"Your Honor?" Mickey Sherman said wearily from the counsel table.

Judge Moore leaned across the bench and said, "Mr. Rooney, please answer the questions 'yes' or 'no' unless you're asked for a fuller explanation, all right?"

"Certainly, Your Honor. I'm sorry. I've never done this before."

"That's okay."

Yuki interlaced her fingers in front of her, asked, "You gave me a copy of the video, didn't you, sir?"

"Yep, I did."

"Judge, permission to show a copy of this video and enter it into evidence."

"Go right ahead, Ms. Castellano."

David Hale slipped a disk into a computer, and as faces turned toward two large TVs in the front of the courtroom, the amateur film began.

The first of two segments showed a happy afternoon on the bay – the long pan of the landmarks, the camera eye coming to rest on a grinning Jack Rooney and his wife, just by happenstance catching an out-of-focus Alfred Brinkley sitting behind them, staring out over the water, plucking at the hairs on his arm.

The second segment was a scene of bloody horror.

Yuki watched the faces of the jurors as the gunshots and the terrified screams ricocheted around the small courtroom.

The pictures on the two screens slewed sideways, catching the shock on the little boy's face at the moment he was shot, captured his small frame blowing back against the hull before falling across his mother's body.

Yuki had seen the film many times, and still the shots were like punches to her own gut.

Red Dog was wrong. The jurors were anything but bored as they witnessed the slaughter, because this viewing of the Rooney tape was different from seeing it at home.

This time the killer sat only yards away.

Some jurors covered their mouths or averted their eyes, and over the course of the two segments, every one of them peered with dismay at Alfred Brinkley.

Brinkley didn't look back. He sat motionless in his chair, watching himself mow all those innocent people down.

"I have no questions," said Mickey Sherman, turning to whisper into Alfred Brinkley's ear, the judge saying, "Thank you, Mr. Rooney. You may step down."

Yuki waited for Rooney to make his long, hip-swinging return trip up the aisle before saying, "The People call Dr. Claire Washburn."

CLAIRE FELT ALL THE EYES IN THE ROOM following her as she made her way to the witness stand. Yesterday at this time, she'd been in bed, and she hoped to God that two hours from now, she'd be there again.

Then she saw Yuki, cute little thing all of twenty-eight years old, all that passion in her face, scared half to death but not wanting to show it. So Claire smiled at her as she dragged her butt through the gate and walked to the witness stand.

Claire put her hand on the Bible as the bailiff took her through the "do you swears," and then she arranged the folds of her dress that now hung loosely around her from having lost fifteen pounds in just under three weeks. The gunshot diet, she thought as she settled into the chair.

"Thank you for coming today, Dr. Washburn. You just got out of the hospital a couple of days ago?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And can you tell the jury why you were in the hospital?"

"I was shot in the chest."

"Is the person who shot you sitting in court today?"

"Yes. That's the little shit-bird. Right there."

Sherman didn't bother to get out of his seat, simply said, "Your Honor, I object. I'm not really sure about the grounds, but I'm pretty sure the witness isn't allowed to call my client a shit-bird."

"Dr. Washburn, he's probably right about that."

"I'm sorry, Your Honor. It's just the pain talking." She looked down at Brinkley. "I'm terribly sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have called you a shit-bird."

The titters in the gallery flowed across the room and into the jury box, until the judge patiently banged his gavel, saying, "Everyone, and I do mean everyone" – he peered over his glasses at Claire – "there will be no more of this. This is not Comedy Central, and I will clear the courtroom if there are any more public outbursts. Ms. Castellano, please control your witnesses. That's part of your job."

"I'm sorry, Your Honor. I understand."

Yuki cleared her throat. "Dr. Washburn, what was the nature of your injuries?"

"I had a hole in my chest caused by a.38-caliber bullet that collapsed my left lung and nearly caused my death."

"That must have been very frightening and painful."

"Yes. More than I can say."

"The jury saw the film of the shooting," Yuki said, Claire reading her sympathetic look. "Can you tell us what you said to the defendant before he shot you?"

"I said, 'Okay, son, that's enough, now. Give me the gun.' "

"And then what happened?"

"He said something about this being my fault, that I should have stopped him. Next thing I knew, I was being carted off the ferry by paramedics."

"You tried to stop him from shooting anyone else."

"Yes."

"You saw other people try to stop him."

"Yes. But he took aim and shot us all. Shot Mr. Ng's brains right onto the deck."

"Thank you, Doctor. Your witness," Yuki said.

MICKEY SHERMAN HAD KNOWN CLAIRE WASHBURN for many years, liked her very much, and was glad she'd survived her ordeal on the Del Norte.

But she was a dangerous threat to his client.

"Dr. Washburn, what's your profession?"

"I'm the chief medical examiner of San Francisco."

"Unlike the coroner, you're a medical doctor, isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"When you were doing your internship, did you do rotations at a teaching hospital?"

"I did."

"And you rotated through the psychiatric ward?"

"Yes."

"Ever see any patients walking around with a blank stare in the psych ward?"

"Objection. Relevance, Your Honor," Yuki said.

"Overruled. The witness may answer the question."

"I really don't remember any of my psych patients, Mr. Sherman. All the patients I have now have blank stares."

"All right," Sherman said, smiling, hands in pockets, pacing a little bit in front of the jury box, turning back to Claire, saying, "Well, Doctor, you've had a chance to observe Mr. Brinkley, isn't that right?"

"Big stretch of the word 'observe.' "

"Yes or no, Dr. Washburn?"

"Yes. I 'observed' him on the ferry, and I see him right now."

"Let's just talk about what happened on the ferry. You just testified that my client said something like, 'This is your fault.' And 'You should have stopped me.' "

"That's right."

"Were the shootings your fault?"

"No."

"What did you think Fred Brinkley meant?"

"I have no idea."

"Did Mr. Brinkley appear to be of sound mind at that time? Did he appear to know right from wrong?"

"I really can't say. I'm not a psychiatrist."

"Well, did he deliberately try to kill you?"

"I'd say yes."

"Did he know you?"

"No, sirree."

"Did you provoke Mr. Brinkley into shooting you?"

"Just the opposite."

"So you'd have to say that the shooting was basically a random act based upon no foundation whatsoever?"

"I guess so."

"You guess so? You'd never met him before, and he was saying things to you that just didn't make sense. You saw him shoot four people before he aimed his gun at you, didn't you? Isn't there a simple word that describes someone who acts this way? Wouldn't that word be 'insane'?"

"Objection, Your Honor – argumentative, and that's a legal question for the jury."

"Sustained."

Yuki sat down, slumped back in her seat. Mickey saw her eyes dart from him to the jury to the witness and back to him. Good. She was rattled.