The 6th Target

'You kept Madison for almost two weeks,' Thomson said. 'Seems kind of risky.'

'We were waiting for a money transfer,' Waller said regretfully. 'A million five had been pledged for Madison, but the deal stalled. We had another offer, not as good, and then the original buyer came back into play. Those few extra days cost us everything.'

'About the abduction of Madison and Paola,' Stanford said, 'so many people were in the park that day. It was broad daylight. A very impressive snatch, I have to say. I'd really like to know how you pulled that off.'

'Ah, yes, but I have to tell you, it almost went all to hell,' Waller said, exhaling loudly at the memory, seeming to think through how he wanted to tell the story.

'We drove the van to the Alta Plaza playground,' said the psychopath in the gray herringbone suit.

'I asked Paola and Madison to come with us. See, the children trusted the nannies, and the nannies trusted us.'

'Brilliant,' said Stanford.

Renfrew nodded, and having received so much encouragement, he wanted to go on. 'We told Paola and Madison that there had been an emergency at the Tyler house, that Elizabeth Tyler had taken a fall.

'I knocked out Madison with chloroform in the backseat, the precise plan we'd used with three other abductions. But Paola tried to grab the steering wheel. We could have all been killed. I had to take her down fast. What would you have done?' Renfrew asked Dave Stanford.

'I would have smothered you at birth,' Stanford said. 'I wish to God I could have done that.'

Part Five

FRED-A-LITO-LINDO

Chapter 116

THE GALLERY WAS JAM-PACKED with law clerks, crime reporters, families of the victims, and dozens of people who were on the Del Norte when Alfred Brinkley had fired his fatal shots. Hushed voices rose to a rumble as two guards escorted Brinkley into the courtroom.

There he was!

The ferry shooter.

Mickey Sherman stood as Brinkley's cuffs and waist chains were removed. He pulled out a chair for his client, who asked him, 'Am I going to get my chance?'

'I'm thinking about it,' Sherman said to his client. 'You sure about this, Fred?'

Brinkley nodded. 'Do I look okay?'

'Yep. You look fine.'

Mickey sat back and took a good look at his pale, skin-and-bones client with the patchy haircut, razor rash, and shiny suit hanging from a scarecrow frame.

General rule is that you don't put your client on the stand unless you're sucking swamp water, and even then, only when your client is credible and sympathetic enough to actually sway the jury.

Fred Brinkley was nerdy and dull.

On the other hand, what did they have to lose? The prosecution had eyewitness testimony, videotape, and a confession. So Sherman was kicking the idea around. Avoiding big risk versus a chance that Fred-a-lito-lindo could convince the jurors that the noise in his head was so crushing, he was out of his mind when he fired on those poor people…

Fred had a right to testify in his own defense, but Sherman thought he could dissuade him. He was still undecided as the jurors settled into the jury box and the judge took the bench. The bailiff called the court into session, and a blanket of expectant silence fell over the wood-paneled courtroom.

Judge Moore looked over the black rims of his thick glasses and asked, 'Are you ready, Mr. Sherman?'

'Yes, Your Honor,' Sherman said, standing up, fastening the middle button of his suit jacket. He spoke to his client. 'Fred…'

Chapter 117

'AND SO AFTER YOUR SISTER'S ACCIDENT, you went to Napa State Hospital?' Sherman asked, noting that Fred was very much at ease on the witness stand. Better than he'd expected.

'Yes. I had myself committed. I was cracking up.'

'I see. And were you medicated at Napa?'

'Sure, I was. Being sixteen is bad enough without having your little sister die in front of your eyes.'

'So you were depressed because when your sister was hit by the boom and went overboard, you couldn't save her?'

'Your Honor,' Yuki said, coming to her feet, 'we have no objection to Mr. Sherman's testifying, but I think he should at least be sworn in.'

'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 -'