Kenneth Miller had close-cropped blond hair and hornrimmed glasses and wore a forest-green blazer with the school logo on a patch over the breast pocket.
Miller testified under Grant’s questioning: “You are a very devoted teacher. I’d say you have a warm relationship with your students, and I personally learned a lot from you.”
Yuki was watching the young man closely. When she had deposed him, she’d felt that Kenneth Miller was holding something back. She was going to try to dislodge whatever that something was on cross.
After Grant had finished eliciting praise from his former pupil, Yuki stood, straightened her suit jacket, and crossed the polished wooden floor to the witness.
She said, “Mr. Miller, did Mr. Grant use his own unpublished work on explosives as a course book?”
“Sure. ‘All About Bombs’ was the core of the curriculum for most of ninth-grade science. We learned about all kinds of bombs, from firecrackers to nukes.”
“Did Mr. Grant cover any other branches of science?”
“Yes, he covered the basics. Look, I like him. I think he’s very smart. But I’m under oath, right? So I’ve got to say I always thought he was obsessed with explosives.”
Grant objected. “Judge, can he just volunteer his opinion?”
Judge Hoffman said, “You opened the door by asking his opinion of you, Mr. Grant. I want to remind you, this is your witness. Go ahead, Ms. Castellano.”
“Mr. Miller, could you elaborate on what you mean by ‘obsessed’?”
The high school senior looked toward the science teacher and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Grant, but I gotta say it.” Then, turning back to Yuki, Miller said, “Mr. Grant is singlemindedly all about combustion, or as he has often said, ‘The beauty and the power of explosions, the sound and the light, the beginning of creation and maybe the end of it, too.’ There were many times when I thought he was fricking crazy.”
Yuki thanked the witness and crossed paths with Grant as she returned to her table.
Grant didn’t wait for her to sit down before he began his redirect examination of Kenneth Miller.
“Ken, when you say ‘crazy,’ that’s a figure of speech, isn’t it?”
Miller said, “I don’t think so.”
Grant said, “Let me put it this way. You like girls, Kenny?”
The boy stiffened in his chair. “Yeah, so?”
“Are you obsessed with them?”
“Okay. Maybe. Sometimes. Yes.”
“Does that mean you’re crazy or that you have a passionate interest?”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Grant.”
“I’d say that while you might be girl crazy, you’re not insane. Would you agree?”
Yuki called out her objection. “Leading, Your Honor.”
The judge said, “Sustained.”
Miller looked up at the judge, who said, “Don’t answer.”
“Nothing further,” Grant snapped, adding under his breath, “Class dismissed.”
Yuki didn’t care what Grant said under his breath. Ken Miller had said that Grant was obsessed with explosives, and he’d detailed that obsession, including a reference to life and death. Nothing Grant could say would negate that.
Yuki knew that she’d scored a big one for the team. Len whispered to her, “Good play, Yuki.”
It was good. But was it enough?
CHAPTER 45
YUKI’S HAPPY MOMENT faded fast as the science teacher, who looked and sounded as normal as every person in the courtroom, including the judge and jury, got to his feet, straightened his tie, and buttoned his dark-blue jacket.
Connor Grant said, “Your Honor, I’m going to testify in my defense.”
Hoffman said, “I suggest you use your adviser to question you.”
“Yes, Your Honor. That’s our plan.”
Grant was on his own witness list, so it was no surprise to Yuki and Len that he would testify. Len had loved, loved, loved the idea of having the opportunity to grill him on the stand. But what they hadn’t known prior to the trial was that Grant was so sharp, so nimble. Maybe the right word for him was brilliant.
Now Len told Yuki he wasn’t sure he should cross-examine Grant at all. The defendant was not just slick, he was very compelling.
Grant took the stand and the oath. He adjusted his glasses, ran his hand over his face, and sipped some water as Antonelli approached.
As Yuki expected, Antonelli asked Grant if it was okay to call him Connor, and the next question was to ask how he was feeling. Grant said it was okay and he was feeling fine.
Antonelli proceeded to ask brief questions regarding where Grant had been on the evening of August 3 after leaving the Hotel Slocum. Grant said, “I was walking north along the Embarcadero.”
Antonelli asked, “What did you see?”
Grant sketched in the moderate traffic, the perfect temperature, then jumped directly to “the thunderous explosion, the pink light on the flying hail of glass.”
“I was absorbed in the entirety of it. I was awestruck,” said Grant. “This was the explosion of a lifetime.”
And then Grant cut Antonelli off before she could ask another question. He explained earnestly that he had made an offhand remark to the tall, blond-haired woman outside Sci-Tron, not knowing that she was a police officer until she had cuffed him.
Yuki objected that the defendant was ranting beyond the scope of the question, which was “What did you see?”
Hoffman said, “I’m going to let him run with this for another minute or so. Let’s hear it in brief, Mr. Grant.”
Grant thanked the judge and continued.
“I had been in a state of wonder. I was confused. I just didn’t get why she was arresting me,” Grant told the court. “Then I find out that she lied about what I’d said and her husband backed her up. I guess that’s what married people do. More to the point, I think the jury should see how easy it is for an innocent person to be tried for a crime when people in positions of authority collude.”
Antonelli said, “Connor, you’ve written a book-length manuscript on bombs. When this enormous explosion occurred in front of your eyes, was that a coincidence?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bomb Sci-Tron?”
“No, I did not.”
Antonelli asked, “Did you know about it in advance?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Do you know anything about that explosion that you can tell the jury?”
“CSI director Clapper said that I could have built and set this bomb with my eyes closed. He’s totally wrong. This was a very expert detonation. I couldn’t have done it if there’d been a gun to my head.”
Connor Grant turned to the jury. He looked utterly sincere.
“I feel very bad for the people who were killed and the families who were affected. I am also a victim. My name has been tarnished. I don’t know if I have a job when this is over or if I’m going to go to jail for something I didn’t do.”
As Yuki got to her feet, Antonelli cut off her objection.
“Your Honor, we’re done. The defense rests,” said Antonelli.
Judge Hoffman said, “Cross, Mr. Parisi?”
CHAPTER 46
LEN PARISI STOOD up and, looking neither left nor right, walked across the floor and stopped a dozen feet from the witness box so that his voice would project and so that Connor Grant would have to speak loud and clear.
Parisi said, “Mr. Grant, do you have a degree in chemistry? Yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how to make bombs?”
“Well, there are bombs and there are bombs.”
“Yes or no, Mr. Grant, do you know how to make bombs?”
Grant sighed. “Yes.”
“Do you know how to make a compression bomb?”
“It’s not that hard.”
“Yes or no, Mr. Grant.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a laboratory at your home?”
“Okay. S
mall lab in my garage.”
“We should take that as a yes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a Sci-Tron membership?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you have access to Sci-Tron, a home lab, and explosive materials in that lab, and you know how to make a compression bomb, which is ‘not that hard.’”
Antonelli stood, said, “Objection. Argumentative.”
“Sustained,” said the judge.
Parisi kept on rolling.
“Mr. Grant, were you standing within a hundred yards of Sci-Tron when it blew up?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. You were right there. I have no further questions for the witness.”
Every eye in the courtroom was on Parisi as he turned his back on Grant and returned to his table.
Judge Hoffman told the witness that he could stand down.
CHAPTER 47
I WAS GOING through backlogged e-mail at my desk in the squad room when Claire called.
She said, “Wanna splurge? I’m thinking noodles. Maybe fish.”
“Asian Fusion on King?”
“Perfect.”
It was the best idea in the world, and there was no one I’d rather have lunch with.
We met at Claire’s car, and she drove us to the noodle shop on King Street. There was a line outside the restaurant, but by the time we were standing inside, two seats had opened at the counter.
We ordered tekka maki and spicy sesame noodles, and after the sushi chef placed the seaweed-wrapped raw tuna in front of us, we got to talking.
I told my BFF about taking Julie to see Joe, and she told me about her domestic concern.
Claire’s husband, Edmund, plays bass with the San Francisco Symphony.
“He told me he can’t stand the hours anymore and his arthritis is getting worse,” said Claire. “I think he’d really like to stay home, work on compositions of his own. Rosie would love to have her dad pick her up after school. He’ll collect social security in a couple of years. He’s not a terrible cook.”
“So dinner would be waiting when you got home.”
“Dinner. Wine. Living on less, but also a less grumpy husband. Still thinking about it.”
Sushi trays were removed and the very hot bowls of savory soup arrived. Between spoonfuls Claire said, “I wanted to talk to you about something else, Lindsay.”
“Uh-oh. I think I hear spooky suspense music.”
Claire laughed. “Yeah, well, I’ve been out on the medical examiner spooky music network and found out something interesting.”
I said, “Shoot,” pouring more tea for the two of us, and Claire went on.
“The pathologist at Metro Hospital took in a fatal heart attack victim a month ago. She thought that the heart attack was suspicious.”
“Same MO as the others?”
“Yes. Needle mark in the haunch. No lethal toxins in the blood. Heart wasn’t pristine, but didn’t look like cardiac arrest. One distinct difference.”
“Well, don’t stop now.”
“The victim was male, homeless, a drug addict. It’s a miracle that the pathologist who found this needle prick thought something of it at the time. Made a note on the autopsy report. But no one claimed the body, so that needle mark wasn’t investigated. However, there was a witness to the stabbing.”
“Really. There was a witness?”
“A do-gooding citizen. A landscaper. Had his earmuffs on and was trimming some shrubbery or something. Saw the victim go down. Saw someone rush away. The landscaper had seen this homeless person earlier, given him a couple of bucks.”
“You have contact info for me?”
“I know you’re busy, Linds.”
“Not too busy.”
In fact, my last case had been a man who shot his wife, then dove off the Golden Gate Bridge before I could arrest him. After that I’d kept my desk clear for the trial.
“Good, because I’d like to work this case with you.”
“Sure thing.”
Claire took out her phone, tapped on the keys.
“Okay,” said Claire. “I’ve sent you the name of the victim, contact info for the pathologist and the landscaper.”
“Got it,” I said.
“I’m telling you,” Claire went on, “some stealthy needle sticker is out there somewhere with a drug that stops hearts and fades very quickly from the bloodstream. Lab tests haven’t found the toxin.”
“Can the landscaper ID the stealthy needle sticker?”
“You’ll talk to him,” said Claire. “I can get you pictures of the body. He’s already been interred by the city.”
“Nothing on missing persons, I take it?” I asked, putting down my spoon.
“Nothing that I found. I need some green tea ice cream. How about you?”
“Red bean for me,” I said.
I was already thinking about this possible crime spree. Anything that could take my mind off of Connor Grant’s trial was a relief on the order of a blessing.
CHAPTER 48
PARISI STOOD TO make his closing argument. Yuki stared up at him, thinking that with his black suit and red hair, the splash of red tie, he looked like a volcano starting to blow.
He walked toward the jury box and took a position near the rail. He said, “Ladies and gentlemen, this has been a difficult case to hear, and deciding on this case is one of the most important things you’ll ever be asked to do.
“Mr. Grant is a very clever man. He’s not a lawyer. Yet you’re front-row witnesses to how skillfully he defended himself.
“He says he’s not proficient enough to build the kind of bomb that destroyed Sci-Tron, and yet he has had years of studying and teaching about explosives, an obsession with bombs—all kinds, according to his own witness, Mr. Miller. Grant had all the materials a bomb maker could need. If he was missing something to make the bomb that could level Sci-Tron, whatever he needed could be found at a home improvement store for pocket change.”
Yuki looked at the jury. They were rapt. Even Connor Grant couldn’t take his eyes away from Leonard Parisi.
Parisi went on.
“Mr. Grant would like you to believe that his presence in front of Pier 15 at the precise moment the bomb went off was a coincidence. It was not. Mr. Grant told Sergeant Boxer and her husband, a highly knowledgeable former law enforcement professional who has been with the FBI and was deputy director of the Department of Homeland Security, that he blew up the museum. He described the explosion as a thing of beauty and said that he was proud of his work.
“It’s awful to hear that, isn’t it? I call it diabolical.”
Len let his words hang in the air for a moment, then he walked along the jury box, hand on the railing, and he gave the jury his eye-to-eye attention.
Parisi said, “Mr. Grant had the means to build those bombs and the opportunity to plant them in the museum anytime and detonate them remotely. Why did he stand on the sidewalk, totally unafraid, as the crowds fled for their lives? Because he made that bomb. He knew the extent of the bomb’s power. And he wanted to witness his homemade big bang, his peak science project and the culmination of his career as a teacher.
“It turns out to be an object lesson for Mr. Grant.
“Remaining at the scene to witness his work caused him to be ecstatic to the point that he didn’t realize he was making a confession to a police officer until he was in the patrol car.
“Twenty-five people died as the result of that science project,” said District Attorney Len Parisi. “Don’t let this man get away with murder.”
The judge called on Connor Grant, who went out to the well and stood behind the lectern.
Once again Yuki thought what a natural he was. She could see how a career as a high school teacher hadn’t stretched him to his full capacity. Blowing up Sci-Tron, then defending himself in a trial of so much interest to the world, against twenty-five counts of second-degree murder? He was made for this.
“Members of the jury, as M
r. Parisi said, I’m not a lawyer,” said Connor Grant. “So I’m talking to you as an accidental defendant, a person just like every one of you.
“You’ve heard the case against me. While I was still stunned by the force and the effects of the explosion, I supposedly admitted blowing up Sci-Tron. To be fair to Sergeant Boxer and Mr. Molinari, I think they misunderstood my astonishment and took it to be pride of accomplishment.
“They were wrong.
“Homicide lieutenant Brady told you that the police had only one suspect. Me. Why didn’t they keep looking, when so many people had died and they had such nothing evidence? I’ll tell you why. They needed a patsy. They needed to clean up the mess, and in a time when bombs are going off all over the world, they sought to calm the city down. So they nabbed me and they piled on until they had some kind of case.
“It’s what’s called a rush to judgment.”
Grant paused, as if he had been seized by emotion. He cleared his throat, apologized, and picked up where he’d left off.
“The prosecution’s forensics expert testified that I could have built and set those bombs based on no evidence linking me to Sci-Tron.
“There was no evidence. No motive. Just hypotheticals. Can you believe that? Yes. Believe it. You heard it all right here.
“This case against me is entirely without merit. In fact, I am a victim of circumstance, and this entire case is based on supposition. There is not a witness nor a shred of tangible evidence tying me to this terrible crime.
“Here’s the sum total of the prosecution’s case.
“One suspect, no evidence.
“I’m asking you not to be swayed by the inflammatory rhetoric and the video of people screaming and the number of people who died in Sci-Tron. I didn’t kill them.
“The judge will tell you that if you have reasonable doubt that I committed this terrible, regrettable crime, you must find me not guilty.
“Please. Don’t ask me to pay for someone else’s crime.”
PART THREE
CHAPTER 49
A MAN WITH a slight build, thinning sandy-blond hair, and short arms, who could have been in either his late thirties or his early fifties, depending on the light and the angle, stood over the body on the sidewalk.
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