4th of July (20 page)

A SHRILL ALARM SHATTERED whatever nightmare had gripped me in its vise lock. I lay stiff and immobile, trying to get my bearings, when the alarm went off again, less strident now, less jarring.

I grabbed my cell phone from the night table and flipped it open, but the caller had disconnected.

Awake and grouchy at 6:00 a.m., I moved piles of Yuki’s stuff in the small second bedroom until I found my tracksuit and running shoes. I dressed quietly, collared and leashed Martha, and together we slipped out of the Crest Royal into dawn’s early light.

I ran through the route in my mind, pretty sure that I could do two miles on gentle hills and flatlands. Then Martha and I headed north for the straightaway of Jones Street at a slow jog, the twinge in my joints reminding me how much I really hated to run.

I slipped the lead from Martha’s collar so she wouldn’t wrap her leash around my legs and herd me into a pratfall. Then I forced myself into a faster pace on the downhill side of Jones, until the still-irksome pain from my shoulder and leg dissolved into an overall ache of my rusty muscles.

As much as I hated it, running was my only hope of escaping my obsession with the trial because it was the best way to shift from a mental state to a more manageable physical one. And even though my tendons screamed, it was good to feel my sneakers pounding the sidewalk, my sweat drying in the cool air as the dawn faded into morning.

I kept running north on Jones across Vallejo Street until I reached the summit of Russian Hill. Straight ahead was Alcatraz Island with its flashing lighthouse and the glorious view of Angel Island.

It was there that my mind floated free and my heart hammered from exertion rather than from stress and fear.

I blew through the wall as I crossed onto Hyde and the wonderful endorphins warmed me. To my right was the crooked block of Lombard, an endlessly charming street that runs down the hill to Leavenworth. I pumped my arms and jogged in place waiting for a red light to change, delighted that I was still ahead of the commuter crowd that a half hour from now would totally clog the streets and sidewalks.

The light changed and I pushed off. The path I’d chosen took me through some of the city’s prettiest blocks of gorgeous old homes and postcard views, even with the fog still drifting around the bay. Martha and I had reached the edge of Chinatown when I heard the shushing of car wheels following close on my heels.

Someone called out, “Miss, you have to put your dog on a leash.”

I was ticked off at the interruption of my new blissful mood and swung around to see a black-and-white unit dogging me. I stopped running and called Martha to my side.

“Oh, my gosh. Lieutenant. It’s you.”

“Good morning, Nicolo,” I panted to the young officer riding shotgun. “Hello, Friedman,” I said to the driver.

“We’re all behind you, Lou,” Friedman said. “I don’t mean, like, literally this moment,” he sputtered. “I mean we really miss you, man, uh, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks.” I smiled. “That means a lot. Especially today.”

“Never mind about the dog, okay?”

“Hey, you were right the first time, Nicolo. She stays on the leash.”

“Following procedures?”

“Yup, that’s me.”

“Good luck, okay, Lieutenant?”

“Thanks, guys.”

Friedman flashed the car’s headlights as they pulled past me. Holding Martha’s lead with both hands so that it crossed tightly against my body, I turned up Clay Street and headed back up the hill toward Jones.

By the time I stumbled into the lobby of Yuki’s building, all of the knots and snarls had melted out of my system. Minutes later I soaked under the hot shower I’d earned, and it was a stupendous reward.

I toweled myself off with one of Yuki’s giant terry cloth bath jobbies and then I wiped the condensation off the mirror.

I gave myself a good hard look.

My skin was pink. My eyes were clear. I’d run my miles in decent time, including the dog leash stop. I was okay. Win or lose, I was still the same person I’d always been.

Even Mason Broyles couldn’t take that away from me.

APART FROM THE SOUND of Sam Cabot’s laborious breathing, the courtroom was quiet as Broyles stood at his table, eyes on the screen of his laptop, waiting for the last excruciating moment to begin his closing statement.

Finally, he stepped over to the jury box and after greeting them in his usual greasily gracious manner, he launched into his summation.

“I’m sure we all appreciate that the police have a difficult job. To tell you the truth, it’s not a job I’d like to do. The police deal with rough people and ugly situations routinely, and they have to make tough split-second decisions every day.

“These are all conditions of the job Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer took on when she put on her badge. She swore an oath to uphold the law and to protect our citizens.

“And it’s indisputable that you can’t do those things properly when you’re drunk.”

Someone in the back of the room stepped on his rhetoric with a coughing fit. Broyles stood patiently, hands in his pockets, and waited for the hacking to cease.

When the room was quiet once more, he picked right up where he’d left off.

“We all heard Lieutenant Boxer’s testimony yesterday, and I find it interesting that she denies what she can’t admit—and admits what she can’t deny.

“Lieutenant Boxer denies that she should never have gotten in that car. That she should never have assumed the position of a police officer when she’d had too much to drink. But she must admit that she didn’t follow procedures. And she must admit that she killed Sara Cabot and destroyed Sam Cabot’s life.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have police procedures in place to prevent deadly shoot-outs like the one that happened on the night of May tenth.

“Those procedures weren’t made up after this tragic incident occurred. They’re time-tested and have been in effect for decades for a reason. Every cop alive knows that you approach a suspect vehicle with your gun drawn so as to show the person you’re approaching that you mean business.

“And you disarm suspects so that no one gets hurt.”

Broyles walked over to his table and drank from a tall glass of water. I wanted to jump up and call him out on his perversion of the truth, but instead I watched in silence as he turned toward the cameras before walking back to the jury, all of whom seemed transfixed by what he was saying.

“Sam and Sara Cabot were young, cocky kids, and they took liberties with the law. They borrowed their dad’s car without permission, and they fled from a police pursuit. They lacked maturity and they lacked good judgment. What that means to me is that despite their intelligence, they needed more protection than adults would have needed in a similar situation.

“And Lieutenant Boxer failed to provide that protection because she didn’t follow the most basic police procedures. She decided to ‘serve and protect’ when she was intoxicated.

“As a result of that decision, an exceptional young woman is dead, and a young man who could have been anything he wanted to be is going to sit in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.”

Mason Broyles pressed his hands together, adopting a prayerlike pose, and, damn it, it was moving. He took a deep breath and released it, nearly sighing his sorrowful conclusion to the jury.

“We can’t bring Sara Cabot back,” he said. “And you’ve seen what’s left of Sam’s life. Our legal system can’t reverse the damage done to these children, but you are empowered to compensate Sam Cabot and his parents for their loss and suffering.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you please to do the right thing and find for my client in the amount of one hundred fifty million dollars.

“Don’t just do it for the Cabot family.

“Do it for your family and mine, for every family and every person in this city of ours.

“Finding the defendant guilty is the only way we can make sure a tragedy like this one never happens again.”

YUKI CLOSED HER NOTEBOOK and stepped out onto the courtroom floor. She turned her lovely face to the jury and greeted them. I clasped my hands tightly together and tried to think past Mason Broyles’s powerful closing speech.

“This is a very emotional case,” Yuki said. “On the one hand, we have a tragedy that will remain with the Cabot family forever.

“On the other hand, a damned good cop has been unfairly accused of causing this incident.

“Because this case is so emotional, because the Cabot kids are and were so young, I want to state the facts again, because your job is to decide this case based on facts, not emotion.

“It’s a fact that if a cop wants to have a couple of margaritas on a Friday night when she’s off duty, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Cops are people, too. And while police officers are there for the public twenty-four hours a day, it would have been perfectly okay for Lieutenant Boxer to have told Inspector Jacobi that she was busy.

“But this officer cared intensely about her work and went beyond the call of duty, and in so doing she put herself in harm’s way.

“You’ve heard the plaintiffs say over and over again that Lieutenant Boxer was drunk. In fact, she was not intoxicated. And while her alcohol consumption may have been a condition of this incident, it was not the cause.

“Please don’t lose sight of this distinction.

“Lieutenant Boxer did not make any errors of judgment on the night of May tenth because her reactions were slow or her thinking was faulty. If Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer did anything wrong that night, it was because she showed too much compassion for the plaintiffs.

“The two people who were the cause of the death and injuries to Sara and Sam Cabot were the Cabot children themselves. The fact is that two young, spoiled, rich kids had nothing better to do on the night in question than go out and cause injury and misery to other people and eventually to themselves.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Sam and Sara Cabot caused the events of May tenth with their reckless behavior and with their use of deadly force. They introduced deadly force into this affair, not Lieutenant Boxer. And that is a crucial fact.”

Yuki paused, and for a terrible second, I thought she might have forgotten where her closing statement was headed. She lifted her pearls from the front of her silk blouse and ran her fingers over them, then she turned back to the jury, and I realized she was simply gathering her thoughts.

“Usually when a cop goes on trial it’s a Rodney King- or Abner Louima-type affair. A cop pulled the trigger too quickly or beat the hell out of someone, or abused his or her authority.

“Lindsay Boxer is being accused of doing just the opposite. She holstered her gun because the Cabot children seemed helpless and in fact they were in danger. And the plaintiffs want to turn her humanity toward these children into a ‘failure to follow police procedures.’

“Forgive me, but this is bull.

“Lieutenant Boxer followed procedures when she approached the car in question with her gun drawn. Then, based on the visible injuries to Sam Cabot, she rendered aid to the victims of a car accident.

“That was the right thing to do.

“Inspector Jacobi, another damned good cop, with over twenty-five years on the SFPD, did the same thing. You heard him. He holstered his gun. After he and Lieutenant Boxer freed the Cabot kids from their vehicle, he tried to get them medical assistance.

“Isn’t this the kind of behavior we all want from our police force? If you were in an accident? If these had been your kids?

“But instead of thanking these officers, the Cabot children fired guns at them with intent to kill. Sam kicked Inspector Jacobi in the head after he’d been shot. Was their vicious and potentially lethal aggression caused by the use of drugs? Or were they just bent on murder?

“We don’t know.

“But we do know that Lieutenant Boxer was shot first and that she returned fire in self-defense. That’s a fact. And defending herself, ladies and gentlemen, is ‘proper police procedure.’

“Lieutenant Boxer told you she’d give anything in the world to have Sara Cabot alive today and for this young man to have the full use of his body.

“But the fact is, the events of May tenth did not happen because of a fire that Lindsay Boxer set. She tried to put that fire out.”

I felt a rush of gratitude that almost spilled from my eyes. My God, to be defended with such heart and eloquence. I bit my lower lip and watched Yuki as she finished her summation.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. You’ve been very patient this week through a lot of testimony and harassment from the media. I know you are looking forward to your deliberation.

“We ask that you find Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer guilty of being the kind of cop we should all be proud of: a compassionate, dedicated, selfless officer of the law.

“And we ask that you find her innocent of the outrageous charges that have been brought against her.”

“WHAT DO YOU SAY we go out the front door today?” Mickey said, taking my arm. “It’s Friday. The case will be on hold throughout the weekend and that makes me think this is a good time to ‘meet the press.’”

I walked between my attorneys into the hallway and from there down the marble stairs and out onto McAllister. The corner of the Civic Center Courthouse is cut on an angle so that the building faces kitty-corner onto the wide intersection and the manicured park across from Civic Center Plaza.

By contrast to the dark of the courthouse, the sunshine was blinding. And, as it had been since the beginning of my trial, McAllister was so jammed, I couldn’t see over the press and the satellite vans that were lining the curb.

It was like the scene outside the O. J. Simpson courtroom. The same kind of adrenaline-fueled madness that masked the truth, whatever that might be. This trial wasn’t worthy of the world stage. The media exposure was all about viewership, ratings, advertising dollars. Be that as it may, today I was “it.”