Page 60 of 25 Alive

AFTER JUDGE WALDEN had shut down the shouts and murmurs, she asked Yuki if she was ready to go on.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Yuki again turned to the jury, making eye contact with each of them as she asked, “Why would the defendant kill his friend? What was his motive? The witness, El Gato, was sitting in the back seat of the car behind the driver. Miguel was talking to him. And he will tell you about that conversation. Miguel was telling El Gato, bragging actually on behalf of his friend, about Dario’s many sexual exploits—and he named some of the women. Seven of these women have disappeared, and a few have been found dead.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Credendino called out as he got to his feet. “The prosecution has no basis for this implication that Mr. Garza knew these women or that he had any part in killing them. This is hearsay, pure and simple. It’s also an outrage and should be struck from the record.”

“Objection sustained,” Judge Walden said emphatically, and she instructed the court reporter to strike the contested section of the prosecutor’s statement.

“I’ll rephrase,” Yuki said, not showing any sign that under different circumstances the defense could have demanded a mistrial. And she was thrilled with her deft implantation of that bad seed in the jurors’ minds.

“Be careful, Ms. Castellano,” the judge said.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Yuki went on. “The defendant’s friend who survived that night will be speaking to you by secure video link. He will tell you what triggered the defendant’s murderous anger and what went down after that. Additionally, as we said, we will introduce other witnesses regarding the decapitation of Miguel Hernandez and his hasty burial. You will also hear from two women who went out with Mr. Garza, and they will describe events of their dates.

“By the end of this trial, we will ask you to find the defendant guilty of the murder of Miguel Hernandez, who was unarmed and unthreatening but did not understand that the defendant had a limit to his self-aggrandizement … Unsatisfied with Miguel’s murder, the defendant also committed abuse of a corpse by severing the deceased’s head and putting it on display out of petty conceit.” Yuki took a deep breath, and thanked the jury in advance for their attention, then walked over to the prosecution table.

The judge said, “Mr. Credendino. Does the defense wish to respond?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said the accused’s imposing defenseattorney. As Yuki took her seat next to Gaines, Jon Credendino put his note cards down on the table and walked into the small well between the counsel tables and the jury box. And under the laser-focused eyes of the judge, Dario Garza’s lawyer began to speak.

CHAPTER91

CINDY SAT ACROSS from Joann Kinney at her dining table, a platter of walnut-raisin muffins between them and fresh coffee in their mugs.

Cindy said, “I’m writing about a number of murders by an unknown person who is being called the ‘I said. You dead’ killer. This could be a book or a newspaper series. I am hoping that I can identify him and turn the information over to the police.”

“I’d be happy to help,” Joann said. “I think you called me because you think I know who this killer might be.”

“But can’t prove it, right?”

“Totally right,” Joann said. “I think I’ve been waiting for you to call me since my daughter was killed by her monster of a husband.”

“Maybe I can help you now. Do you have any evidence against the monster, Joann?”

“I don’t know for sure. But I loved Angela so much. She would never, never …” And then she pushed her glasses upinto her hair, snatched a paper napkin from the table, and pressed it to her eyes.

Cindy reached over and took Joann’s hand.

Joann squeezed Cindy’s hand in return and apologized, excused herself, got up from the table, and walked down a narrow hallway.

Cindy looked around the plain white-painted room. There was a wall of bookshelves, a brown velvet-covered sofa and a matching reclining chair, a coffee table with two or three photo albums and a shallow bowl holding wrapped candies. At the far end of the room were sliding doors opening onto a balcony with a view of trees and blue sky. Centered over the sofa was a lovely portrait of a young woman in her thirties. She had a soft gaze and a shy smile. She looked like a good person. A sweet girl.

Although Angela Palmer had died a year and a half ago, Cindy knew that her call today had cracked her mother’s grief wide open.

Joann had told Cindy that she and her husband, Victor, Angela’s father, had lived in this condo for only a few years. Then shortly after Angela died, her husband had a fatal heart attack. So she now lived here alone.

Joann came back into the living room and sat down at the table. She pulled her thick auburn hair back into a ponytail and reset her eyeglasses. Cindy thought that Joann’s eyes looked permanently reddened from crying.

“So, where were we?” Joann said, giving Cindy a wistful smile.

“Um. You were saying that Angela would ‘never’ but didn’t finish …”

Joann leaned back in her chair, let out a short scream for effect, and then straightened up and said, “As I was saying, Ange would never have married that rage-a-holic if she had known about his temper and his absence of actual feelings.”

“For example?”

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