“I think Mr. Johnson would agree that if he had it to do again, when he saw that Dr. Harris was ill, he would have immediately called nine one one. He probably would have done everything different that night, but he made some mistakes.
“Yes, he’s guilty of stealing two thousand dollars from a rich boss who had given him his ATM pin number.
“Yes, he’s guilty of giving those drugs to Ms. Wu, a known drug user and a prostitute, and while this is true, it’s a technicality. He wasn’t actually dealing. He used drugs for recreation.
“As for consciousness of guilt, I submit to you folks that my client was just shooting the bull with Ms. Wu when they discussed ‘dumping the body.’
“They didn’t do it, did they?” Asher asked rhetorically. “Mr. Johnson called for an ambulance. The facts are clear. My client didn’t know if Dr. Harris was dying or if he was going to wake up with a bad headache. He’s no genius, but he’s not a bad guy.
“And so we ask you to find him ‘not guilty’ of manslaughter, because he simply did not do it.”
Chapter 7
I LEFT THE Homicide squad room in a hurry that evening, determined to get out of Jacobi’s line of sight before I got drafted into someone else’s case. I’d just stepped into the elevator when, damn it, my cell phone buzzed.
It was Yuki; she was funny, passionate, and going through a rough time, so I pressed the phone to my ear and she peppered me with her customary rat-a-tat speech.
“Lindsay, my head’s spinning off my neck. Can you meet me at MacBain’s? Like, now?”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re busy.”
“I’ve got plans,” I said, “but I can have a quick beer—”
“I’ll meet you in five.”
MacBain’s Beers O’ the World Pub is a cops-and-lawyers hangout two blocks from the Hall of Justice. I got my car out of the all-day lot and headed east on Bryant, telling myself that I’d still have time to pick up the shrimp on the way home.
I entered the bar, found a tiny table near the window, and had just ordered two Coronas from the waitress when I saw Yuki elbowing her way through the crowd, coming toward me. She was talking before she sat down.
“You ordered? Good. How are you? Okay?”
The waitress brought the beer, and Yuki asked for a burger well-done with cheese fries.
“You’re not eating?” she said.
“I’m cooking a late dinner for Joe.”
“Ah.”
She put a hand to her brow as if shielding her eyes from the light bouncing off my engagement ring.
“Must be nice.”
“Yeah,” I said, grinning at her.
Being engaged was still new to me after months and months of a cross-country roller-coaster romance. Now Joe and I lived together, and we still hadn’t sat down to dinner at the same time in two weeks. I’d promised him shrimp pomodoro tonight, and I was looking forward to the whole deal: the cooking, the supping, the afterglow. “So what’s going on?” I asked Yuki.
She drained half her glass before answering. “My victim isn’t just scum, he’s dead scum, and Jo-Jo is cute and stupid. The women jurists looked at him, Linds, like they wanted to breast-feed him.”
I’d stopped by the courtroom to watch Yuki’s closing argument, and I had to agree. Dr. Lincoln Harris was dead slime, and while Jo-Jo Johnson was hardly better—he was alive. And he looked like a man without a clue.
“Asher could actually win,” Yuki wailed. “I quit private practice for this? Help me, Linds. Should I find a good-paying job in a corporate law firm?”
My phone vibrated on my hip again. I looked down at the caller ID. Jacobi. My ex-partner and current boss, whose gut reaction to everything is to call me. Old habits die hard. I keyed the button and said, “Boxer,” into the mouthpiece.
“There’s been a double homicide, Lindsay. It’s got ‘psycho’ written all over it.”