“I take the amendment,” the kid said, getting a fresh infusion of air before speaking once more. “I take the Fifth Amendment on the grounds —”
And with that, a horrific shrieking alarm came from beneath the wheelchair. There were screams from the gallery and from the jury box as the readouts on the ventilator went down to zero.
Andrew Cabot leaped from his chair, shoving the attendant forward.
“Do something! Do something!”
There was a collective intake of breath as the tech knelt, fiddled with knobs, and reset the ventilator. At last, the alarm went silent.
A loud whoosh was heard as Sam sucked in his life-saving air.
Then the roar of the crowd’s relief filled the room.
“I’m done with this witness,” Yuki said, shouting over the rumble that flowed from front to back of the courtroom.
“Court is adjourned,” said Judge Achacoso, slamming her gavel down. “We’ll resume tomorrow at nine.”
Chapter 92
AS THE COURTROOM EMPTIED, Yuki directed her full five-foot-two presence toward the judge.
“Your Honor! Move for a mistrial,” she said.
The judge waved her to the bench, and she and Mickey as well as Broyles and his second chair clumped up to the front.
I heard Yuki say, “The jury had to have been prejudiced by that freaking alarm.”
“You’re not accusing the plaintiff of deliberately setting off that ‘freaking’ alarm, are you?” asked the judge.
“No, of course not, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Broyles?”
“Pardon my language, Judge, but shit happens, and what the jury saw is an ongoing feature of Sam Cabot’s life. Sometimes the ventilator malfunctions and the kid could die. The jury saw that. I don’t think it made our case any stronger than the fact that Sam’s in that chair and his sister is dead.”
“I agree. Motion denied, Ms. Castellano. We’re going forward tomorrow morning, as planned.”
Chapter 93
I DON’T KNOW WHO was more shell-shocked, me or Yuki. We found our way to the fire exit stairwell, clattered down the concrete stairs, and opened the side door onto Polk, leaving Mickey to handle the press.
Yuki looked positively stunned—and mortified.
“Sam’s testimony was beyond a nightmare,” she said, her voice cracking. “When that alarm went off, my whole cross was obliterated. It was like everyone was thinking, What in God’s name did she do to that child?”
We took the most circuitous and least scenic route to the garage. I had to put my arm across Yuki’s waist to stop her from crossing the wind tunnel of Van Ness against the light.
“My God,” Yuki said again and again, each time throwing her hands out, palms facing the sky. “My God, my God. What a joke. What a complete travesty!”
“But Yuki,” I said, “you got your point across. You said it all. The kids were parked in the Tenderloin. They had no business there. They had guns. You said that Sam was the target of a homicide investigation, and Sam will be arraigned for those murders.
“His prints were found on the lip of the bathtub where that poor kid was electrocuted. He and Sara murdered those kids, Yuki. Sam Cabot is a terror. The jury has to know that.”
“I don’t know that they know. I can’t get away with saying he’s a suspect again because he hasn’t been arraigned. Th
e jury might have even thought I was baiting the kid, trying to get his pathetic little goat. Which, apparently, I did.”
We crossed Opera Plaza, a mixed-use development with restaurants, a bookstore, and movie theaters on the ground floor. Avoiding the stares of the crowd, we took the elevator down to the garage, and after going back and forth several times between the rows of parked cars, we found Yuki’s Acura at last.