“Not really.”
Claire and I agreed to speak later. The rear doors to the coroner’s van slammed shut and the vehicle took off. I was looking for Conklin when an enormous, pear-shaped man I knew very well ducked under the tape and cast his shadow over the scene.
Leonard Parisi was San Francisco’s district attorney. He wasn’t just physically imposing, he was a career prosecutor with a long record of wins.
“This is…abominable,” said Parisi.
“Fucking tragedy,” Conklin said, his voice cracking.
I said, “I’m so sorry, Len. We’re about to canvass. Maybe someone saw something. Maybe a camera caught a license plate.”
Parisi nodded. “I’m getting a continuance on the trial,” he said. “I’m taking over for Barry. I’m going to make Kingfisher wish he were dead.”
Chapter 19
A week had passed since Barry Schein was killed fifteen hours before Sierra’s trial had been scheduled to begin. We had no leads and no suspects for his murder, but we had convincing direct evidence against Sierra for the murders of Lucille Stone and Cameron Whittaker.
Our case was solid. What could possibly go wrong?
The Hall of Justice was home to the offices of the DA and the ME, as well as to the county jail and the superior court of the Criminal Division. For his security and ours, Sierra was being housed and tried right here.
Rich, Cindy, Yuki, and I sat together in the back row of a blond-wood-paneled courtroom that was packed with reporters, the friends and families of Sierra’s victims, and a smattering of law students who were able to get in to see the trial of the decade.
At 9:00 a.m. Sierra was brought in through the rear door of Courtroom 2C. A collective gasp nearly sucked up all the air in the room.
The King had cleaned up since I’d last seen him. He’d had a nice close shave and a haircut. The orange jumpsuit had been swapped out for a gray sports jacket, a freshly pressed pair of slacks, a blue shirt, and a paisley tie. He looked like a fine citizen, except for the ten pounds of shackles around his ankles and wrists that were linked to the belt cinched around his waist.
He clanked over to the defense table. Two marshals removed the handcuffs and took their seats in the first row behind the rail, directly behind Sierra and his attorney, J. C. Fuentes.
Sierra spoke into his lawyer’s ear, and Fuentes shook his head furiously, looking very much like a wild animal.
At the prosecution counsel table across the aisle, Red Dog Parisi and two of his ADAs represented the side of good against evil. Parisi was too big to be a snappy dresser, but his navy-blue suit and striped tie gave him a buttoned-up look and set off his coarse auburn hair.
He looked formidable. He looked loaded for bear.
I was sure of it. Kingfisher had met his match. And my money was on Red Dog.
Chapter 20
The butterflies in my stomach rose up and took a few laps as the Honorable Baron Crispin entered the courtroom and the bailiff asked us all to rise.
Judge Crispin came from Harvard Law, and it was said that he was a viable candidate for the US Supreme Court. I knew him to be a no-nonsense judge, strictly by the book. When he was seated, he took a look at his laptop, exchanged a few words with the court reporter, and then called the court to order.
The judge said a few words about proper decorum and instructed the spectators in what was unacceptable in his court. “This is not reality TV. There will be no outcries or applause. Cell phones must be turned off. If a phone rings, the owner of that phone will be removed from the courtroom. And please, wait for recesses before leaving for any reason. If someone sneezes, let’s just imagine that others are saying ‘God bless you.’”
While the judge was speaking, I was looking at the back of Kingfisher’s head. Without warning, the King shot to his feet. His attorney put a hand on his arm and made a futile attempt to force him back down.
But Kingfisher would not be stopped.
He turned his head toward DA Parisi and shouted, “You are going to die a terrible death if this trial proceeds, Mr. Dog. You, too, Judge Crispy. That’s a threat and a promise. A death sentence, too.”
Judge Crispin yelled to the marshals, “Get him out of here.”
Parisi’s voice boomed over the screams and general pandemonium. “Your Honor. Please sequester the jury.”
By then the marshals had charged through the gate, kicked chairs out of their way, and cuffed Sierra’s wrists, after which they shoved and pushed the defendant across the well and out the rear door.
I was also on my feet, following the marshals and their prisoner out that back door that connected to the private corridor and elevators for court officers and staff.