“Let me make some room here for you, why don’t I?” Baron said, moving files and pens away from the desk next to the side chair. Then he said, “Why? Because it’s a terrific case. Are you looking for help with the trial?”
“Might be,” said Yuki.
“I hate to be presumptuous, but if you’re looking for a second chair, I’m raising my hand.” And then he did it.
Yuki smiled. She had spoken to Arthur Baron a few times since he came to the DA’s office. She knew he was smart. She knew he had a background in litigation. He was straightforward and had a sense of humor. She just plain liked him.
“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.
“Brady, where’d you come from?”
“The planet Wonderful.”
“No, really.”
“I called you back and you’d gone. I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I was stiff with you on the phone. I had three people in my office.”
“Okay. It’s okay.”
They reached the All-Day Parking lot, and Yuki handed her ticket to the attendant along with a twenty. The man gave her change with her keys and shut the window to his booth.
Southern gent that he was, Brady opened the car door for his wife. He leaned into the car, kissed her, made sure her scarf wasn’t in the way when he closed the door.
“See you later,” he said.
She turned on the ignition and the lights and watched him as she drove out of the lot, his pale hair all stirred up by the wind, making a halo around his head.
God, she was confused.
She wished he hadn’t run off that group of women. She could have handled them. And yet he was showing her he cared.
She let out a sigh as she headed home to their empty apartment, the empty chair in front of the TV, the empty spot next to hers in their bed.
What good was flimsy nightwear if there was no one home to see it?
CHAPTER 23
I WAS IN the shower when Joe pulled back the curtain, showed me my cell phone, put the mouthpiece against his chest, and said, “Millie Cushing?”
I took the phone and said, “Millie. I’ll call you back.”
I muttered to myself as I toweled off, something about the sanctity of my rain box, and then I got over myself. After dressing in pj’s, I returned Millie’s call.
I knew what she wanted. She was checking up on what if any police progress had been made in the shooting death of Jimmy Dolan, who’d been shot dead outside Sydney G. Walton Square. I had nothing for her.
It was not my case. Not my beat. I would apologize, of course, but I’d done what I promised to do. I’d followed up and had been told by the detectives in charge to mind my own business.
I tapped out her phone number and waited for her to pick up. The ringing was going on too long. I was a nanosecond from clicking off when Millie said my name. I had my apology all teed up, but I never got the words out of my mouth.
“There’s been another murder,” she said. “And before you ask if the police were called, they were, but no one has arrived. You have to see this, Sergeant. You really have to see this. In the name of God, something has to be done.”
My partner and I had spent the day in court, testifying for the prosecution on a carjacking homicide that had taken a year to get to trial. I was tired. I knew Conklin was dragging his back end, too. But I called him anyway and summarized Millie’s call.
“We can just kick it to Brady,” I said. “He can call Central. That may be enough.”
Conklin said, “Fisherman’s Wharf, near the museum. I’ll meet you there.”
I told Joe the breaking news while I changed out of my jammies into jeans, a sweater, and flat-heeled boots. I explained that I had a bit of a moral debt to Millie and that I would call home as soon as I had scoped out the situation.
He was very understanding, but he said, “You’re skipping dinner again.”
“I have PowerBars in the car. Save a plate for me?”
“Be careful,” he said.
“I will.”
I strapped on my gun, hung my badge on its chain around my neck, and grabbed my keys, and after I had buttoned up my jacket, I went for the stairs. I had just started the downward jog to the street when a wave of light-headedness and nausea swept over me.
I clutched at the railing, stopping my fall, and I sat down on the staircase. What was going on?
Was it the hot shower and rushing to dress compounded by an empty stomach?