Bennett Sinclair said a few words. He praised Jill as the most dedicated prosecutor on his staff. “People said she was tough. And she was tough. But not so tough that respect and humanity were ever casualties in how she conducted herself. Most of us have lost a good friend”—he pressed his lips—“but the city of San Francisco is going to miss one hell of a lawyer.”
A classmate from Stanford showed a picture of Jill on the women’s soccer team that went to the national finals, and made the crowd laugh when she said it didn’t take long to know who really had it together, as Jill was the only one on the team who joked that “doubling up” meant carrying two majors.
I got up and spoke briefly. “Everyone knew Jill Meyer Bernhardt as this self-assured, achieving winner. Top of her law school class. Strongest conviction rate on the D.A.’s staff. Free-climbed the Sultan’s Spire in Moab,” I said. “I knew her for all those things, too, but mostly as a friend whose deepest inner wish wasn’t about convictions or big cases but simply to bring a child into this world. That was the Jill I loved best, the real Jill.”
Claire played the cello. She slowly climbed the platform and sat there for a while, then the choir joined in the background in a hauntingly beautiful version of “Loving Arms,” one of Jill’s favorite songs. How many times we used to sing that song, meeting after work at Susie’s, straining in margarita-drenched harmony. I watched Claire close her eyes, and the tremors of the cello and the softly singing voices in the background were the perfect tribute to Jill.
As the final verse began, the pallbearers picked up the casket, and Jill’s family reluctantly rose to follow.
And as they did, a few of us began to clap our hands. Slowly at first, as the procession walked by. Then one by one, everyone joined in.
As the casket neared the rear doors, the pallbearers stopped and held it for a few seconds, as if to make sure Jill could hear her tribute.
I was looking at Claire. Tears were streaming down my face so hard, I thought they would never stop. I wanted to shout out, Go, Jill…. Claire returned to her seat and squeezed my hand. Then Cindy squeezed the other.
And I thought to myself, I’ll find the bastard, Jill. You sleep easy.
Chapter 77
IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT by the time Cindy got home. Her eyes were raw, her body numb, and she wondered if she would ever recover from losing Jill.
She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. The answering machine was blinking. She’d been out of touch all day. She ought to check her e-mail, maybe just to get Jill off her mind.
She went to her computer and checked out the Chronicle’s front page. The story of the day was ricin. Jill’s COD had gotten out. Her death, coupled with Bengosian’s, had put the city in a panic. How easily could ricin be obtained? What were the symptoms? What if it got into the water supply? Were there antidotes? How many people could die in San Francisco?
She was about to check her e-mail when an Instant Message bubbled through. Hotwax1199.
Don’t waste your time trying to trace this, the message began.
Cindy froze.
No need to even write it down. It belongs to a sixth-grader in Dublin, Ohio. He doesn’t even know it’s gone. His name is Marion Delgado, the message continued. Do you know who I am?
Yes, Cindy wrote back. I know who you are. You’re the son of a bitch who killed my friend Jill. Why are you contacting me?
There’s going to be another strike, the answer appeared.
Tomorrow. Not like before. A lot of innocent people are going to die. Completely innocent people.
Where? Cindy typed. She waited anxiously. Can you tell me where? Please!
This G-8 meeting has to be canceled, the message returned.
You said you wanted to help, so help, goddamnit! These people, the government, they have to own up to their crimes. Murdering innocent people, just for oil. Multinationals on the loose, preying on the poor across the world. You said you wanted to get our message across. Here’s your chance. Make these thieves and murderers stop their crimes now.
There was a silence. Cindy wasn’t sure if the messenger was still there. She didn’t know what to do next.
More words appeared on her screen.
Get them to acknowledge their crimes. It’s the only way to stop these deaths.
This was something else, Cindy was thinking. The writer was reaching out. Maybe a sliver of guilt, or reason, holding back the insanity.
I can tell you want to stop this insanity, Cindy wrote.
Please, tell me what’s going to happen. No one has to get hurt!
Nothing. No further reply came.