Patterson, James - Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman

A man in perpetual forward motion, thought Cindy.

Kramer greeted the court, then turned an affable smile on the jury and thanked them for serving on this case.

“Ms. O’Mara is right about one thing,” he said, putting his large hands on the jury-box railing. “She’s damned right this case is about greed. It’s about the greed of her clients.

“I won’t deny that it’s tragic that through no fault of their own, people have died,” Kramer went on. “But their families have come before this court with one thing in mind. They want to score big. They want to recoup from the deaths of their loved ones. They’re here for the money.”

Kramer leaned into the jury box and looked into the faces of the jury members.

“To most people that might sound cynical or vengeful or mercenary. But it’s not entirely the fault of the litigants.”

Kramer pushed off from the railing and moved out into the center of the room, seeming to be lost in his own thoughts before turning to face the jury again.

“I understand grief. My father and my son both died in a hospital. My baby boy died only three days after he was born. He was a gift, a blessing that was ripped away from my wife and me. My father was my best friend, my mentor, captain of my cheering section. I miss them both every day.”

Kramer’s scowl softened, and he began to pace slowly, hypnotically, in front of the jury box.

“I’m fairly sure every one of you has suffered the loss of a loved one, and you know it’s perfectly natural to want to blame someone,” Kramer said.

“You suffer, you get mad, and, eventually, you turn anger into good by remembering the good times you shared with this person.

“You make peace with the fact that love doesn’t conquer all, or that life can be unfair, or that God works in mysterious ways. And somehow you move on. You move on.

“You want to know why the plaintiffs aren’t doing that?” Kramer asked. He put his hands back on the railing, giving the jury the full force of his attention.

“Because my opponent has led them down a path that is unworthy of them. Because of a law firm called Friedman, Bannion and O’Mara. Because of this woman, Maureen O’Mara.” He pointed his finger directly at his opponent. “Because of her, these unfortunate people have come to see their personal tragedies as a financial opportunity. You’ve all heard the movie line — ‘show me the money.’ That’s what this travesty of justice is really about. That’s why those people raised their hands.”

Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman

Chapter 22

CINDY ACTUALLY CLAPPED HER HAND over her mouth, stunned at Kramer’s searing personal attack on O’Mara and her firm. Damn — and this was just the trial’s first day.

O’Mara shot up from her seat.

“Objection,” O’Mara snapped. “Your Honor, Counsel’s statement is inflammatory and prejudicial and personally insulting. I move that it be stricken from the record.”

“Sustained. Ms. Campbell,” the judge said to the court reporter, “please strike Mr. Kramer’s last remark. Mr. Kramer, what’s good for the goose . . .”

“Your Honor?”

“Tone down the rhetoric and proceed, Mr. Kramer. You could be fined, or worse.”

Kramer nodded — “Yes, Your Honor” — and turned back to the jury with a strained smile.

“Ladies and gentlemen, during this trial you will hear abundant proof that San Francisco Municipal is a highly respected and responsible institution,” Kramer continued. “That it has above-industry-standard pharmaceutical safeguards and protocols, and that it follows them rigorously.

“That doesn’t mean that the hospital is perfect. Human beings sometimes commit human error. But mistakes are one thing. Malpractice is something else entirely.”

Kramer paused to let his words sink in and used the long moment to look each juror in the eye again. He was talking to them, one at a time, making this personal.

“I’m afraid that this is going to be an emotional trial because people have died. But the judge will tell you that you can’t let the plaintiffs’ attorney obscure the facts by playing on your emotions.

“Weigh the facts as presented — that’s the job you’ve accepted and it’s your charge. The facts, ladies and gentlemen. The facts will convince you that my client is not negligent, and that my client performs an incredibly valuable service for our city of San Francisco.”

Cindy’s mind leaped ahead as Kramer thanked the jury and took his seat.

She saw the front-page headline in her mind — SAN FRANCISCO MUNICIPAL SUED FOR MALPRACTICE, the block of twenty victims’ photos and the rest of her story carried over to page three.

This trial was the stuff of books and movies.

Twenty people had died.

And whether or not the hospital was guilty, the evidence would shock people.

They would take it personally. And patients who were admitted to Municipal would be scared for their lives.

Hell, she was scared just listening at this trial.

Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman

Chapter 23

IT WAS MIDMORNING, four long days since we’d found Caddy Girl dead in the Opera Plaza Garage. I’d just come back from a meeting with Chief Tracchio, who told me that he was rotating some staff, moving some of my people out of Homicide to plug openings in other departments. Tracchio wasn’t asking for my input, just informing me.

I hung my jacket behind the door, still seeing the chief in my mind, ticking off the reasons on his chubby fingers — Budget cuts. Too much overtime. Gotta backfill here and there. It’s just temporary, Boxer.

It was infuriating, crippling, bureaucratic bs.

And now I had a pounding headache behind my right eye.

“Tell me something good,” I said to Jacobi as he walked into my office, parked his large butt on my credenza. Conklin followed him in, moving with the grace of a lynx, crossing his arms as he leaned against my doorway. Hard not to stare.

“Keep your expectations low,” Jacobi growled.

“Okay, Warren. They’re subterranean. Give it to me.”

“We sent a text message over the NCIC system to all regional law enforcement agencies with everything we had on Caddy Girl.” Jacobi interrupted himself with a bout of coughing, a lingering symptom of the still-healing gunshot wound he’d taken to his right lung.

“Height, weight, approximate age, manner of dress, color of her hair, eyes, the works,” he continued at last.

“Checked all the possibles that came out of that,” said Conklin, optimism lighting his eyes.

“And?” I asked.

“We got a few approximate matches, but in the end they didn’t check out. One piece of good news. The lab found a print on one of her shoes.”

I perked up.

“It’s a partial,” Jacobi said, “but it’s something. If we ever get anything or anyone to match it to. That’s the problem so far. No links.”

“So, what’s your next step?”

“Lou, I was thinking that’s a trendy haircut on Caddy Girl,” Conklin said. “The cut and the color probably cost around three hundred dollars.”

I nodded, said, “Sounds about right.” How did he know about three-hundred-dollar haircuts?

“We’re going to canvass the fancy beauty salons. Someone might recognize her. Is that okay with you?”

“Let me see the picture,” I said, sticking out my hand.

Conklin reached out and handed me the dead woman’s photo. I stared at her angelic face, her tousled blond hair lying soft against the stainless-steel slab. A sheet was pulled up to her clavicle.

My God. Who was she? And why hadn’t anyone reported her missing? And why, four days after the girl’s death, were we absolutely clueless?