"Shut up, David. I was a litigator. That counts. So we're gonna give Red Dog our best. We're gonna spend the next three hours going over what we both already know.

"We've got credible eyewitnesses, the Rooney tape, and a jury that is going to be rolling its eyes at the insanity defense.

"It's what Len said at the prep meeting: The more random the crime, the less motive for the killings, the more afraid the jury is going to be that Brinkley will get forty-five minutes in a nuthouse and then go free -"

Yuki stopped to take in the grin spreading across David Hale's face.

"What are you thinking, David? No, I take it back. Please don't say it," Yuki said, trying not to laugh.

"Open-and-shut case," said her new teammate. "Slam dunk."

YUKI STOOD IN THE WELL OF THE COURTROOM, feeling as green as if she were trying her first case. She clutched the edges of the lectern, thought how when Len stood behind this thing, it appeared to be the size of a music stand. She was peering over the top of it like a grade-schooler.

The jury looked at her expectantly.

Could she actually convince them that Alfred Brinkley was guilty of capital murder?

Yuki called her first witness, Officer Bobby Cohen, a fifteen-year veteran of the SFPD, his just-the-facts-ma'am demeanor setting a good solid tone for the People's case.

She took him through what he had seen when he arrived at the Del Norte, what he had done, and when she finished her direct, Mickey Sherman had only one question for Officer Cohen.

"Did you witness the incident on the ferry?"

"No, I did not."

"Thank you. That's all I have."

Yuki checked off Cohen in her mind, thinking that although Cohen didn't see the shootings, he'd set the stage for the jurors, putting the picture of human destruction in their minds – an image she would now build upon.

She called Bernard Stringer, the fireman who'd seen Brinkley shoot Andrea and Tony Canello. Stringer lumbered to the stand and was sworn in before taking his seat. He was in his late twenties, with the open-faced, all-American looks of a baseball player.

Yuki said, "Mr. Stringer, what kind of work do you do?"

"I'm a firefighter out of Station 14 at Twenty-sixth and Geary."

"And why were you on the Del Norte on November first?"

"I'm a weekend dad," he said, smiling. "My kids just love the ferry."

"And did anything unusual happen on the day in question?"

"Yes. I saw the shooting on the top deck."

"Is the shooter in court today?" Yuki asked.

"Yes, he is."

"Can you point him out to us?"

"He's sitting right there. The man in the blue suit."

"Will the court reporter please note that Mr. Stringer indicated the defendant, Alfred Brinkley. Mr. Stringer, how far were you standing from Andrea Canello and her son, Anthony, when Mr. Brinkley shot them?"

"About as far as I am from you. Five or six feet."

"Can you tell us what you saw?"

Stringer's face seemed to contract as he sent his mind back to that horrific and bloody day. "Mrs. Canello was straightening the kid out, being kind of rough on him, I thought.

"Don't get me wrong. She wasn't abusive. It was just that the kid was taking it hard, and I was thinking about butting in. But I never said anything because the defendant shot her. And then he shot the little boy. And then everything on the boat went crazy."

"Did Mr. Brinkley say anything to either of those victims before firing his gun?"

"Nope. He just lined up his shots. Bang. Bang. Really cold."

Yuki let Bernard Stringer's words hang for a moment in the courtroom, then said, "To be clear, when you say it was 'really cold,' you're not talking about the temperature?"

"No, it's the way he killed those people. His face was like ice."

"Thank you, Mr. Stringer. Your witness," Yuki said to the defense counsel.

YUKI WATCHED MICKEY SHERMAN put his hands in his pockets, walk toward the witness in the reflected golden glow of the oak-paneled walls of the courtroom. His smile was real enough, but the amble, the common-man language, the whole low-key act, was also a cunning cover for Mickey's talent for launching surprise attacks.

Yuki had worked with Sherman at close range before, and she'd learned to recognize his "tell." Sherman would touch his right forefinger to the divot in his upper lip just before he sprang for the witness's throat.

"Mr. Stringer, did Mrs. Canello or Anthony Canello do anything to provoke my client?" Sherman asked.

"No. As far as I could see, they were unaware of him."

"And you say my client looked calm when he shot them?"

"He had a wild look about him generally, but when he pulled the trigger, his expression was like I said – cold. Blank. And his hand was steady."

"When you look at him today, does Mr. Brinkley look the way he did on the Del Norte?"

"Not really."

"In what way does he look different?"

Stringer sighed, gazed down at his hands before answering. "He looked mangy. I mean, his hair was long. He had a messy beard. His clothes were dirty, and he smelled funky."

"So he looked mangy. His face was blank, and he stank to high heaven. And you saw him shoot two people who didn't provoke him. They didn't even know he was there."

"That's right."

Forefinger to the upper lip.

"So what you're saying is, Fred Brinkley looked and acted like a madman."

Yuki shot to her feet. "Objection, Your Honor. Leading the witness."

"Sustained."

Sherman's quiet charm returned.

"Mr. Stringer, did Mr. Brinkley look sane to you?"

"No. He looked as crazy as hell."

"Thank you, Mr. Stringer," Sherman said.

Yuki tried to summon up a question for redirect that could cancel out the words "madman" and "crazy," but what came out of her mouth was "The People call Mr. Jack Rooney."

JACK ROONEY MADE HIS WAY up the aisle, leaning on his three-legged cane, putting his weight on his left leg, then swinging out his right hip, repeating the awkward yet mesmerizing gait all the way to the witness stand.

Rooney accepted assistance from the bailiff, who put a hand under the man's elbow and helped him up into the chair. Yuki thought that this witness was surely Mickey-proof.

Or was he?

"Thanks for coming all this way, Mr. Rooney," Yuki said when the elderly man was finally seated. Rooney was wearing a red cardigan over a white shirt, red bow tie. His glasses were big and square, perched on a knobby nose, white hair parted and slicked down like that of a little boy on the first day of school.

"My pleasure." Rooney beamed.

"Mr. Rooney, were you on the Del Norte ferry on November first?"

"Yes, dear. I was with my wife, Betty, and our two friends, Leslie and Joe Waters. We all live near Albany, you know. That was our first trip to San Francisco."

"And did anything unusual happen on that ferry ride?"

"Oh, I'll say. That fellow over there killed a lot of people," he said, pointing to Brinkley. "I was so scared I almost shit myself."

Yuki allowed herself a smile as laughter rippled out over the gallery. She said, "Will the court reporter please note that the witness has identified the defendant, Alfred Brinkley. Mr. Rooney, did you make a video recording of the shooting?"

"Well, it was supposed to be a movie of the ferry ride – the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz and so forth – but it turned out to be a movie of the shooting. Nice little camera my grandson gave me," he said, holding his thumb and forefinger about three inches apart.

"It's only the size of a Snickers bar, but it takes pictures and movies. I just take the pictures, and my grandson puts it on the computer for me. Oh, and I sold the movie to a TV station, and that pretty much paid for the whole darned San Francisco trip."