty-five counts of murder two—and the deceased were named in alphabetical order. Every time a name was read, someone in the room moaned or cried out. Judge Rabinowitz threatened to clear the courtroom. I thought he didn’t want to do that, but he would if the spectators in the gallery got out of hand.
Rabinowitz asked Grant, “Do you understand the charges against you?”
Connor Grant said, “Do I understand them?”
I sucked in my breath. What was the psycho killer going to say?
“No, I don’t understand them,” he said. “I was a passerby when Sci-Tron was detonated. I was a very unlucky passerby, Your Honor. I didn’t have anything to do with that bombing.”
Rabinowitz said, “Let me rephrase the question, Mr. Grant. Do you understand that you are being charged with twenty-five counts of murder in the second degree?”
“Well. I heard the charges.”
“Good. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty twenty-five times.”
