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“You can put your hand down now,” she said. “What have you heard about our case?”
“What I’ve read is that Hill and Christopher were dating. Things went strange and she pulled a gun and forced him to have sex with her. According to what I’ve gathered at the water cooler, there’s a video of this sex, and in the recording Christopher is telling her to stop and she does not stop. Is that about the gist of it?”
“That’s right, Art. What are your thoughts?”
“The words slam dunk come to mind. But I know you can’t count on that. The video could be excluded. The defense will certainly try that. Other thoughts: I’ve never litigated a criminal case. I’m a long shot for second chair, but I don’t think you’ll be sorry if you give me the chance.”
“Okay,” Yuki said. “I’m taking all of that on board.”
“Something else,” he said. “I have personal experience with … this.”
Yuki sucked in her breath. “How so?”
“When I was ten, my babysitter assaulted me. Seduced me. I didn’t tell anyone at the time, but I suffered with it, and once I went to college, I got some therapy. About twenty years of therapy. I finally told my wife about the assault when we’d been married for five years.”
“Oh, man, Art. I wasn’t expecting that. You really want second chair?”
“You don’t have to ask twice.”
“I’ll clear it with Red Dog.”
Twenty minutes later she had.
CHAPTER 22
YUKI CALLED HER husband from her office, telling him that she was about to leave for the day.
“How about you?”
Brady said, “Can’t, Yuki. I’ve got some fires to put out. You should get dinner without me.”
“Again? Okay. Wake me up when you get home.”
He said he would.
Yuki finished the dregs of cold Earl Grey, shut off her computer, and headed out. She passed Parisi’s office and waved to him, and by the time she was in the elevator, going down to the lobby, her head was back in her case.
She was thinking about Art Baron’s story of sexual abuse and was glad that he had asked to be second chair. He was going to be a great number two.
Yuki passed through the imposing garnet-marble lobby and out the front door that opened onto Bryant across from Boardman Place. She was hit with a cold wind that had not been there when she’d stepped out to get a sandwich at lunch. She buttoned her coat, took a scarf from her pocket, and wound it around her neck.
As she walked down the steps to Bryant, she saw a group of women gathered at the base of the staircase. They, too, were being buffeted by the wind, hair blowing wildly, hands in pockets—then one of the women recognized Yuki.
She pointed and called out, “Yuki Castellano. What the hell is wrong with you, Yuki? You’re betraying your own sex.”
Yuki kept on moving down the steps. Her car was in the lot across the street. And then the women were coming toward her, intent on blocking her way.
“Marc Christopher is twisted and a liar,” said another of the women. “Briana Hill is a strong woman, a woman like you. She made him have sex with her? Give me a break.”
Yuki stopped in front of the group of seven angry women who were determined to confront her.
“I wish we could talk about this,” Yuki said. She was composing a couple of reasonable sentences—that she couldn’t comment on the case, that Marc Christopher deserved his day in court—when a man with white-blond hair jogged down the steps.
“Yuki,” her husband said with authority. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
He said to the women, “Y’all break it up now. You’re harassing ADA Castellano, bordering on assault. You’re blocking a public area. Hear me?”
Brady took Yuki’s arm and walked her across the street.
