20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,78

as guilty as the guy in the passenger seat.

The charge was felony murder, and the penalty was twenty-five to life. Yuki had gone way out on a very weak limb for Clay, but her sympathy for him had been wasted.

The kid had brought the hammer down on himself.

Minutes after leaving her car at the All-Day lot across from the Hall, Yuki reached her office with time to spare.

Rosalie Belinky, a recent graduate of Berkeley Law and her second chair, popped out of her cubicle and followed Yuki to her desk.

“Hey, Rose. Anything happening that I need to know?”

Rose said, “No calls, no walk-ins, and no semaphore signals from sinking ships. I checked your mail ten minutes ago, and there was nothing regarding Clay Warren.”

She placed the thick folder of highlighted deposition transcripts and Yuki’s opening statement on her desk and handed her a container of milky coffee.

The young lawyer said, “I just have to tell you, I’m pretty excited. I wish my parents could see this trial.”

Yuki smiled at her number two. She sipped coffee without getting any on her suit and picked up the folder.

“Ready, steady, go,” she said.

Rose Belinky locked the office door behind them.

CHAPTER 97

YUKI AND ROSALIE left the DA’s offices and walked fifty yards along the corridor, their heels clacking in time against the terrazzo floor.

Yuki felt her pulse speed up as a court officer opened the door to 6A, and she and her deputy entered the small, oak-paneled courtroom. The gallery was filling as they walked down the center aisle, through the gate, and took their seats at the prosecution table.

Yuki looked across the aisle to where Clay Warren sat beside Zac Jordan at the defense table.

Zac was going over his notes, and Clay—Clay looked as he had the last few times Yuki had met with him. His expression was fixed and hard, wordlessly expressing his decision not to defend himself.

Yuki turned another ninety degrees to check out the spectators. Clay’s mother was watching her with drill-bit eyes, boring holes through Yuki. Yuki dipped her head in respect and then took in the rest of the gallery and got an entirely different feeling. Wall-to-wall cops gave her nods of encouragement.

Yuki had just settled back into her seat when Judge Steven Rabinowitz entered the courtroom through his private door behind the bench. Yuki had tried two cases before Rabinowitz. She’d found him fair and even-tempered. You couldn’t ask for better than that.

The bailiff stood at the base of the bench and called, “All rise”—and all did.

Rabinowitz took his chair, which was positioned between the Stars and Stripes and the flag of the great state of California. The legal teams and spectators also took their seats with a considerable amount of shuffling and whispering.

The judge exchanged a few words with his clerk and the bailiff. Someone sneezed. A cell phone tinkled a little tune. Rabinowitz said, “No phones. Are we clear? Turn ’em off.”

Yuki felt like a young racehorse inside the gate waiting for the bell and the release. She was ready for this trial, prepared and involved and sharp. The jury filed in and took their seats. The bailiff read out the case number and announced that Judge Steven Rabinowitz was presiding.

The judge brought his gavel down, calling the court to order, and greeted the jury. As he began his instructions to them, Yuki thought this case was hers to win.

She would make sure that happened.

CHAPTER 98

JOE WOKE TO morning light slashing across his face, the sheets twisted around his ankles, and the rumbling of Dave’s chair rolling across the rough-hewn boards on the floor below. He remembered now, the late-night call from Dave, the drive to Napa.

He heard Dave talking with Jeff the Chef clearly enough to get the gist. They were insulting each other like old friends, going over the menu and getting ready for the day.

Joe had a job, too. Or call it a moral obligation. All he had to do was solve the mystery of Ray Channing’s suspicious death without having a badge or any authority at all.

Joe no longer believed that Dave had killed his father.

But he had become convinced that some of Dr. Murray’s hospitalized patients had been murdered. That wasn’t enough to bring in the law. There had to be a viable suspect. And there had to be evidence.

Currently, he didn’t even have a theory.

Joe kicked off the sheets and thought about the people he had met over the last couple of weeks: Dr. Murray himself; Abe Horowitz, who’d