The 8th Confession

Duffy explained to the jury that he was going to ask them to continue their deliberations, not to give up deeply held ideas based on the evidence but to reexamine their views with an open mind in order to try to reach consensus.

The judge was giving the jury the “Allen charge,” the so-called dynamite charge designed to bust up logjams in deadlocked juries. It was considered coercive by legal purists.

Yuki knew that this was the best option available, but the Allen charge could backfire. A resentful jury could push back and deliver whatever verdict would end its service the fastest.

It was obvious to Yuki that the easiest, least-nightmare-provoking decision would be a unanimous vote to acquit.

Judge Duffy was saying, “I want you to have maximum seclusion and comfort, so I’ve arranged for you to be sequestered in the Fairmont Hotel for as much time as you need.”

Yuki saw the shock register on every one of the jurors’ faces as they realized that the judge was locking them up in a hotel without any warning, denying them TV, newspapers, home-cooked meals, and other comforts of daily life.

They were not pleased.

Duffy thanked the jury on behalf of the court and, taking his can of Sprite with him, left the bench.

Chapter 20

YUKI’S PHONE RANG the moment she returned to her office.

“It’s me,” said Len Parisi, the deputy district attorney who was also her superior, her champion, and her toughest critic. “Got a minute?”

Yuki opened her makeup kit, applied fresh lipstick, snapped her purse shut, and stepped out into the corridor.

“Want me to come with?” Nicky Gaines said, raking his shaggy blond mop with his fingers.

“Yeah. Try to make him laugh.”

“Really?”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

Parisi was on the phone when Yuki rapped on his open door. He swung his swivel chair around and stuck his forefinger in the air, the universal sign for “I’ll be a minute.”

Parisi was in his late forties, with wiry red hair, a pear-shaped girth, and a heart condition that had nearly killed him a year and a half ago. He was known around town as “Red Dog,” and Yuki thought the name pleased him. Called up images of a drooling bulldog with a spiked collar.

Parisi hung up the phone, signaled for Yuki and Nicky to come in, then barked, “Did I hear this right? The jury hung?”

“Yep,” Yuki said from the doorway. “Duffy dropped the Allen charge and then he sequestered them.”

“No kidding. What do you think? There were one or two holdouts?”

“I don’t know, Len,” Yuki said. “I counted six jurors that wouldn’t meet my eyes.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Parisi said. “I’m glad Duffy put the squeeze on, but don’t get your hopes up.” He shook his head, asked rhetorically, “What’s the hang-up? Stacey Gle

“I’m guessing it’s Rose Gle

Parisi had stopped listening. “So, okay, we wait it out. Meanwhile, Gaines, get a haircut. Castellano, help Kathy Valoy after lunch. She’s swamped. That’s it. Thank you.”

Parisi picked up his ringing phone, spun around in his chair, faced his window.

“I would have gone for it,” Nicky was saying as he and Yuki walked back down the hallway. “But he didn’t even look at me. I couldn’t get a quip in edgewise. Or a retort. Or even a pun.”

Yuki laughed.

“And believe me, I’ve got jokes ready to go. Have you heard the one about the priest, the rabbi, and the hippo who walk into a bar -”

Yuki laughed again, a musical chortle that was just short of manic. “You made me laugh,” Yuki said. “That’s something. You did good, number two. I’ll see you later.”

Yuki left Gaines in the bull pen, took the stairs down to the lobby, and drafted behind a large cop who strong-armed the heavy steel- and-glass doors leading out to Bryant Street.

Yuki quickly sca

Which was good.

Sometimes when the press fired questions at her, she wanted to answer and often couldn’t prevent her thoughts from stampeding out of her mouth unchecked. So when Yuki saw Candy Stimpson, a feisty reporter from the Examiner, she walked quickly down the steps, making a straight line for the corner.

The reporter called after her, “Yuki! Is the Gle

“Outta my face, Candy,” Yuki snapped, turning her head toward the reporter, maintaining her forward motion as she stepped off the sidewalk. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

Candy Stimpson screamed, “Yuki, no!”

But Yuki didn’t get it.

Chapter 21

THE LIGHT SHINING in Yuki’s eyes was blinding.

“Mom!” she yelled. “Mommy!”

“It’s okay,” said a man’s reassuring voice. “You’re okay.”

The light went off, and she saw gray eyes rimmed with blue, then the rest of his face. She didn’t know him, had never seen him before in her life.

“Who are you?”

“Dr. Chesney,” he said. “John. And your name is…?”

“Ms. Castellano. Yuki.”

“Good.” He smiled. “That checks with your ID. I have a few questions -”

“What the hell? What’s going on?”

“You’re in the emergency room,” Dr. Chesney told her. He appeared to be in his early thirties. Looked like he worked out. “You walked into an oncoming car,” he said.

“I did not.”

“It was stopping for the light, lucky for you,” Chesney continued. “Your CAT scan was negative. Just a minor concussion. You’ve got a couple of scrapes, a few stitches, an impressive bruise on your left hip, but no broken bones. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two.”

“And now?”

“Three.”

“Okay. Do this. Close your eyes. Touch your nose with your left forefinger. Now, same thing with the right. Excellent. And what’s the last thing you remember?”

“I have an impressive bruise on my hip.”

Chesney laughed. “I meant, what do you remember from before the accident?”

“A reporter was hounding me…”

“You remember her name?”

“Candy Bigmouth Stimpson.”

“Okay. Very good. She’s waiting outside. I want to keep you here overnight, just for observation -”

But Yuki was staring around, starting to recognize the emergency room, her guts turning to Jell-O. She gripped the sides of the bed. “What hospital is this?”

“San Francisco Municipal.”

Mommy died here.

“I’ll want to check you over again in the morning -”

“Hell with that,” Yuki said. “I’m fine.”

“Or you can leave,” said Chesney. He produced a form on a clipboard, said, “This is a release that says you’re checking out against medical advice. Sign here.”

“Got a pen?”

Chesney clicked his Bic, and Yuki signed where he indicated. He said, “I recommend acetaminophen. It’s not too late to change your mind about staying overnight, Yuki.”

“No. No, no, no.”

“Your decision,” Chesney said. “Don’t wash your hair for at least three days -”

“Are you crazy? Don’t wash? I have to work -”

“Listen. Look at me, Yuki, and pay attention. You’ll want your doctor to take those stitches out in ten days. If you can wait thirty or forty seconds, a nurse will bring your clothes. I suggest you go home and get some sleep.”

“Sorry?”

“Get some sleep. And I’m not joking. Watch where you’re walking.”