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That police photo was a witness like no other.
But it was complicated. Jurors were not lawyers, and she’d asked them to grasp a legal concept. Sullivan intended to kill Barbara. Here’s what he did. Here’s the proof.
The judge put down her pen and looked at Yuki.
“Ms. Castellano. What have the People decided?”
This was it. Yuki had to speak. She said, “Your Honor, after due consideration, we’ve decided to reject Mr. Sullivan’s offer and let the jury decide all three charges.”
Switzer turned his smug face to Yuki and said, “We’ll inform our client.”
Judge Froman said, “All right then. Please remain available to answer juror questions. You’ll be contacted when they return with a verdict. Thank you, all.”
The room emptied. Without exchanging pleasantries, Switzer took the elevator to the holding cells on the seventh floorwhere his client waited, while Yuki and Len walked past the elevator bank to the DA’s offices, a hundred yards away.
When they were alone, Len asked Yuki, “You feel okay?”
“Is anxious ‘okay’?”
Parisi grinned. “It’s completely appropriate. I’m going out for a half hour. Watch the phone?”
“No problem.”
Yuki sat at her desk with a bag of vegetable chips and a glass of iced tea. Her laptop was open and she was reading email from concerned citizens while waiting, waiting, waiting for the phone to ring with a call that the verdict was in.
Yeah, she was anxious. Juries were notoriously unpredictable, and she was making herself crazy trying to predict the unknowable. It was in their hands now. There was nothing more to do, and no point in looking back. Yuki sipped tea and quieted her mind with an affirmation:
I’ve done my very best for Barbara Sullivan.
CHAPTER 61
SONIA ALVAREZ AND I were tidying up for the day: scanning, printing, sorting, filing. We were talking about Evan Burke, and about Michael Brill, the college kid who’d hitched a ride in Vegas with a man who fired a .22 bullet through his head.
Alvarez said, “Where did Conklin go? I need his notes.”
I called Rich from my phone and he answered on the first ring. “I’m on the way up,” he said.
Alvarez and I looked over the scant data we had on Michael Brill. Now that Brill’s corpse had a name, there was some information on him. He was twenty-six, attending a community college, and working late shift at a deli. He made enough money to afford a small rental apartment on Promenade Place. He had decent grades and good relationships with his parents. As far as LVMPD knew, he had no known enemies. He also didn’t have a rap sheet. No drugs, no prostitution, no misbehavior of any kind. His parents had called the police the day after the big rainstorm when they couldn’t reach him by phone.
I shook my head. The images of Brill’s last three minutes as documented by Blackout Productions were still alive in my head.
“Brill is a dead end,” Alvarez said. “I’m not making a joke.”
“You spoke to the police chief?” I asked her.
Alvarez had lived and worked undercover in Vice in Vegas until she moved to San Francisco not long ago. She knew half the police force in the LVMPD, including all the cops in narcotics and homicide.
She said, “I spoke to Chief Belinky and the primary on the case. Detective Lee Kogan. I know him. Lee told me that they picked up the first guy who shot Brill. It happened just like Brill tells Blackout in the video—the guy with a truck thought Brill was a streetwalker, and when Brill realized that he backed away. And the trucker just—” Alvarez made a gun with her hand, fired off apyewwgunshot.
“And sent him running right into the worst guy in the world.”
Alvarez said, “As I said, a dead end. And a videotape.”
That’s when Conklin came through the gate.
I lifted my hand in greeting and about two seconds later, I saw from his expression that his mood had nosedived since I’d seen him earlier. When Alvarez turned, saw him, and called out, “Hey,” Conklin didn’t seem to hear her. He pulled out his chair and dropped into his seat.
I said, “Rich. What’s wrong?”
