MICKEY SHERMAN FELT THE NICE, STEADY FLOW of adrenaline that came from knowing his stuff and from believing in his client. Brinkley, the poor schmuck, was just waking up to the real world after fifteen years of slow decompensation as his illness had progressed.

And what a sorry world it was. Going on trial for his life under a thick blanket of antipsychotic medication.

It was a damned tragedy all the way around.

"Mr. Brinkley heard voices," Mickey Sherman said as he paced in front of the jury box. "I'm not talking about the 'little voice' we all hear in our own heads, the interior monologue that helps us figure out problems or write a speech or find our car keys.

"The voices in Mr. Brinkley's head were directive, intrusive, overwhelming, and cruel.

"These voices taunted him unrelentingly, called him derogatory names – and they goaded him to kill. When he watched television, he believed that the characters and the news anchors were talking directly to him, that they were accusing him of crimes, and also that they were telling him what to do.

"And after years of fighting these demons, Fred Brinkley finally obeyed the voices.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, at the time of the shooting, Fred Brinkley was not in touch with reality.

"He didn't know that the people he shot on the ferry were made of flesh and blood. To him they were part of the painful hallucinations in his own mind.

"Afterward, Mr. Brinkley saw the TV news report of himself shooting people on the ferry, and because the pictures were on TV, he realized what he had done. He was so overcome with remorse and guilt and self-hatred that he turned himself in to the police of his own volition.

"He waived all his rights and confessed, because in the aftermath of his crimes, the healthy part of his brain allowed him to understand the horror of his actions.

"That should give you a window into this man's character.

"The prosecution would like you to believe that the hardest decision you'll have to make in this trial is picking your foreperson.

"But you haven't heard the full story yet.

"Witnesses who know Mr. Brinkley and psychiatric professionals who have examined him will attest to Mr. Brinkley's character and his past and present state of mind.

"When you've heard our case in its entirety, I am confident that you will find Fred Brinkley 'not guilty' by reason of mental defect or disease.

"Because the truth is, Fred Brinkley is a good man who is afflicted with a terrible mind-altering disease."

AT 6:30 THAT NIGHT, Yuki and Leonard Parisi were seated in the cavernous sunken dining room at Restaurant LuLu, an old warehouse turned popular eatery not far from the Hall of Justice.

Yuki felt sharp, part of the A-team. The winning A-team. She carved into her rotisserie chicken and Len tucked into his spicy prawn pizza, the two of them reviewing the day as they ate, trying on potential roadblocks, planning how to detonate those roadblocks in their next day's presentation of the People's case against Alfred Brinkley.

Leonard refilled their wineglasses with a sixty-dollar merlot, saying, "Grrrrr. Beware of Team Red Dog."

Yuki laughed, sipped, put her papers into a large leather bag as the dinner plates were taken away. Working as a civil litigator had never felt as good as this.

The large brick oven across the room perfumed the air with burning hickory wood, and as the restaurant and bar filled up, conversation and laughter caromed off the walls and high ceilings.

"Coffee?" Len asked Yuki.

"Sure," she said. "And I'm so stoked, I think I'm gonna go for the profiteroles."

"I'll second that," Leonard said, raising his hand to signal their waitress. And then, in midgesture, his face went slack. Len put his hand on his chest and half stood, leaning against the seat back, which caused the chair to topple over, throwing him onto the floor.

Yuki heard a tray fall behind her. Dishes broke, and someone screamed.

She realized that the scream had come from her.

She jumped from her seat, crouched beside the big man who was rolling from side to side and moaning.

"Leonard! Len, where does it hurt?"

He mumbled, but she couldn't make out what he was saying over the roar of concern all around them.

"Can you raise your arms, Len?"

"My chest," he groaned. "Call my wife."

"I can drive him to the hospital," a man was saying over Yuki's shoulder. "My car is right out front."

"Thanks, but that'll take too long."

"Look, the hospital is only ten minutes -"

"Please. No, thank you. EMS brings the hospital to him, okay?"

Yuki pulled her satchel toward her, emptied it onto the floor, and located her cell phone. She blocked out the well-meaning guy behind her, pictured the traffic jam, the three hours' wait outside the emergency room – which is what would happen if anything but an ambulance took Len to the hospital.

That was the mistake they'd made with her dad.

Yuki gripped Len's hand as she listened intently to the ring tone. She hissed, "Come on, come on," and when the 911 operator answered, she spoke distinctly and urgently.

"This is an emergency. Send an ambulance to Restaurant LuLu at 816 Folsom. My friend is having a heart attack."

CONKLIN AND I WERE WORKING phone leads on the Ricci/Tyler case when Jacobi popped out to the squad room, said to us, "You two look like you need some air."

Fifteen minutes later, just before seven p.m., we pulled up to an apartment building near Third and Townsend. Three patrol cars, two fire rigs, and the medical examiner's van had gotten there before us.

"This is weird. I know this place," I told Conklin. "My friend Cindy lives here."

I tried to reach Cindy but got a busy signal on her cell. No answer on her home phone, either.

I looked for but didn't see Cindy among the tenants standing in tight knots on the sidewalk, giving their statements to the uniforms walking among them, looking up at the brick face of the Blakely Arms and the pale curtains blowing out of windows on the fifth floor.

Cindy lived on three. My relief was sudden and short-lived. Someone had damned well died prematurely in Cindy's building.

The doorman, a middle-aged man with a sloping forehead and frizzy gray hair springing out from his hatband, paced outside the main door. He had a fading flower-power look, as if he'd been beached by the '60s revolution. He told us that his name was Joseph "Pinky" Boyd and that he'd been working at the Blakely Arms for three years.

"Miss Portia Fox in 5K," he told us. "She's the one who smelled the gas. She called down to the desk a half hour ago. Yeah," he said, looking at his watch.

"And you called the fire department?"

"Right. They were here in about five minutes."

"Where's the complainant? Miss Fox."

"She's probably outside here. We cleared the whole fifth floor. I saw her… Mrs. Wolkowski. Terrible thing to see some-one dead in real life, someone you know."

"Can you think of anyone who'd want to hurt Mrs. Wolkowski?" Conklin asked the doorman.

"Nah. She was a bit of a crank. Complained about getting the wrong mail in her box, scuff marks on the tile, stuff like that. But she was a pussycat for an old girl."

"Mr. Boyd, were you here all day?"

"Since eight this morning."

"You have surveillance cameras?" I asked.

"The tenants have a picture phone for when someone buzzes the bell, and that's it."

"What's downstairs?"

"Laundry room, garbage, bathroom, and a door that leads out to the courtyard."

"A locked door?" Conklin asked. "Is it alarmed?"