The 6th Target (27 page)

Brinkley stared down at the table, plucking at his arm hair as Sherman talked, not looking up when the bailiff called out, “All rise.”

The judge sat down, poured a glass of water, then asked Yuki if she was ready to close.

Yuki said that she was.

She advanced to the lectern, hearing the soft
ka-dum, ka-dum
of her pulse pounding in her ears. She cleared the slight croak in her throat, then greeted the jurors and launched into her summation.

“We’re not here to decide whether or not Mr. Brinkley has psychological problems,” Yuki said. “We
all
have problems, and some of us handle them better than others. Mr. Brinkley said he heard an angry voice in his head, and maybe he did.

“We can’t know, and it doesn’t matter.

“
Mental illness is not a license to kill
, Ladies and Gentlemen, and hearing voices in his head doesn’t change the fact that Alfred Brinkley knew what he was doing was
wrong
when he executed four innocent people, including the most innocent — a nine-year-old boy.

“How do we know that Mr. Brinkley knew what he was doing was wrong?” she asked the jury. “Because his behavior, his
actions
, gave him away.”

Yuki paused for effect, looked around the room. She noted Len Parisi’s hulk and pinched expression, Brinkley’s crazy glower — and she saw that the jurors were all tuned in, waiting for her to continue. . . .

“Let’s look at Mr. Brinkley’s behavior,” she said. “First, he carried a loaded Smith & Wesson Model 10 handgun onto the ferry.

“Then he waited for the ferry to
dock
so he wouldn’t be stuck in the middle of the bay with no way out.

“These acts show
forethought. These acts show premeditation
.

“While the
Del Norte
was docking,” Yuki said, keeping her eyes on the jury, “Alfred Brinkley took careful aim and unloaded his gun into five human beings. Then he
fled
. He ran like hell,” Yuki said. “That’s consciousness of guilt.
He knew what he did was wrong
.

“Mr. Brinkley evaded capture for two days before he turned himself in and confessed to the crimes — because
he knew what he’d done was wrong
.

“We may never know precisely what was in Mr. Brinkley’s head on November first, but we know what he
did
.

“And we know for certain what Mr. Brinkley told us in his own words yesterday afternoon.

“He lined up the gun sight on his victims,” Yuki said, making her hand into a gun and slowly swinging it around in a semicircle, shoulder high, sweeping the gallery and the jury box.

“He pulled the trigger
six times
. And he warned us that he’s a
dangerous man
.

“Frankly, the best evidence of Mr. Brinkley’s sanity is that he agreed with us on both points.

“He’s guilty.

“And he should be given the maximum punishment allowed by law. Please give Mr. Brinkley what he asked for so that we never have to worry about him carrying a loaded firearm ever again.”

Yuki felt flushed and excited when she sat down beside Len Parisi. He whispered, “Great close, Yuki. First class.”

MICKEY SHERMAN STOOD IMMEDIATELY. He faced the jury and told them a simple and tragic story as if he were speaking to his mother or his girlfriend.

“I’ve gotta tell you, folks,” he said, “Fred Brinkley
meant
to fire his gun on those people, and he
did
it. We never denied it and we never will.

“So what was his motive?

“Did he have a gripe with any of the victims? Was this a stickup or drug deal gone bad? Did he shoot people in self-defense?

“No, no, no, and no.

“The police failed to find any rational reason why Fred Brinkley would have shot those people because there
was
no motive. And when there’s zero motive for a crime, you’re still left with the question — why?

“Fred Brinkley has schizoaffective disorder, which is an
illness
, like leukemia or multiple sclerosis. He didn’t do anything wrong in order to get this illness.
He didn’t even know he had it
.

“When Fred shot those people, he didn’t know that shooting them was wrong or even that those people were
real
. He told you. All he knew was that a loud, punishing voice inside his head was telling him to
kill
. And the only way he could get the voice to stop was to obey.

“But you don’t have to take our word for it that Fred Brinkley is legally insane.

“Fred Brinkley has a history of mental illness going back fifteen years to when he was a patient in a mental institution.

“Dozens of witnesses have testified that they’ve heard Mr. Brinkley talking to television sets and singing to himself and slapping his forehead so hard that his handprint remained visible long afterward — that’s how much he wanted to knock the voices out of his head.

“You’ve also heard from Dr. Sandy Friedman, a highly regarded clinical and forensic psychiatrist who examined Mr. Brinkley three times and diagnosed him with schizoaffective disorder,” Sherman said, pacing now as he talked.

“Dr. Friedman told us that at the time of the crime, Fred Brinkley was in a psychotic, delusional state. He was suffering from a mental disease or defect that prevented him from conforming his conduct to the laws of society. That’s the
definition
of legal insanity.

“This is not a lawyer-created illness,” Sherman said. He walked two paces to the defense table and picked up a heavy hardcover book.

“
This
is the DSM-IV, the diagnostic bible of the psychiatric profession. You’ll have it with you in the deliberation room so that you can read that schizoaffective disorder is a psychosis — a severe mental illness that drives the actions of the person who has it.

“My client is not admirable,” he said. “We’re not trying to pin a medal on him. But Fred Brinkley is
not
a
criminal
, and nothing in his past suggests otherwise. His conduct yesterday demonstrated his illness.
What sane man asks the jury to have him put to death
?”

Sherman went back to the defense table, put down the book, and sipped from his water glass before returning to the lectern.

“The evidence of insanity is overwhelming in this case. Fred Brinkley did not kill for love or hate or money or thrills. He is not evil. He’s
sick
. And I’m asking you today to do the only fair thing.

“Find Fred Brinkley ‘not guilty’ by reason of insanity.

“And trust the system to keep the citizens safe from this man.”

“IT’S TOO BAD you guys didn’t catch Yuki’s close,” Cindy said, putting an affectionate arm around Yuki, beaming across the table at Claire and myself. “
It was killer
.”

“This would be your impartial journalistic point of view?” Yuki asked, coloring a little but smiling as she tucked her hair behind her ears.

“Hell,
no
.” Cindy laughed. “This is
me
speaking. Off the record.”

We were at MacBain’s, across from the Hall, all four of us with our cell phones on the table. Sydney MacBain, our waitress and the owner’s daughter, brought four glasses and two tall bottles of mineral water.

“Water, water, everywhere,” Syd said. “What’s up, ladies? This is a
bar
, ya know what I mean?”

I answered by pointing at each of us. “It’s like this, Syd. Working. Working. Working.” I pointed to Claire and said, “
Pregnant
and working.”

Sydney laughed, congratulated Claire, took our orders, and headed to the kitchen.

“So does he hear voices?” I asked Yuki.

“Maybe. But a lot of people hear voices. Five to ten thousand in San Francisco alone. Probably a couple of them here in this
bar
. Don’t see any of them shooting the place up. Fred Brinkley might very well hear voices. But that day? He knew what he was doing was wrong.”

“The bastard,” said Claire. “That’s
me
, speaking
on
the record as a very biased eyewitness and victim.”

That day flooded back to me with sickening clarity —the blood-slicked deck and the screaming passengers and how scared I was that Claire might die. I remembered hugging Willie and thanking God that Brinkley’s last shot had missed him.

I asked Yuki, “You think the jury will vote to convict?”

“I dunno. They damn well
should
. If anyone deserves the needle, it’s him,” Yuki said as she vigorously salted her french fries, her hair swinging freely in front of her face so that none of us could read her eyes.

IT WAS AFTER TWO IN THE AFTERNOON, day three since the jury had begun their deliberation, when Yuki got the call. A shock went through her.

This was it.

She sat rigid in her seat for a moment, just blinking. Then she snapped out of it.

She paged Leonard and speed-dialed Claire, Cindy, and Lindsay, all of whom were within minutes of the courtroom. She got up from her desk, crossed the hall, and leaned into David’s cubicle.

“They’re back!”

David put down his tuna sandwich and followed Yuki to the elevator, which they then rode to the ground floor.

They crossed the main lobby, went through the leather-studded double doors to the second lobby, cleared security outside the courtroom, and after going through the glassed-in vestibule, took their places behind the table.

The courtroom had filled up as word spread. Court TV set up their cameras. Reporters from the local papers and stringers from the tabloids, wire services and national news, filled the back row. Cindy was on the aisle.

Yuki saw Claire and Lindsay sitting in the midsection, but she didn’t see the defendant’s mother, Elena Brinkley, anywhere.

Mickey Sherman came through the gate wearing a flattering dark-blue suit. He put his metallic briefcase down in front of him, nodded to Yuki, and made a phone call.

Yuki’s phone rang. “Len,” she said, reading his name off the caller ID,
there’s a verdict
.”

“I’m at my fucking cardiologist,” Len told her. “Keep me posted.”

The side door to the left of the bench opened, and the bailiff entered with Alfred Brinkley.

BRINKLEY’S BANDAGE HAD BEEN REMOVED, exposing a line of stitches running vertically from the middle of his forehead up through his hairline. The bruises around his eyes had faded to an overboiled egg-yolk color, yellowish-green.

The bailiff unlocked Brinkley’s waist chains and handcuffs, and the defendant sat down beside his lawyer.

The door to the right of the jury box opened, and the twelve jurors and two alternates walked into the courtroom, dressed up, hair sprayed and styled, a sprinkling of jewelry on the women’s hands and around their necks. They didn’t look at Yuki and they didn’t look at the defendant. In fact, they looked tense, as though they may have been fighting over the verdict until an hour ago.

The door behind the bench opened, and Judge Moore entered his courtroom. He cleaned his glasses as court was called into session, then said, “Mr. Foreman, I understand that the jury has a verdict?”

“We do, Your Honor.”

“Would you please hand your verdict to the bailiff.”

The foreman was a carpenter, with shoulder-length blond hair and nicotine-stained fingers. He looked keyed up as he gave a folded form to the bailiff, who brought it to the bench.

Judge Moore unfolded the form and looked at it. He asked the people in the gallery to please respect the protocol of the court and to not react outwardly when the verdict was read.

Yuki clasped her hands on the table before her. She could hear David Hale’s breathing beside her, and for a fraction of a moment, she loved him.

Judge Moore began to read. “In the charge of murder in the first degree of Andrea Canello, the jury finds the defendant, Alfred Brinkley, ‘not guilty’ by reason of mental disease or defect.”

A wave of nausea hit Yuki.

She sat back hard in her chair, barely hearing the judge’s voice as each name was read, each charge a finding of “not guilty” by reason of insanity.

Yuki stood up as Claire and Lindsay came forward to be with her. They were standing around her as Brinkley was shackled, and they all saw how he looked at Yuki.

It was an odd look, part stare, part secret smile. Yuki didn’t know what Brinkley intended by it, but she felt a prickling of hairs rising at the nape of her neck.

And then Brinkley spoke to her. “Good try, Ms. Castellano. Very good try. But don’t you know? Someone’s got to pay.”

One of the guards gave Brinkley a shove, and after a last look at Yuki, he shuffled up the aisle between his keepers.

Sick or sane, Alfred Brinkley was going to be off the streets for a long time. Yuki knew that.

And still — she felt afraid.

A MONTH LATER, Conklin and I were back in Alta Plaza Park, where it all began.

This time, we watched Henry Tyler come down the path toward us, his coat whipping around him in the wind. He reached out a hand to Conklin, gripping it hard, and then stretched his hand out to me.

“You’ve given us back our lives. I can’t find words to thank you enough.”

Tyler called out to his wife and to the little girl playing on a hexagonal construction, some new kind of jungle gym. Face brightening in surprise, Madison dropped down from the bars and ran toward us.

Henry Tyler swung his daughter up into his arms. Madison leaned over her father’s shoulder and put an arm around my neck and Rich’s, gathering us into a three-way hug.

“You’re my favorite people,” she said.

I was still smiling when Henry Tyler put Madison down and said to us, his face radiant, “We’re all so grateful. Me, Liz, Maddy — we’re your friends for life.”

My eyes watered up a bit.

It was an excellent day to be a cop.

As Richie and I took the path back toward the car, we talked about the hell we have to go through to solve a case — the drudgery, the up close contact with killers and druggies, the false leads.