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As heads turned to look at her, Yuki read the anxiety on the faces of the friends and families of the victims, all of whom had suffered the sudden loss of loved ones and were now hoping for swift punishment for Connor Grant.
Yuki was right there with them.
She and Len took their seats, noting that the defense table was unoccupied, which was reasonable.
Grant’s legal adviser, Elise Antonelli, had to bring a change of clothes for the defendant, wait for him to dress, then, along with two armed guards, escort him from the jail on the sixth floor, down the back stairs to the second floor, and through the side entrance to the courtroom.
Was Grant sweating the verdict?
Yuki hoped he was drowning in his sweat. She and Len had talked for days about what had gone right and what might have gone wrong in the People’s case. Len, who rarely looked back, had questioned his decision to let Grant’s statement “One suspect. No Evidence” stand rather than repeat what they had already fully refuted. Now, Len seemed to be having second thoughts.
Yuki had been sure his instincts had been correct and had said so to Len.
On the other freaking hand, reasonable doubt on the part of one juror could hang the jury.
Len checked his watch, and just then Antonelli and Grant breezed into the blond-wood-paneled courtroom through the side door. Yuki noted that Grant had aged in the twoplus months he’d spent in jail. His skin was pale. He needed a haircut. His beard was unkempt, and the scar cutting through his top lip was obscured by the growth of his mustache.
But despite his scruffy appearance, his clothes were clean and pressed and his posture was good. He looked confident.
Judge Philip R. Hoffman came through the door behind the bench. A low rumble of cross talk moved like an oncoming storm from the back of the gallery forward and was shut down hard by a few good bangs of the judge’s gavel.
Hoffman said to the bailiff, “Bring in the jury.”
CHAPTER 52
AFTER THREE DAYS of deliberation the jurors entered the jury box. Yuki searched their faces for tells. Several of them—the car salesman, Mr. Louis; the software engineer, Ms. Shannon; the elderly, retired haberdasher, Mr. Werner—avoided her gaze.
Len said, “Jesus,” so softly no one heard him but Yuki, but that one barely audible word chilled the blood pumping at 120 beats per minute through her veins.
When the main doors were closed and guarded, the bailiff announced that court was in session. The judge said, “I’ve been told that the jury has a verdict.”
The foreman, Dennis Lockley, stood. He was a chainstore pharmacist, forty-two, married, and the father of two boys.
“We have, Your Honor.”
Mr. Lockley passed a folded sheet of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the bench. The room was utterly silent as Judge Hoffman unfolded the paper, read it, and turned it back over to the bailiff, who returned it to the jury foreman.
The judge said, “The defendant will rise.”
Grant and Antonelli stood and faced the jury, and Hoffman asked Lockley to announce the verdict.
Lockley read the name and number of the case and then said, “In the first count of murder in the second degree in the above entitled action, we find the defendant, Connor Grant, not guilty.”
Connor Grant’s face lit up with relief. His attorney clapped him on the back as a dissonance of gasps and shocked exclamations sparked in the gallery, caught fire, and exploded.
The gavel banged repeatedly. The judge issued loud warnings. When the noise quieted at last, he asked the foreman to continue.
Lockley read out twenty-four more not-guilty verdicts in the deaths of the other victims.
Yuki was frozen to the seat of her chair. She stared at the jury foreman, and when he sat down, she dimly heard the judge thank the jurors for their service and release Connor Grant from custody.
But it wasn’t over.
A man in the gallery shouted the defendant’s name, breaking Yuki’s stunned paralysis. She turned to look at the man who’d shouted and saw him jump to his feet. He was in his early forties, Yuki thought, six feet, husky build, his dark hair slicked down tight.
He shouted at the former defendant, Connor Grant, “You did it, you bastard. You killed my wife. I’m Master Sergeant Cary Woodhouse. My dear wife was Lisa Woodhouse. Don’t forget me. I’m the one who’s going to make you pay.”
Grant yelled back, “You’re crazy. I’m an innocent man. I’ve always been an innocent man. Maybe you set off that bomb.”
