The Trial (6 page)

I watched from the
top of the steps up to the Hall the next morning as hundreds of people came to work, lined up to go through the metal detectors, and walked across the garnet-marbled lobby to the elevator banks.

They all looked worried.

That was both unusual and understandable. Kingfisher's presence on the seventh floor felt like a kryptonite meteor had dropped through the roof and was lodged in the jail. He was draining the energy from everyone who worked here.

I went inside, passed through metal detection, and then took the stairs to the squad room.

Brady had called a special early-morning meeting because of the intel from Joe. He stood at the head of the open-space bull pen, his back to the door, the muted TV hanging above his head.

Cops from all departments—the night shift, the swing shift, and our shift—were perched on the edges of desks, leaned against walls. There were even some I didn't recognize from the northern station crammed into the room. I saw deputy sheriffs, motorcycle cops, and men and women in plain clothes and blue.

Brady said, “I've called y'all together because we could be looking at a citywide emergency situation.”

He spoke about the possibility of drug gang warfare and he answered questions about Mala Sangre, about Kingfisher, about cops who had been killed at the King's order. They asked about the upcoming rescheduled trial and about practical issues. The duty rosters. The chain of command.

Brady was honest and direct to a fault. I didn't get a sense that the answers he gave were satisfying. But honestly, he had no idea what to expect.

When the meeting was over, when the dozen of us on the day shift were alone with our lieutenant, he said, “The jurors are having fits. They don't know what's going on, but they can see out the windows. They see a lot of cops.

“The mayor's coming over to talk to them.”

The mayor was a great people handler.

I was in the sixth-floor dayroom when Mayor Caputo visited the jurors and explained that they were carrying out their civic duty. “It's not just that this is important,” he said. “This could be the most important work of your entire lives.”

That afternoon one of the jurors had a heart attack and was evacuated. A second juror, a primary caregiver for a dependent parent, was excused. Alternates, who were also in our emergency jury lockup, moved up to full jurors.

When I was getting ready to leave after my twelve-hour day, Brady told me that an ambitious defender, Jake Penney, had spent the last four days with Jorge Sierra and had said that he was good to go.

The countdown to Sierra's trial had begun again.

I was sleeping when
Joe called.

The time on my phone was midnight, eight hours before the trial was to begin.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Julie's fine. The SFPD website is down. The power is out at the Hall.”

I turned on the TV news and saw mayhem on Bryant Street. Barricades had been set up. Reporters and cameramen shouted questions at uniformed officers. The Hall of Justice was so dark it looked like an immense mausoleum.

I nuked instant coffee and sat cross-legged in Joe's chair, watching the tube. At 1:00 a.m. fire could be seen leaping at the glass doors that faced the intersection of Bryant and Boardman Place.

A network reporter said to the camera, “Chet, I'm hearing that there was an explosion inside the lobby.”

I couldn't take this anymore. I texted Brady. He was rushed. He typed,
Security is checking in with me up and down the line. Don't come in, Boxer.

Then, as suddenly as they had gone out, the lights in the Hall came back on.

My laptop was on the coffee table and I switched it on. I punched in the address for the SFPD site, and I was watching when a title appeared on our own front page:
This was a test.

It was signed
Mala Sangre.

Kingfisher's cartel.

This had been their test for what? For shutting down our video surveillance? For sending out threatening messages? For disabling our electronic locks inside the jail? For smuggling bombs into the Hall?

It would have been a laughable threat if Kingfisher hadn't killed two people from the confines of his windowless cell. How had he pulled that off? What else could he do?

I called Cat. She said, “Lindsay, she's fine. She was in sleepy land when the phone rang.”

I heard Julie crying and Joe's voice in the background saying, “Julie-Bug, I'm here.”

“Sorry. Sorry,” I said. “I'll call you in the morning. Thanks for everything, Cat.”

I called Jacobi. His voice was steady. I liked that.

“I was just going to call you,” he said. “The bomb was stuck under the lip of the sign-in desk. It was small, but if it had gone off during the daytime…” After a pause Jacobi began again. “Hounds and the bomb squad are going through the building. The trial is postponed until further notice.”

“Good,” I said. But I didn't feel good. It felt like anything could happen. That Kingfisher was in charge of it all.

My intercom buzzed. It was half past one.

Cerrutti, my designated security guard, said, “Sergeant, Dr. Washburn is here.”

Tears of relief filled my eyes and no one had to see them. I buzzed my friend in.

Claire came through my
door bringing hope, love, warmth, and the scent of tea roses. All good things.

She said, “I have to crash here, Lindsay. I drove to the office. It's closed off from both the street and the back door to the Hall. It's too late to drive all the way home.”

I hugged her. I needed that hug and I thought she did, too. I pointed her to Joe's big chair, with the best view of the TV. On-screen now, a live report from Bryant Street.

Wind whipped through the reporter's hair, turning her scarf into a pennant, making her microphone crackle.

She squinted at the camera and said, “I've just gotten off the phone with the mayor's office and can confirm reports that there are no fatalities from the bomb. The prisoner, Jorge Sierra, also known as Kingfisher, remains locked in his cell.

“The mayor has also confirmed that Sierra's trial has been postponed until the Hall is cleared. If you work at 850 Bryant, please check our website to see if your office is open.”

When the segment ended, Claire talked to me about the chaos outside the Hall. She couldn't get to her computer and she needed to reach her staff.

Yuki called at two. “You're watching?”

“Yes. Is Brady with you?”

“No,” she said. “But three cruisers are outside our apartment building. And I have a gun. Nothing like this has ever happened around a trial in San Francisco. Protesters? Yes. Bombs? No.”

I asked her, “Do you know Kingfisher's new attorney?”

“Jake Penney. I don't know him. But this I do know. He's got balls.”

Claire made soup from leftovers and defrosted a pound cake. I unscrewed a bottle of chilled cheap Chardonnay. Claire took off her shoes and reclined in the chair. I gave her a pair of socks and we settled into half a night of TV together.

I must have slept for a few minutes, because I woke to my cell phone buzzing on the floor beside the sofa.

Who was it now? Joe? Cat? Jacobi?

“Sergeant Boxer, it's Elena.”

It took me a moment to put a face to a name. It came to me. Elena, a.k.a. Maura Steele, was Jorge Sierra's reluctant wife.

I bolted into an upright position. Had we thought to protect her?
No.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I have an idea.”

“I'm listening,” I said.

When I'd met with
Elena Sierra, she had let me know that she wanted nothing to do with her husband. I had given her my card but never expected to hear from her.

What had changed her mind?

I listened hard as she laid out her plan. It was brilliant and simple. I had made this
same
offer to Sierra and utterly failed to close the deal. But Kingfisher didn't love
me.

Now I had reason to hope that Elena could help put this nightmare to bed.

The meeting between Elena and her husband was arranged quickly. By late afternoon the next day our cameras were rolling upstairs in a barred room reserved for prisoners and their attorneys.

Elena wore a belted vibrant-purple sweaterdress and designer boots and looked like a cover girl. She sat across the table from Sierra. He wore orange and was chained so that he couldn't stand or move his hands. He looked amused.

I stood in a viewing room with Conklin and Brady, watching live video of Elena's meeting with Sierra, and heard him suggest several things he would like to do with her. It was creepy, but she cut him off by saying, “I'm not here for your pleasure, Jorge. I'm trying to help you.”

Sierra leaned forward and said, “You don't want to help me. You want only money and power. How do I know? Because I created you.”

“Jorge. We only have a few more minutes. I'm offering you the chance to see your children—”

“Mine? I'm not so sure.”

“All you have to do is to plead guilty.”

“That's all? Whose payroll are you on, Elena? Who are you working for, bitch whore?”

Elena got to her feet and slapped her husband hard across the face.

Joy surged through my body. I could almost feel my right palm stinging as if I had slapped him myself.

The King laughed at his wife, then turned his head and called out through the bars, “Take me back.”

Two guards appeared at the cage door and the King was led out. When he was gone, Elena looked at the camera and shrugged. She looked embarrassed. She said, “I lost my temper.”

I pressed the intercom. “You did fine. Thank you, Elena.”

“Well, that was edifying,” said Brady.

“She tried,” I said to Brady. “I don't see what else she could have done.”

I turned to Rich and said, “Let's drive her home.”

Elena Sierra had curled
up in the backseat and leaned against the window. “He's subhuman,” she said. “My father warned me, but I was eighteen. He was…I don't remember what the hell I was thinking.
If
I was thinking.”

There was a long pause, as if she was trying to remember when she had fallen in love with Kingfisher.

“I'm coming to the trial,” Elena said. “I want to see his face when he's found guilty. My father wants to be there, too.”

Then she stared silently out the window until we pulled up to her deluxe apartment building on California Street. Conklin walked Elena into the lobby, and when he came back to the car, I was behind the wheel.

I switched on the car radio, which broke into a cacophony of bleats and static. I gave dispatch our coordinates as we left Nob Hill and said that we were heading back to the Hall.

At just about half past six we were on Race Street. We'd been stuck behind a FedEx truck for several blocks, until now, when it ran a yellow light, leaving us flat-footed at the red.

I cursed and the gray sedan behind us pulled out into the oncoming lane, its wheels jerking hard to the right, and the driver braked at an angle twenty-five feet ahead of our left front bumper.

I shouted, “What the hell?”

But by the time the word
hell
was out of my mouth, Conklin had his door open and was yelling to me,
“Out of the car. With me.”

I got it.

I snapped mental images as four men burst from the gray sedan into our headlight beams. One wore a black knit cap and bulky jacket. Another had a gold grille plating his teeth. The one coming out of the driver's side was holding an AK. One with a black scarf over half his face ducked out of view.

I dropped below the dash and pulled myself out the passenger side, slid down to the street. Conklin and I hunched behind the right front wheel, using the front of the car as a shield. We were both carrying large, high-capacity semiautomatics, uncomfortable as hell to wear, but my God, I was glad we had them.

A fusillade of bullets punched holes through the door that had been to my left just seconds before. Glass crazed and shattered.

I poked my head up during a pause in oncoming gunfire, and using the hood as a gun brace, Conklin and I let loose with a fury of return fire.

In that moment I saw the one with the AK drop his weapon. His gun or his hand had been hit, or the gun had slipped out of his grasp. When the shooter bent to retrieve it, Conklin and I fired and kept firing until the bastard was down.

For an eternal minute and a half curses flew, and shots punctured steel, exploded the shop windows behind us, and smacked into the front end of our car. If these men worked for the King, they could not let us get away.

Conklin and I alternately rose from behind the car just enough to brace our guns and return fire, ducking as our attackers unloaded on us with the fury of hell.

We reloaded and kept shooting. My partner took out the guy with the glittering teeth, and I wasn't sure, but I might have winged the one with the scarf.

The light turned green.

Traffic resumed, and while some vehicles streamed past, others balked, blocking cars behind them, leaving them in the line of fire.

There was a lull in the shooting, and when I peeked above our car, I saw the driver of the gray Ford backing up, turning the wheel into traffic, gunning the engine, then careening across the intersection at N17th.

I took a stance and emptied my Glock into the rear of the Ford, hoping to hit the gas tank. A tire blew, but the car kept going. I looked down at the two dead men in the street as Conklin kicked their guns away and looked for ID.

I got into the car, grabbed the mic, shouted my badge number, and reported to dispatch.

“Shots fired. Two men down. Send patrol cars and a bus to Race and N17th. BOLO for a gray Ford four-door with shot-out windows and flat right rear tire heading east on Race at high speed. Nevada plates, partial number Whiskey Four Niner.”

Within minutes the empty, shot-riddled Ford was found ditched a few blocks away on 17th Street. Conklin and I sat for a while in our shot-to-shit squad car, listening to the radio snap, crackle, and pop while waiting for a ride back to the Hall. My right hand was numb and the aftershock of my gun's recoil still resonated through my bones.

I was glad to feel it.

I said to Richie, as if he didn't already know, “We're damned lucky to be alive.”