Red Dog had been against Yuki taking this case, but he was sympathetic to her current dilemma.

  “You did your best. No. Yuki, you did great. And after you give your closing, it’s out of our hands.”

  At 9:00 a.m. Yuki and Nick Gaines took their seats at their counsel table in 8G. Normally, Gaines was as put together as an actor playing Young Dad in a cereal commercial. Today, he looked as though he’d slept in his car. Too much lack of sleep.

  Returning Yuki’s appraising look, Gaines said of her suit, “Red for the win?”

  “I also have my toes crossed and a four-leaf clover in my pocket. I don’t think Mary Elena will feel better by lunch recess.”

  “Is she actually sick?”

  “She was re-traumatized, Nicky. There was the original trauma by her grandfather, the attack in Xe Sogni, and now Cates shouting his stinking trash and calling her a liar. Do you think she was actually in a mental institution with Cates?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Gaines said.

  But Yuki knew he’d thought it. If Brookside was a real place, and Mary Elena Hayes and Tyler Cates had both been patients there, Mary Elena’s multiple personalities would protect her from the shock if Tyler Cates was found not guilty. But her attorneys would have no protection against the crushing disappointment. The loss. Six months gone. Trust in their client gone.

  This wouldn’t be the first or last time they’d be whacked by a case that had gone upside down without warning. The feeling was certainty that you’d screwed up, despite the facts and the hard work, and it never got easier. Hell.

  But Yuki believed in that woman. She’d put her money on Mary Elena over that shit Cates any day.

  CHAPTER 84

  THE COURTROOM WAS packed, just shy of standing room only. Officer Louie Mack signaled a guard to close the double doors, then he escorted the jurors into their box and swore them in. When they were seated, the door cracked open between the courtroom and the judge’s chambers, and the Honorable Henry William St. John entered and took the bench.

  Yuki turned her head a few degrees to the left, surprised to see that defense counsel Ed Schneider wasn’t yet seated when every other day he’d been early. She said so to Gaines.

  He said, “Maybe he’s talking sense to Cates.”

  “Hmph,” said Yuki. “So, what’s he saying?”

  “‘Retract this Brookside garbage or you’re going to have a lifetime in a cell to regret it.’”

  Yuki said, “Maybe. Cates is vile, but to this day, I don’t think he gets it.”

  Gaines said, “Makes him a psychopath, doesn’t it?”

  Just then, their conversation was derailed by a rising buzz in the gallery. Judge St. John slammed his gavel down, demanding quiet, which he got. Everything about him, from his precise haircut and trimmed mustache to his controlled scowl and the neat pleat of his robes, said that this judge meant what he said. Quiet.

  When the room was silent, the judge cleared his throat and the bailiff called the court to order.

  Yuki and Gaines turned their heads at the sound of the double doors opening. Louie Mack opened them wide and Ed Schneider stumped through, unapologetic as he took his seat at the defense counsel table.

  The judge acknowledged him with a nod, then called on Yuki. “Are the People ready with their closing argument?”

  “We are, Your Honor.”

  Yuki got to her feet and stepped out into the well to face the jury. At the same time, the counsel for the defense stood and asked if he might address the judge at the bench.

  “Mr. Schneider, Ms. Castellano, please approach.”

  Two minutes later, the judge ordered the courtroom cleared.

  CHAPTER 85

  DURING THE RECESS, Cindy grabbed two cans of sparkling water plus a sandwich and a fruit salad from the snack cart outside the Hall and brought them up to Yuki’s office.

  “Chicken and bacon with mayo okay?” she asked. “If not I’ll trade you for my fruit salad.”

  “Either way,” said Yuki. “I don’t think I can taste anything.”

  Yuki seemed to have no appetite but looked glad to have Cindy as company. Cindy was thinking of the Chronicle’s six o’clock deadline and had hopes she could update the Hayes v. Cates story in time. It was rare for Yuki to give her exclusive news on the record, but today might be one of those days.

  Cindy passed a can of sparkling water to Yuki, pulled the tab on hers. She slid the sandwich to Yuki’s side of the desk and unsealed the container of fruit salad, took a bite of melon, and dialed down whatever feverish expression might be giving her real hunger away. Yuki took a bite of her sandwich, apparently determined not to let Cindy bully her for any front-page tidbits.

  Cindy, sitting across the desk from Yuki, was finding it hard not to interrogate her friend. What did Yuki know? And would she tell her? She watched Yuki take her sandwich apart, push a strip of bacon around with her fork, pick it up with her fingers and chew on it for a while. Cindy drank her seltzer and waited. And then, she had to ask.

  “Yuki, what caused St. John to call a recess? Schneider asked to talk to the judge, then the judge asked for the prosecution, too. You all spoke for exactly two point seven seconds. You and Schneider went back to your tables and St. John said, ‘Court is adjourned until further notice.’ I was there, Yuki. I can write that.”

  “Sure, Cin. Not a problem.”

  “So, Yuki. Judge says, ‘Court is adjourned.’ But you and Schneider don’t leave when the room is emptied, so I think there’s some story here.”

  Yuki said, “Cin, I would give you a kidney, but this is…”

  Cindy said, “Let me guess. Off-limits. But. What if I give you one of my organs? How about my liver?”

  Yuki laughed, and Cindy was laughing too when Len Parisi’s shadow crossed the doorway.

  Yuki looked up. “You need me, Len?”

  “Judge wants to meet in chambers. Now.”

  CHAPTER 86

  THE FRICKE FAMILY chapel, circa 1853, had been built on a treed quarter-acre lot behind the Frickes’ house. The white, wood-frame structure was hidden from the road below by the house and a large copse of trees. There were stained glass windows on the long sides, a red painted front door, and a simple cross at the top of the steeple.

  By a quarter to ten, Fricke friends and family had gathered on the freshly mown chapel lawn while Conklin and I stood at the edge of the tree line. I had brought Cappy’s annotated photo from Holly’s funeral and we were attaching names to faces and getting a feeling for the gathering. Some of the mourners were dabbing at their tears or crying out loud. Some were enjoying themselves. Looked like they were at a class reunion or party of old friends.

  After scanning the crowd, I put the photo away in my bag and we waded in. Conklin went over to Patty Delaney and cut her from the herd. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but she wasn’t hysterical the way she’d been a few days ago. I found Judy Borinstein, looking smart in a navy-blue suit and gold accessories. She was speaking to a tearful woman I recognized as Marilyn Stein, a.k.a. Marly, Holly’s assistant and another of Jamie’s lovers, now living in New York City. Borinstein was in business mode as was I, and I broke into their conversation. Marilyn stiffened her face to me and started to move away.

  Borinstein caught her by the arm and said, “Marly, we’re lucky to have Sergeant Boxer leading this investigation. Spend a few minutes with her, why don’t you?”

  Then Judy was called away.

  Marly asked me, “Have you gotten anywhere in Holly’s death?”

  “Not yet. It’s possible that this investigation into Jamie’s death will turn up a clue in Holly’s.”

  Marly shrugged and looked past me, her expression meant to convey, Whatevah. I couldn’t care less.

  I said, “Ms. Stein, I know that Mr. Fricke cared about you very much. We need your help.”

  “I can’t tell you anything. I left the Frickes’ employ after Holly was murdered. It’s been six months.”

  The lawn had emptied and this might be the last time I’d spend time with this woman.

  “Marly, very simply, who wanted Holly dead?”

  “Holly would say that I did.”

  Conklin came over in time to hear this exchange. He said to Marly, “Why do you say that?”

  “I knew too much about her,” Marly said. “I signed a six-page NDA but that didn’t stand up to how much Jamie loved me. I was a servant by day and a madly in love idiot a few nights a month when he and I were together. Holly knew all of that. It’s a humiliation that will cost me thirty years in therapy and I doubt I will ever trust a man again. But I didn’t kill Holly or Jamie. I have a job and a roommate and a doorman in New York, all of whom can testify to where I was when Jamie was killed.”

  I asked for names and numbers and Marly gave them to me. I had other questions. Had there had been any hate mail or threatening phone calls to Holly, any aggression from Jamie toward Holly, anything that at that time, or in retrospect, made her suspect that Holly or Jamie might be in serious danger?

  Marly said no to everything, her face frozen to stop her emotions from breaching the banks of a lake of bitterness. She emphatically claimed that she was and had been an ingenue when Holly hired her, unprepared to handle the complex emotions of both of the Frickes.

  “Arthur can back up everything I’ve said,” she spat. “There are no secrets from Arthur Bevaqua. He knows everything. Good luck, Sergeant. I’m a dead end.”

  CHAPTER 87

  I WATCHED MARILYN STEIN walk away; stiff, angry, and not afraid to show it. I wondered if she was the one who’d made the phone call to Jamie on his last morning, if she had summoned him to his death. Had she hired someone to put him down? Had she done it herself? It would take a few phone calls to airlines to see if Marilyn Stein had flown from New York to San Francisco earlier this week.

  I looked around for Richie, saw he was still working the crowd. I also saw brooding women, men drinking alone under shade trees who looked away as I caught their eyes. There was a touch on the back of my arm. I turned around. Rae Bergen was there with a tall, good-looking man of about forty.

  She introduced me and Conklin to Christophe Picard, her ex-husband and companion of two decades. Christophe, a chef, said, “By the way, I have a bistro on Sacramento Street—Chez Bonhomie. You are both welcome to drop by and speak with me anytime. I doubt I know anything useful, but I’ll definitely serve you a meal you won’t forget.”

  Rae said, “See that gloomy young man over there by the drinks? Gray jacket? That’s our son, Brock.”

  I looked and saw a college-age boy standing beside the bar area. Brock was taller than Rae, had an athletic build, and had a look on his face I couldn’t read.

  I mentioned wanting to speak with Brock, get his impressions of his uncle.

  Rae said, “Good luck. Brock barely even talks to us. I had to plead with him to come to the funeral for my sake. Don’t be offended if he just walks away from you.”

  Christophe said, “Sergeant, Brock’s generation would rather text than talk, and he’s in his own world at school—four hours from here.”

  The door to the chapel opened, and the guests filed inside. I took Richie’s arm and followed the mourners into the chapel, where we took two seats on the aisle at the rear.

  The service was ecumenical. The officiant was Judge Susan Anderson. She had not known James Fricke III, but she spoke as a woman who understood the loss felt by those saying last goodbyes to the dead. Anderson exhorted them—us—to think of the good life Jamie Fricke had lived.

  She asked who would like to speak, and hands went up. Arthur Bevaqua stood, took the podium, and spoke of Mr. Jamie as a man who’d shaped his life and taught him to strive for excellence in all things. Arthur said that he loved Mr. Jamie and Mrs. Holly and always would.

  Most of the eulogies were given by people I didn’t know well. I noted that neither Jamie’s first wife nor his sons had flown in to attend his funeral. Not even by Zoom. Rae took the podium to say that she’d known Jamie since before she’d been maid of honor at his and Holly’s wedding.

  “Although I don’t believe in an afterlife, if there is one, Jamie will be having a party for Holly, for their friends who have passed. God bless Jamie and Holly. God bless us all.”

  I took note of these rehearsed speeches, especially those from Jamie’s former lovers, and excepting Patty Delaney, no one fell apart or crossed a line. A prayer was offered by Judy Borinstein, and Sage Dugan, a member of the staff, sang a hymn in French, “J’irai la voir un jour.” At one point her voice had cracked, but she’d taken a breath, then picked up where she’d left off.

  Conklin and I paid our respects to Jamie in his casket at the front of the chapel; a man no longer powerful, narcissistic, charming, unfaithful. We signed a visitor’s book, and I left my phone number and email address in the space provided.

  We left the chapel before the hearse and the limos took the long drive out to Cypress Lawn in Colma. Rafe Talbot brought our cars around to the front of the house.

  “Good luck, Sergeant,” Rafe said to me. “You still have Greta’s number? My girlfriend? Please call me there if I can help in any way.”

  I wondered again about Rafe, this pleasant middle-aged man who’d done time for car theft at nineteen. He lived on the Fricke property and was closely tied to Jamie’s movements. We would need to talk to Rafe Talbot again.

  As Conklin and I walked down the path to our cars, I composed a short email on my phone to Team Fricke, copied Brady, and pressed Send.

  CHAPTER 88

  THE JUDGE’S CHAMBERS were lined with bookshelves, carpeted in Oriental rugs, and appointed with midcentury modern furnishings. Judge St. John himself looked as though he’d stepped off the cover of a plump 1955 Life magazine featuring the California Department of Justice.

  He sat behind his desk facing the door, with the window behind him looking out on Bryant Street. Red Dog sat to the judge’s right. Yuki Castellano and her deputy sat at right angles to Parisi. Schneider sat across the room from the prosecution, with an empty seat beside him for Cates.

  Also to the judge’s right was a thirty-two-inch TV on a stand, Tyler Cates’s image on the screen. Cates was sitting on a metal slab bed, with a blanket, no mattress. His head was in his hands and his body language told all. The young man was depressed or worse. On the screen, court officer Robert Wells, who was well-known around the Hall, approached the holding cell.

  Cates asked, “What’s up?”

  Wells said, “You, your attorney, and the prosecution are meeting with the judge now. If I were you, I’d behave.”

  “Who asked you?”

  “Do as you wish,” said Wells and unlocked the gate. He cuffed Cates and walked him out of the holding cell.

  His Honor turned off the CCTV and phoned his assistant.

  “Susan. When Wells arrives with Cates, ask them to wait outside with you for a few minutes. I may ask you to take them to conference room A.”

  CHAPTER 89

  THE JUDGE TURNED back to the attorneys in his chambers.

  He said to the defense counsel, “Ed, because of Mr. Cates’s eruption in court, I had to check it out. I put every free hand in the justice department on duty yesterday, last night, and early this morning. They made calls to every mental institution with ‘Brookside’ in its name. There are thirty in the country. And we hopped over the Canadian border while we were at it. None of the institutions had ever had a Tyler Cates or Mary Elena Hayes as patients, ever. One or two of them had closed, but we chased down heads of these defunct places who were working at other mental institutions. As Mr. Cates produced no documentation of his time spent in a mental institution, we not only went as far as we could go. We went farther.

  “In my heavily researched opinion, Tyler Cates lied to confuse the jury, to get them on his side. I can’t let it stand. I could call a mistrial but it would only serve to encourage your client to repeat this performance in a new trial.

  “Ed, when Cates gets here, I suggest you talk to him in the conference room. Tell him this is a come to Jesus moment and if he doesn’t tell the actual truth, I’m going to put him in jail and throw away the key for all of eternity.

  “Len. If Cates confesses, will you consider giving him a break?”

  “Meaning?”

  There was a knock on the door. Court officer Susan O’Connor opened it about ten inches, looked back toward the judge, and said, “They’re here.”

  Judge St. John said, “Give us another couple of minutes.”

  Susan went outside the room. The judge answered the DA.

  “Len, I’m suggesting that the rape and aggravated assault sentences run concurrently so we can lop a few years off if he satisfies you with his full-throated ‘I did it, and accusing Ms. Hayes of knowing me was a vicious thing to do to her on top of the other vicious things I did to her.’

  “Mr. Cates should apologize to her and ask her forgiveness. Something approximating all of this. And, let’s say, he’ll be eligible for parole in thirty years. Sound all right?”

  Red Dog said, “I’m open to it.”

  CHAPTER 90

  DEFENSE COUNSEL ED Schneider left the judge’s chambers and followed Susan O’Connor to the conference room to have his stern talk with Cates, repeating what the judge had offered almost verbatim.

  Tyler Cates, having had a brief taste of life in a cell, wasn’t convinced that his lawyer was fairly representing his interests. And he said so.

  Schneider said, “Tyler, this is the point of no return. Confess. Apologize and you’ll be eligible for parole sometime in the very distant future. Otherwise, life in prison is your future with a life sentence for rape and the additional sentence for aggravated assault. If you don’t confess, you will never be free again. I’m going back to the judge’s chambers, where I will try to keep that deal in place. Ms. O’Connor will bring you back to chambers in two or three minutes, so think fast.”