And the line went dead.
I stood with the phone pressed against my chest for a good long while. Then I called Jacobi.
Chapter 23
I watched from the top of the steps up to the Hall the next morning as hundreds of people came to work, lined up to go through the metal detectors, and walked across the garnet-marbled lobby to the elevator banks.
They all looked worried.
That was both unusual and understandable. Kingfisher’s presence on the seventh floor felt like a kryptonite meteor had dropped through the roof and was lodged in the jail. He was draining the energy from everyone who worked here.
I went inside, passed through metal detection, and then took the stairs to the squad room.
Brady had called a special early-morning meeting because of the intel from Joe. He stood at the head of the open-space bull pen, his back to the door, the muted TV hanging above his head.
Cops from all departments—the night shift, the swing shift, and our shift—were perched on the edges of desks, leaned against walls. There were even some I didn’t recognize from the northern station crammed into the room. I saw deputy sheriffs, motorcycle cops, and men and women in plain clothes and blue.
Brady said, “I’ve called y’all together because we could be looking at a citywide emergency situation.”
He spoke about the possibility of drug gang warfare and he answered questions about Mala Sangre, about Kingfisher, about cops who had been killed at the King’s order. They asked about the upcoming rescheduled trial and about practical issues. The duty rosters. The chain of command.
Brady was honest and direct to a fault. I didn’t get a sense that the answers he gave were satisfying. But honestly, he had no idea what to expect.
When the meeting was over, when the dozen of us on the day shift were alone with our lieutenant, he said, “The jurors are having fits. They don’t know what’s going on, but they can see out the windows. They see a lot of cops.
“The mayor’s coming over to talk to them.”
The mayor was a great people handler.
I was in the sixth-floor dayroom when Mayor Caputo visited the jurors and explained that they were carrying out their civic duty. “It’s not just that this is important,” he said. “This could be the most important work of your entire lives.”
That afternoon one of the jurors had a heart attack and was evacuated. A second juror, a primary caregiver for a dependent parent, was excused. Alternates, who were also in our emergency jury lockup, moved up to full jurors.
When I was getting ready to leave after my twelve-hour day, Brady told me that an ambitious defender, Jake Penney, had spent the last four days with Jorge Sierra and had said that he was good to go.
The countdown to Sierra’s trial had begun again.
Chapter 24
I was sleeping when Joe called.
The time on my phone was midnight, eight hours before the trial was to begin.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Julie’s fine. The SFPD website is down. The power is out at the Hall.”
I turned on the TV news and saw mayhem on Bryant Street. Barricades had been set up. Reporters and cameramen shouted questions at uniformed officers. The Hall of Justice was so dark it looked like an immense mausoleum.
I nuked instant coffee and sat cross-legged in Joe’s chair, watching the tube. At 1:00 a.m. fire could be seen leaping at the glass doors that faced the intersection of Bryant and Boardman Place.
A network reporter said to the camera, “Chet, I’m hearing that there was an explosion inside the lobby.”
I couldn’t take this anymore. I texted Brady. He was rushed. He typed, Security is checking in with me up and down the line. Don’t come in, Boxer.
Then, as suddenly as they had gone out, the lights in the Hall came back on.
My laptop was on the coffee table and I switched it on. I punched in the address for the SFPD site, and I was watching when a title appeared on our own front page: This was a test.