PHILIP HOFFMAN had never lost his composure in this jury’s presence. He’d been respectful to the defense witnesses and he’d never used a five-dollar word when a nickel word would do. He felt sure that the jury liked and trusted him, and he was counting on that good feeling rubbing off on his client.

“Folks,” he said, towering over the lectern, making it seem like a toy in his shadow, “Stacey Glenn is a good girl who has never harmed a person in her life. She loves her parents, and when Rose Glenn came before you at great emotional and physical cost, she told you that Stacey hasn’t got a bit of violence in her. That Stacey would never, ever attack her father or Rose herself.

“You heard Rose Glenn say that she’s absolutely sick at heart, that whatever she said or did when she was on the verge of death was misinterpreted and used to indict her innocent daughter.”

Hoffman shook his head, left his notes on the lectern, and walked to the jury box, then locked his hands behind his back and swept his dark eyes over the jurors.

“The prosecution has used the crime-scene video in order to stir your emotions because that’s all they have. And that video, as moving as it is, is not proof that Stacey Glenn is guilty of anything.”

Hoffman took the jury through his case, citing the two neurologists and the psychiatrist who testified that Rose Glenn was in shock when she was interviewed by Inspector Chi, that her responses were completely and totally unreliable.

He said that while the toll-taker believed he saw Stacey Glenn, a transaction with any driver lasted a few seconds at most and, in this case, his glimpse of said driver had taken place in the dark of night.

“There is no record of the Forester’s license-plate number,” Hoffman said to the jury, “and no videotape of the driver.

“Bernice Lawrence,” Hoffman went on, “the neighbor who swore that she saw Stacey’s car in her parents’ driveway… well, she’s a good citizen and she was trying to help. Maybe she saw a similar car or maybe she got the date of that sighting wrong – but regardless, she admits she never saw Stacey.

“Using common sense, we are unlikely to believe that my client would be stupid enough to park her car in front of her parents’ house and then go inside to kill them. It’s ridiculous.

“You’ve seen what Tony and Rose Glenn’s bedroom looked like after the attack,” he said. “Can you believe that a person could raise a crowbar, strike with enormous force, lift and strike again a dozen times, and not get a hair or a spot of blood on their clothing?

“Stacey was brought in for questioning within hours of the tragedy. Her hair, her hands, her whole body, was examined. Her apartment was searched, and her shoes and clothing were tested thoroughly in the crime lab.

“There was no evidence on her person. None.

“Stacey’s car was reduced to buckets of nuts and bolts, and no evidence was found.

“Regarding the key left in her parents’ front door, I ask you: how many of you keep a spare key under the mat or in some other obvious place where anyone could find it?

“And the call to Wayne Chadwell, the insurance broker?

“Stacey was being a good daughter. Her parents were getting old. She checked on their policy because she wanted to be sure they were protected.

“In sum, folks, there’s no forensic evidence whatsoever linking my client to this crime. None.

“And because the police have the questionable testimony of a severely injured woman, they have pinned this crime on Stacey – and they never considered anyone else. Is there reasonable doubt in this case? I submit to you there’s nothing but reasonable doubt.

“Rose Glenn lost her husband and almost died. And now the prosecution is asking you to compound this poor woman’s tragedy by taking away her daughter as well.

“Stacey didn’t do it, folks.

“And there’s no evidence to support that she did.

“I urge you to find Stacey Glenn not guilty on all charges. And I thank you.”

CINDY, FRESH IN a pink wraparound dress under her coat, hair gleaming, looking as though she’d stepped from a department-store window, skirted the filthy drug addicts loitering outside the three-story redbrick building on Fifth off Townsend and thanked a toothless young man who held open the door for her.

The ground floor of “From the Heart” was one large, green room, with a cafeteria-style hot table along one wall, folding tables and chairs set up in rows, and ragged people milling – some talking to themselves, others eating eggs from paper plates.

Cindy noticed a thin black woman eyeing her from a spot near the entrance. She looked about forty years old and was wearing a bold print blouse over black stretch pants. Purple-framed eyeglasses hung from a cord around her neck, and a badge pinned to her blouse read, MS. LUVIE JUMP, DAY ROOM SUPERVISOR.

Ms. Jump continued to scan Cindy skeptically, then said, “Help you?”

Cindy told the woman her name and that she was writing a story about Bagman Jesus for the San Francisco Chronicle.

“I’m following up on his murder,” Cindy said, taking the morning’s paper out of her computer bag. She flipped it open to page three, exposed the headline above the fold.

The black woman squinted at the paper, said, “You had your coffee yet?”

“Nope,” said Cindy.

“Then sit yourself down.”

Luvie Jump returned a minute later with two mugs of coffee, a basket of rolls, and foil-wrapped pats of butter.

“Will you read me that story?” she asked, sitting across from Cindy, laying out plastic flatware and napkins. “I don’t have my reading glasses.”

Cindy smiled, said, “Love to. I don’t get to do readings too often.” She flattened the paper, said, “The headline is ‘Street Messiah Murdered. Police Have No Leads.’ ”

“ Uh-hunh. Go on.”

“Okay, so then it says, ‘Sometime after midnight on May sixth, a homeless man was beaten and shot to death outside the Caltrain yard on Townsend Street.

“ ‘More than a hundred homeless people die on our streets from neglect and violence every year, and the city buries and forgets them.’ ”

“Can say that again,” Luvie murmured.

Cindy went on, “ ‘But this man won’t be forgotten easily. He was a friend to the castoffs, the shadow people of the underclass. He was their shepherd, and they loved him.

“ ‘We don’t know his name, but he was called Bagman Jesus.’ ”

Cindy’s throat caught and she looked up, saw Luvie Jump smiling at her, the woman’s mouth quavering as if she might cry.

“He delivered my oldest child in an alley,” Luvie said. “That’s why he wore that baby on the cross around his neck. Jesus saves. Jesus saves. What can I do to help you, Cindy Thomas? Just tell me.”

“I want to know everything about him.”

“Where should I start?”

“Do you know Bagman’s real name?”