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was leaning on him in more ways than one.
    We passed Dr. Andrew Cabot and his lawyer, Mason Broyles, who were giving an interview to the press beneath a cluster of black umbrellas. The only blessing was that there were no cameras pointed at me.
    I grabbed a quick look at Mason Broyles as we passed. He had hooded eyes, flowing black hair, and a wolfish curl to his lip. I heard him say something about “Lieutenant Boxer’s savagery” and I knew he was going to gut me if he could. As for Dr. Cabot, grief had turned his face to a mask of stone.
    Mickey pulled open one of the heavy steel-and-etched-glass doors and we entered the foyer of the courthouse. Mickey was a cool old hand, respected for his doggedness, street smarts, and considerable charm. He loathed losing and rarely did.
    “Look, Lindsay,” he said, furling his umbrella. “He’s grandstanding because we have a great case. Don’t let him get to you. You have a lot of friends out there.”
    I nodded, but I was thinking about how I’d put Sam Cabot in a wheelchair for life and his sister in the Cabot family plot for eternity. Their father didn’t need my apartment or my pathetic little bank account. He wanted to destroy me. And he’d hired just the guy to do it.
    Mickey and I took the back stairs and slipped into courtroom C on the second floor. In a few minutes it was all going to happen inside this small, plain room with gray-painted walls and a window looking out onto an alley.
    I’d stuck an SFPD pin in the lapel of my navy blue suit so I’d look as official as possible without wearing a uniform. As I took a seat beside him, I reviewed Mickey’s instructions: “When Broyles questions you, don’t give long explanations. ‘Yes, sir; no, sir.’ That’s it. He’s going to try to provoke you to show that you’ve got a quick temper and that’s why you pulled the trigger.”
    I had never thought of myself as an angry person, but I was angry now. It had been a good shoot. A good shoot! The DA had cleared me! And now I felt like a target again. As the rows of seats filled with spectators, I was conscious of the chatter building behind me.
    That’s the cop who shot the kids. That’s her.
    Suddenly there was a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I turned, and my eyes watered when I saw Joe. I put my hand over his, and at the same time my eyes caught those of my other lawyer, a young Japanese American woman with the unlikely name of Yuki Castellano. We exchanged hellos as she took her place beside Mickey.
    The rumble in the courtroom cut out suddenly as the bailiff called out, “All rise.”
    We stood as Her Honor Rosa Algierri took the bench. Judge Algierri could dismiss the complaint and I could walk out of the courtroom, heal my body and soul, resume my life. Or she could send the case forward and I’d be facing a trial that could cost me everything I cared about.
    “You okay, Lindsay?”
    “Never better,” I said to Mickey.
    He caught the sarcasm and touched my hand. A minute later, my heart started hammering. Mason Broyles rose to make his case against me.

Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July

Chapter 16
    CABOT’S LAWYER SHOT HIS cuffs and stood silently for so long you could’ve twanged the tension in the room like a guitar string. Someone in the gallery coughed nervously.
    “The plaintiff calls chief medical examiner Dr. Claire Washburn,” said Broyles at last, and my best friend took the stand for the plaintiffs.
    I wanted to wave, smile, wink—something—but of course all I could do was watch. Broyles warmed up with a few easy lobs across the plate, but from then on, it was fastballs and knuckle curves all the way.
    “On the evening of May tenth did you perform an autopsy on Sara Cabot?” Broyles asked.
    “I did.”
    “What can you tell us about her injuries?”
    All eyes were fixed on Claire as she flipped through a leather-bound notepad before speaking again.
    “I found two gunshot wounds to the chest pretty close together. Gunshot