ing his objections, and ignored the bang of the gavel — a sound as effective as if the bullets she’d fired with her hand were real.
She spoke over the commotion, saying, “And so, Dr. Martin, after your husband was dead, you fired a few rounds into the air to explain away the gunshot residue on your hands. Isn’t that true?”
“Your Honor,” Hoffman shouted, “Ms. Castellano just gave her summation. Apart from her disingenuous ‘Isn’t that true?’ there wasn’t a question in that entire herd of bull,” Hoffman said. “I move that this entire cross-examination be stricken —”
“For God’s sake,” Candace Martin said, gripping the arms of the witness box, leaning forward, the cords of her neck standing out as she shouted at Yuki over her lawyer’s voice.
“If I were going to kill Dennis, why would I do it in my own home, where my children would see it? This travesty is the fault of bad police work and insane, rabid prosecution. Take a look at yourself, Ms. Castellano. I was angry at Dennis, but I didn’t kill him. Just like I would never kill you.”
Chapter 71
THE JUDGE SLAMMED down his gavel again and again, bellowing, “Order! Mr. Hoffman, get your client under control,” he commanded, which only added fuel to the conflagration that was already consuming the courtroom.
Yuki stood in the well with her hands clasped in front of her, hoping the disturbance would rage on.
Even if her cross was stricken, even if she was fined, she had turned a blowtorch on Candace Martin’s cool demeanor. The doctor’s vehement protests that she wouldn’t kill her husband had lost their punch.
The motive to kill was there.
Her going ballistic had demonstrated to the jury that she could have lost her cool and gunned him down.
The judge banged his gavel once more, and at last the ruckus died down. He straightened his glasses, peered down at Yuki, and said, “Anything else, Ms. Castellano? Or have you done enough for one day?”
Yuki said, “I have nothing further for the witness.”
Hoffman said, “Redirect, Your Honor.”
But the judge wasn’t listening anymore. His attention had gone to his cell phone. His face was pale.
A second time Hoffman told the judge that he wanted to reexamine the witness.
“It’ll have to wait,” said Judge LaVan. “I have to visit someone at the hospital, immediately.
“Dr. Martin, you may step down. Court is adjourned for the day. Ms. Castellano. Mr. Hoffman. Be in my chambers at eight a.m. tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.
“We’ll pick up the pieces then.”
Chapter 72
I WALKED INTO Brady’s office first thing in the morning, hoping to have the quickest meeting on record.
Brady put down his phone and said, “Boxer, I’m going to have to pull you off Richardson and send it down to Crimes Against Persons. Look at what’s come in in the past week,” he said, tilting his chin toward the whiteboard in the center of the squad room, legible through the glass walls of his office.
Six open cases were listed in black letters. Closed cases were always written in red. There were no closed cases.
“Lieutenant, we’re getting some real movement on Richardson,” I said, pulling out a chair, sitting down across from the big guy. His sunny hair was pulled back, but there was no wedding band on his ring finger. I thought about Yuki, no bigger than a bird, wrapped in the arms of this cop I barely knew, and I was afraid for her.
Yuki was a brilliant, gutsy prosecutor — and at the same time an absolute loser at picking men.
Brady was staring back at me, waiting for me to speak.
“Quentin Tazio found a connection that could crack this case,” I said.
“QT’s our computer consultant, right?”
“He’s the best.”
I told Brady that through the wizardry of telephony and electronic databases, QT had tracked a phone call to Jordan Ritter from the Lake Merced area during the time Avis Richardson was delivering her baby.