The Trial by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page B

together.
    I hated being afraid of him.
    I hated that son of a bitch entirely.

Chapter 22
    An hour after I got home to my dark and empty apartment, Joe’s name lit up the caller ID.
    I thumbed the On button, nearly shouting, “What’s wrong?”
    “Linds, I’ve got information for you,” he said.
    “Where are you?”
    “On 280 South. Cat called me. Julie is inconsolable. I know I agreed that it was safe to take her there, but honestly, don’t you think it would have made more sense for me to come over and stay with the two of you on Lake Street?”
    I was filled with complex and contradictory rage.
    It was true that it would have been easier, more expeditious, for Joe to have checked into our apartment, slept on our sofa instead of Cat’s. True that along with my security detail, we would have been safe right here.
    But I wasn’t ready for Joe to move back in for a few nights—or whatever. Because along with my justifiable rage, I still loved a man I no longer completely trusted.
    “I had to make a quick decision, Joe,” I snapped. “What’s the information?”
    “Reliable sources say that there’s Mexican gang activity on the move in San Francisco.”
    “Could you be more specific?”
    “Hey. Blondie. Could you please take it easy?”
    “Okay. Sorry,” I said. The line was silent. I said, “Joe. Are you still there?”
    “I’m sorry, too. I don’t like anything about this guy. I’ve heard that Mala Sangre ‘killer elites’ have come to town to deliver on Kingfisher’s threats. Los Toros activity has also been noted.”
    “Gang war?”
    “I’ve told you all I know.”
    “Thanks, Joe. Drive safe. Call me if Julie doesn’t settle down.”
    “Copy that,” said Joe. “Be careful.”
    And the line went dead.
    I stood with the phone pressed against my chest for a good long while. Then I called Jacobi.

Chapter 23
    I watched from the top of the steps up to the Hall the next morning as hundreds of people came to work, lined up to go through the metal detectors, and walked across the garnet-marbled lobby to the elevator banks.
    They all looked worried.
    That was both unusual and understandable. Kingfisher’s presence on the seventh floor felt like a kryptonite meteor had dropped through the roof and was lodged in the jail. He was draining the energy from everyone who worked here.
    I went inside, passed through metal detection, and then took the stairs to the squad room.
    Brady had called a special early-morning meeting because of the intel from Joe. He stood at the head of the open-space bull pen, his back to the door, the muted TV hanging above his head.
    Cops from all departments—the night shift, the swing shift, and our shift—were perched on the edges of desks, leaned against walls. There were even some I didn’t recognize from the northern station crammed into the room. I saw deputy sheriffs, motorcycle cops, and men and women in plain clothes and blue.
    Brady said, “I’ve called y’all together because we could be looking at a citywide emergency situation.”
    He spoke about the possibility of drug gang warfare and he answered questions about Mala Sangre, about Kingfisher, about cops who had been killed at the King’s order. They asked about the upcoming rescheduled trial and about practical issues. The duty rosters. The chain of command.
    Brady was honest and direct to a fault. I didn’t get a sense that the answers he gave were satisfying. But honestly, he had no idea what to expect.
    When the meeting was over, when the dozen of us on the day shift were alone with our lieutenant, he said, “The jurors are having fits. They don’t know what’s going on, but they can see out the windows. They see a lot of cops.
    “The mayor’s coming over to talk to them.”
    The mayor was a great people handler.
    I was in the sixth-floor dayroom when Mayor Caputo visited the jurors and explained that they were carrying out their civic duty. “It’s not just that this is important,” he