The 6th Target

Part Five

Chapter 116

THE GALLERY WAS JAM-PACKED with law clerks, crime reporters, families of the victims, and dozens of people who were on the Del Norte when Alfred Brinkley had fired his fatal shots. Hushed voices rose to a rumble as two guards escorted Brinkley into the courtroom.

There he was!

The ferry shooter.

Mickey Sherman stood as Brinkley's cuffs and waist chains were removed. He pulled out a chair for his client, who asked him, "Am I going to get my chance?"

"I'm thinking about it," Sherman said to his client. "You sure about this, Fred?"

Brinkley nodded. "Do I look okay?"

"Yep. You look fine."

Mickey sat back and took a good look at his pale, skin-and-bones client with the patchy haircut, razor rash, and shiny suit hanging from a scarecrow frame.

General rule is that you don't put your client on the stand unless you're sucking swamp water, and even then, only when your client is credible and sympathetic enough to actually sway the jury.

Fred Brinkley was nerdy and dull.

On the other hand, what did they have to lose? The prosecution had eyewitness testimony, videotape, and a confession. So Sherman was kicking the idea around. Avoiding big risk versus a chance that Fred-a-lito-lindo could convince the jurors that the noise in his head was so crushing, he was out of his mind when he fired on those poor people…

Fred had a right to testify in his own defense, but Sherman thought he could dissuade him. He was still undecided as the jurors settled into the jury box and the judge took the bench. The bailiff called the court into session, and a blanket of expectant silence fell over the wood-paneled courtroom.

Judge Moore looked over the black rims of his thick glasses and asked, "Are you ready, Mr. Sherman?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Sherman said, standing up, fastening the middle button of his suit jacket. He spoke to his client. "Fred…"

Chapter 117

"AND SO AFTER YOUR SISTER'S ACCIDENT, you went to Napa State Hospital?" Sherman asked, noting that Fred was very much at ease on the witness stand. Better than he'd expected.

"Yes. I had myself committed. I was cracking up."

"I see. And were you medicated at Napa?"

"Sure, I was. Being sixteen is bad enough without having your little sister die in front of your eyes."

"So you were depressed because when your sister was hit by the boom and went overboard, you couldn't save her?"

"Your Honor," Yuki said, coming to her feet, "we have no objection to Mr. Sherman's testifying, but I think he should at least be sworn in."

"I'll ask another question," Sherman said, smiling, cool, just talking to his client. "Fred, did you hear voices in your head before your sister's accident?"

"No. I started hearing him after that."

"Fred, can you tell the jury who you're talking about?"

Brinkley clasped his hands across the top of his head, sighed deeply as if describing the voice would bring it into being.

"See, there's more than one voice," Brinkley explained. "There's a woman's voice, kind of singsongy and whiny, but forget about her. There's this other voice, and he's really angry. Out-of-control, screaming-reaming angry. And he runs me."

"This is the voice that told you to shoot that day on the ferry?"

Brinkley nodded miserably. "He was yelling, 'Kill, kill, kill,' and nothing else mattered. All I could hear was him. All I could do was what he told me. It was just him, and everything else was a horrible dream."

"Fred, would it be fair to say that you would never, ever have shot anyone if it were not for the voices that 'ran you' for the fifteen years following your sister's accident?" Sherman asked.

Sherman noticed that he'd lost his client's attention, that Fred was staring out over the gallery.

"That's my mother," Brinkley said with wonder in his voice. "That's my mom!"

Heads swiveled toward an attractive, light-ski

"Fred," Sherman said.

"Mom! I'm going to tell," Brinkley called out, his voice warbling with emotion, his expression twisted up in pain.

"Are you listening, Mom? Get ready for the truth! Mr. Sherman, you've got it wrong. You keep calling it an accident. Lily's death was no accident!"

Sherman turned to the judge, said matter-of-factly, "Your Honor, this is probably a good time for a break -"

Brinkley interrupted his lawyer, saying sharply, "I don't need a break. And frankly, I don't need your help anymore, Mr. Sherman."

Chapter 118

"YOUR HONOR," Sherman said evenly, doing his best to act as though his client hadn't gone off road and wasn't about to go airborne over a cliff, "I'd ask that Mr. Brinkley's testimony be stricken."

"On what grounds, Mr. Sherman?"

"I was having sex with her, Mom!" Brinkley shouted across the room. "We'd done it before. She was taking off her top when the boom came around -"

Someone in the gallery moaned, "Oh, my God."

"Your Honor," Sherman said, "this testimony is unresponsive."

Yuki jumped to her feet. "Your Honor, Mr. Sherman opened the door to his witness – who is also his client!"

Brinkley turned away from his mother, pi

"I swore to tell the truth," he said as chaos swamped the courtroom. Even the judge's gavel, banging hard enough to split the striker plate, was drowned out by the commotion. "And the truth is that I didn't lift a finger to save my sister," Brinkley said, spittle flying from his lips. "And I killed those people on the ferry because he told me, I'm a very dangerous man."

Sherman sat down in his seat behind the defense table and calmly put folders into an accordion file.

Brinkley shouted, "That day on the ferry. I lined those people up in my gun sight and I pulled the trigger. I could do it again."

The jurors were wide-eyed as Alfred Brinkley wiped tears from his sunken cheeks with the palms of his hands.

"That's enough, Mr. Brinkley," the judge barked.

"You people took an oath to do justice," Brinkley trumpeted, rhythmically gripping and slapping at his knees. "You have to execute me for what I did to those people. That's the only way to make sure that I'll never do it again. And if you don't give me the death penalty, I promise I'll be back."

Mickey Sherman put the accordion file into his shiny metal briefcase and snapped the locks. Closing up shop.

"Mr. Sherman," Judge Moore said, exasperation coloring his face a rich salmon pink, "do you have any more questions for your witness?"

"None that I can think of, Your Honor."

"Ms. Castellano? Do you wish to cross?"

There was nothing Yuki could say that would top Brinkley's own words: If you don't give me the death penalty, I promise I'll be back.

"I have no further questions, Your Honor," Yuki said.

But as the judge told Brinkley to stand down, a little red light started blinking in Yuki's mind.

Had Brinkley really just nailed his own coffin shut?

Or had he done more to convince the jury that he was insane than anything Mickey Sherman could have said or done?