“I’ll ask another question,” Sherman said, smiling, cool, just talking to his client. “Fred, did you hear voices in your head before your sister’s accident?”
“No. I started hearing him after that.”
“Fred, can you tell the jury who you’re talking about?”
Brinkley clasped his hands across the top of his head, sighed deeply as if describing the voice would bring it into being.
“See, there’s more than one voice,” Brinkley explained. “There’s a woman’s voice, kind of singsongy and whiny, but forget about her. There’s this other voice, and he’s really angry. Out-of-control, screaming-reaming angry. And he runs me.”
“This is the voice that told you to shoot that day on the ferry?”
Brinkley nodded miserably. “He was yelling, ‘Kill, kill, kill,’ and nothing else mattered. All I could hear was him. All I could do was what he told me. It was just him, and everything else was a horrible dream.”
“Fred, would it be fair to say that you would never, ever have shot anyone if it were not for the voices that ‘ran you’ for the fifteen years following your sister’s accident?” Sherman asked.
Sherman noticed that he’d lost his client’s attention, that Fred was staring out over the gallery.
“That’s my mother,” Brinkley said with wonder in his voice. “That’s my mom!”
Heads swiveled toward an attractive, light-skinned African American woman in her early fifties as she edged along a row of seats, smiled stiffly at her son, and sat down.
“Fred,” Sherman said.
“Mom! I’m going to tell,” Brinkley called out, his voice warbling with emotion, his expression twisted up in pain.
“Are you listening, Mom? Get ready for the truth! Mr. Sherman, you’ve got it wrong. You keep calling it an accident. Lily’s death was no accident!”
Sherman turned to the judge, said matter-of-factly, “Your Honor, this is probably a good time for a break —”
Brinkley interrupted his lawyer, saying sharply, “I don’t need a break. And frankly, I don’t need your help anymore, Mr. Sherman.”
Chapter 118
“YOUR HONOR,” Sherman said evenly, doing his best to act as though his client hadn’t gone off road and wasn’t about to go airborne over a cliff, “I’d ask that Mr. Brinkley’s testimony be stricken.”
“On what grounds, Mr. Sherman?”
“I was having sex with her, Mom!” Brinkley shouted across the room. “We’d done it before. She was taking off her top when the boom came around —”
Someone in the gallery moaned, “Oh, my God.”
“Your Honor,” Sherman said, “this testimony is unresponsive.”
Yuki jumped to her feet. “Your Honor, Mr. Sherman opened the door to his witness — who is also his client!”
Brinkley turned away from his mother, pinned the jurors to their seats with his intense, shifting stare.
“I swore to tell the truth,” he said as chaos swamped the courtroom. Even the judge’s gavel, banging hard enough to split the striker plate, was drowned out by the commotion. “And the truth is that I didn’t lift a finger to save my sister,” Brinkley said, spittle flying from his lips. “And I killed those people on the ferry because he told me, I’m a very dangerous man.”
Sherman sat down in his seat behind the defense table and calmly put folders into an accordion file.
Brinkley shouted, “That day on the ferry. I lined those people up in my gun sight and I pulled the trigger. I could do it again.”
The jurors were wide-eyed as Alfred Brinkley wiped tears from his sunken cheeks with the palms of his hands.
“That’s enough, Mr. Brinkley,” the judge barked.
“You people took an oath to do justice,” Brinkley trumpeted, rhythmically gripping and slapping at his knees. “You have to execute me for what I did to those people. That’s the only way to make sure that I’ll never do it again. And if you don’t give me the death penalty, I promise I’ll be back.”
Mickey Sherman put the accordion file into his shiny metal briefcase and snapped the locks. Closing up shop.
“Mr. Sherman,” Judge Moore said, exasperation coloring his face a rich salmon pink, “do you have any more questions for your witness?”
“None that I can think of, Your Honor.”
“Ms. Castellano? Do you wish to cross?”
There was nothing Yuki could say that would top Brinkley’s own words: If you don’t give me the death penalty, I promise I’ll be back.
“I have no further questions, Your Honor,” Yuki said.
But as the judge told Brinkley to stand down, a little red light started blinking in Yuki’s mind.
Had Brinkley really just nailed his own coffin shut?
Or had he done more to convince the jury that he was insane than anything Mickey Sherman could have said or done?
Chapter 119
FRED BRINKLEY SAT ON THE HARD BED in his ten-by-six-foot cell on the tenth floor of the Hall of Justice.
There was noise all around him, the voices of the other prisoners, the squealing of the wheels on the meal cart, the clang of doors shutting, echoing along the row.
Brinkley’s dinner was on a tray on his lap, and he ate the dry chicken breast and watery mashed potatoes and the hard roll, same as they gave him last night, chewing the food thoroughly but without pleasure.
He wiped his mouth with the brown paper napkin, balled it up until it was as tight and as round as a marble, and then dropped it right in the center of the plate.
Then he arranged the plastic utensils neatly to the side, got up from the bed, walked two paces, and slid the tray under the door.
He returned to his bunk bed and leaned back against the wall, his legs hanging over the side. From this position, he could see the sink-commode contraption to his left and the whole of the blank cinder-block wall across from him.
The wall was painted gray, graffiti scratched into the concrete in places, phone numbers and slang and gang names and symbols he didn’t understand.
He began to count the cinder blocks in the wall across from him, traced the grouting in his mind as if the cement that glued the blocks together was a maze and the solution lay in the lines between the blocks.
Outside his cell, a guard took the tray. His badge read OZZIE QUINN.
“Time for your pills, Fred-o,” Ozzie said.
Brinkley walked to the barred door, reached out his hand, and took the small paper cup holding his pills. The guard watched as Brinkley upended the contents into his mouth.
“Here ya go,” Ozzie said, handing another paper cup through the bars, this one filled with water. He watched as Brinkley swallowed the pills.
“Ten minutes until lights-out,” Ozzie said to Fred.
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Fred said.
He returned to his mattress, leaned back against the wall again. He tried singing under his breath, Ay, ay, ay, ay, Mama-cita-lindo.
And then he gripped the edge of the bunk and launched himself, running headfirst into the cement-block wall.
Then he did it again.
Chapter 120
WHEN YUKI REENTERED THE COURTROOM, her boss, Leonard Parisi, was sitting beside David Hale at the defense table. Yuki had called Len as soon as she’d heard about Brinkley’s suicide attempt. But she hadn’t expected to see him in court.
“Leonard, good to see you,” she said, thinking, Shit! Is he going to take over the case? Can he do that to me?
“The jurors seem okay?” Parisi asked.
“So they told the judge. No one wants a mistrial. Mickey didn’t even ask for a continuance.”
“Good. I love that cocky bastard,” Parisi muttered.
Across the aisle, Sherman was talking to his client. Brinkley’s eyes were black-and-blue. There was a large gauze bandage taped across his forehead, and he was wearing a pale-blue cotton hospital gown over striped pajama bottoms.
Brinkley stared down at the table, plucking at his ar
m 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.”
Chapter 121
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.”
Chapter 122
“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?”
Chapter 123
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.
Chapter 124
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.
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