Again I turned and pointed to my client. He sat with his eyes cast downward on the pad of paper he was now writing notes on—again, by prior design, depicting my client as busy, actively involved in his own defense, chin up, and not worried about the terrible things the prosecutor had just said about him. He had right on his side, and right was might.
I turned back to the jury and continued.
“I counted six times that Mr. Golantz mentioned the word ‘gun’ in his speech. Six times he said Walter took a gun and blew away the woman he loved and a second, innocent bystander. Six times. But what he didn’t tell you six times is that there is no gun. He has no gun. The Sheriff’s Department has no gun. They have no gun and have no link between Walter and a gun because he has never owned or had such a weapon.
“Mr. Golantz told you that he will introduce indisputable evidence that Walter fired a gun, but let me tell you to hold on to your hats. Keep that promise in your back pocket and let’s see at the end of this trial whether that so-called evidence is indisputable. Let’s just see if it is even left standing.”
As I spoke, my eyes washed back and forth across the jurors like the spotlights sweeping the sky over Hollywood at night. I remained in constant but calm motion. I felt a certain rhythm in my thoughts and cadence, and I instinctively knew I was holding the jury. Each one of them was riding with me.
“I know that in our society we want our law enforcement officers to be professional and thorough and the best they can possibly be. We see crime on the news and in the streets and we know that these men and women are the thin line between order and disorder. I mean, I want that as much as you do. I’ve been the victim of a violent crime myself. I know what that is like. And we want our cops to step in and save the day. After all, that’s what they are there for.”
I stopped and swept the whole jury box, holding every set of eyes for a brief moment before continuing.
“But that’s not what happened here. The evidence—and I’m talking about the state’s own evidence and testimony—will show that from the start the investigators focused on one suspect, Walter Elliot. The evidence will show that once Walter became that focus, then all other bets were off. All other avenues of investigation were halted or never even pursued. They had a suspect and what they believed was a motive, and they never looked back. They never looked anywhere else either.”
For the first time I moved from my position. I stepped forward to the railing in front of juror number one. I slowly walked along the front of the box, hand sliding along the railing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this case is about tunnel vision. The focus on one suspect and the complete lack of focus on anything else. And I will promise you that when you come out of the prosecution’s tunnel, you’re going to be looking at one another and squinting your eyes against the bright light. And you’re going to be wondering where the hell their case is. Thank you very much.”
My hand trailed off the railing and I headed back to my seat. Before I sat down, the judge recessed court for lunch.
Thirty-seven
Once more my client eschewed lunch with me so he could get back to the studio and make his business-as-usual appearance in the executive offices. I was beginning to think he viewed the trial as an annoying inconvenience in his schedule. He was either more confident than I was in the defense’s case, or the trial simply wasn’t a priority.
Whatever the reason, that left me with my entourage from the first row. We went over to Traxx in Union Station because I felt it was far enough away from the courthouse to avoid our ending up in the same place as one of the jurors. Patrick drove and I had him valet the Lincoln and join us so that he would feel like part of the team.
They gave us a table in a quiet enclosure next to a window that looked out on the train station’s huge and wonderful waiting room. Lorna had made the seating arrangements and I ended up next to Julie Favreau. Ever since Lorna had hooked up with Cisco, she had decided that I needed to be with someone and had endeavored to be something of a matchmaker. This effort coming from an ex-wife—an ex-wife I still cared for on many levels—was decidedly uncomfortable and it felt clumsy when Lorna overtly pointed me to the chair next to my jury consultant. I was in the middle of day one of a trial and the possibility of romance was the last thing I was thinking about. Besides that, I was incapable of a relationship. My addiction had left me with an emotional distance from people and things that I was only now beginning to close. As such, I had made it my priority to reconnect with my daughter. After that, I would worry about finding a woman to spend time with.
Romance aside, Julie Favreau was wonderful to work with. She was an attractive, diminutive woman with delicate facial features and raven hair that fell around her face in curls. A spray of youthful freckles across her nose made her look younger than she was. I knew she was thirty-three years old. She had once told me her story. She’d come to Los Angeles by way of London to act in film and had studied with a teacher who believed that internal thoughts of character could be shown externally through facial tells, tics, and body movements. It was her job as an actor to bring these giveaways to the surface without making them obvious. Her student exercises became observation, identification, and interpretation of these tells in others. Her assignments took her anywhere from the poker rooms in the south county, where she learned to read the faces of people trying not to give anything away, to the courtrooms of the CCB, where there were always lots of faces and giveaways to read.
After seeing her in the gallery for three days straight of a trial in which I was defending an accused serial rapist, I approached her and asked who she was. Expecting to find out she was a previously unknown victim of the man at the defense table, I was surprised to hear her story and to learn she was simply there to practice reading faces. I took her to lunch, got her number, and the next time I picked a jury, I hired her to help me. She had been dead-on in her observations and I had used her several times since.
“So,” I said as I spread a black napkin on my lap. “How is my jury doing?”
I thought it was obvious that the question was directed at Julie but Patrick spoke up first.
“I think they want to throw the book at your guy,” he said. “I think they think he’s a stuck-up rich guy who thinks he can get away with murder.”
I nodded. His take probably wasn’t too far off.
“Well, thanks for the encouraging word,” I said. “I’ll make sure I tell Walter to not be so stuck-up and rich from now on.”
Patrick looked down at the table and seemed embarrassed.
“I was just saying, is all.”
“No, Patrick, I appreciate it. Any and all opinions are welcome and they all matter. But some things you can’t change. My client is rich beyond anything any of us can imagine and that gives him a certain style and image. An off-putting countenance that I’m not sure I can do anything about. Julie, what do you think of the jury so far?”
Before she could answer, the waiter came and took our drink orders. I stuck with water and lime, while the others ordered iced tea and Lorna asked for a glass of Mad Housewife Chardonnay. I gave her a look and she immediately protested.
“What? I’m not working. I’m just watching. Plus, I’m celebrating. You’re in trial again and we’re back in business.”
I grudgingly nodded.
“Speaking of which, I need you to go to the bank.”
I pulled an envelope out of my jacket pocket and handed it across the table to her. She smiled because she knew what was in it: a check from Elliot for $150,000, the remainder of the agreed-upon fee for my services.
Lorna put the envelope away and I turned my attention back to Julie.
“So what are you seeing?”
“I think it’s a good jury,” she said. “Overall, I see a lot of open faces. They are willing to listen to your case. At least right now. We all know they are predisposed to believe the prosecution, but they haven’t shut the door on anything.”
“You see any
change from what we talked about Friday? I still present to number three?”
“Who is number three?” Lorna asked before Julie could answer.
“Golantz’s slip-up. Three’s a lawyer, and the prosecution should’ve never left him in the box.”
“I still think he’s a good one to present to,” Julie said. “But there are others. I like eleven and twelve, too. Both retirees and sitting right next to each other. I have a feeling that they’re going to bond and almost work as a team when it gets to deliberations. You win one over and you win them both.”
I loved her English accent. It wasn’t upper-crust at all. It had a street-smarts tone to it that gave what she said validity. She had not been very successful as an actress so far, and she had once told me that she got a lot of audition calls for period pieces requiring a dainty English accent that she hadn’t quite mastered. Her income was primarily earned in the poker rooms, where she now played for keeps, and from jury reading for me and the small group of lawyers I had introduced her to.
“What about juror seven?” I asked. “During selection he was all eyes. Now he won’t look at me.”
Julie nodded.
“You noticed that. Eye contact has completely dropped off the chart. Like something changed between Friday and today. I would have to say at this point that that’s a sign he’s in the prosecution’s camp. While you’re presenting to number three, you can bet Mr. Undefeated’s going to number seven.”
“So much for listening to my client,” I said under my breath.
We ordered lunch and told the waiter to hurry the order because we needed to get back to court. While we waited I checked with Cisco on our witnesses and he said we were good to go in that department. I then asked him to hang around after court and see if he could follow the Germans out of the courthouse and stay with them until they reached their hotel. I wanted to know where they were staying. It was just a precaution. Before the trial was over, they were not going to be very happy with me. It was good strategy to know where your enemies were.
I was halfway through my grilled-chicken salad when I glanced through the window into the waiting room. It was a grand mixture of architectural designs but primarily it had an art deco vibe to it. There were rows and rows of big leather chairs for travelers to wait in and huge chandeliers hanging above. I saw people sleeping in chairs and others sitting with their suitcases and belongings gathered close around them.
And then I saw Bosch. He was sitting alone in the third row from my window. He had his earbuds in. Our eyes held for a moment and then he looked away. I put my fork down and reached into my pocket for my cash. I had no idea how much Mad Housewife cost per glass but Lorna was into her second round. I put five twenties down on the table and told the others to finish eating while I stepped out to make a phone call.
I left the restaurant and called Bosch’s cell. He pulled his plugs and answered it as I was approaching the third row of seats.
“What?” he said by way of a greeting.
“Frank Morgan again?”
“Actually, Ron Carter. Why are you calling me?”
“What did you think of the story?”
I sat in the open seat across from him, gave him a glance but acted like I was talking to someone far away from me.
“This is kind of stupid,” Bosch said.
“Well, I didn’t know whether you wanted to stay undercover or—”
“Just hang up.”
We closed our phones and looked at each other.
“Well?” I asked. “Are we in play?”
“We won’t know until we know.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The story is out there. I think it did what we wanted it to do. Now we wait and see. If something happens, then, yes, we’re in play. We won’t know we’re in play until we’re in play.”
I nodded, even though what he had said made no sense to me.
“Who’s the woman in black?” he asked. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend. We should probably put coverage on her, too.”
“She’s my jury reader, that’s all.”
“Oh, she helps you pick out the cop haters and anti establishment types?”
“Something like that. Is it just you here? Are you watching me by yourself?”
“You know, I had a girlfriend once. She always asked questions in bunches. Never one at a time.”
“Did you ever answer any of her questions? Or did you just cleverly deflect them like you are doing now?”
“I’m not alone, Counselor. Don’t worry. You have people around you that you’ll never see. I’ve got people on your office whether you are there or not.”
And cameras. They had been installed ten days earlier, when we had thought that the Times story was imminent.
“Yeah, good, but we won’t be there for long.”
“I noticed. Where are you moving to?”
“Nowhere. I work out of my car.”
“Sounds like fun.”
I studied him a moment. He had been sarcastic in his tone as usual. He was an annoying guy but somehow he had gotten me to entrust my safety to him.
“Well, I’ve got to get to court. Is there something I should be doing? Any particular way you want me to act or place you want me to go?”
“Just do what you always do. But there is one thing. Keeping an eye on you in motion takes a lot of people. So, at the end of the day, when you are home for the night, call me and tell me so I can release some people.”
“Okay. But you’ll still have somebody watching, right?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be covered twenty-four-seven. Oh, and one other thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t ever approach me again like this.”
I nodded. I was being dismissed.
“Got it.”
I stood up and looked toward the restaurant. I could see Lorna counting the twenties I had left and putting them down on the check. It looked like she was using them all. Patrick had left the table and gone to get the car from the valet.
“See ya, Detective,” I said without looking at him.
He didn’t respond. I walked away and caught up with my party as they were coming out of the restaurant.
“Was that Detective Bosch you were with?” Lorna asked.
“Yeah, I saw him out there.”
“What was he doing?”
“He said he likes to come over here for lunch, sit in those big, comfortable chairs and just think.”
“That’s a coincidence that we were here too.”
Julie Favreau shook her head.
“There are no coincidences,” she said.
Thirty-eight
After lunch Golantz began to present his case. He went with what I called the “square one” presentation. He started at the very beginning—the 911 call that brought the double murder to public light—and proceeded in linear fashion from there. The first witness was an emergency operator with the county’s communications center. She was used to introduce the tape recordings of Walter Elliot’s calls for help. I had sought in a pretrial motion to thwart the playing of the two tapes, arguing that printed transcripts would be clearer and more useful to the jurors, but the judge had ruled in the prosecution’s favor. He ordered Golantz to provide transcripts so jurors could read along with the audio when the tapes were played in court.
I had tried to halt the playing of the tapes because I knew they were prejudicial to my client. Elliot had calmly spoken to the dispatcher in the first call, reporting that his wife and another person had been murdered. In that calm demeanor was room for an interpretation of calculated coldness that I didn’t want the jury to make. The second tape was worse from a defense standpoint. Elliot sounded annoyed and also indicated he knew and disliked the man who had been killed with his wife.
Tape 1—13:05—05/02/07
Dispatcher: Nine-one-one. Do you have an emergency?
Walter Elliot: I… well, they look dead. I don’t think anybody can
help them.
Dispatcher: Excuse me, sir. Who am I talking to?
Walter Elliot: This is Walter Elliot. This is my house.
Dispatcher: Yes, sir. And you say somebody is dead?
Walter Elliot: I found my wife. She’s shot. And there’s a man here. He’s shot, too.
Dispatcher: Hold on a moment, sir. Let me type this in and get help going to you.
—break—
Dispatcher: Okay, Mr. Elliot, I have paramedics and deputies on their way.
Walter Elliot: It’s too late for them. The paramedics, I mean.
Dispatcher: I have to send them, sir. You said they are shot? Are you in danger?
Walter Elliot: I don’t know. I just got here. I didn’t do this thing. Are you recording this?
Dispatcher: Yes, sir. Everything is recorded. Are you in the house right now?
Walter Elliot: I’m in the bedroom. I didn’t do it.
Dispatcher: Is there anybody else in the house besides you and the two people who are shot?
Walter Elliot: I don’t think so.
Dispatcher: Okay, I want you to step outside so the deputies will see you when they pull up. Stand out where they can see you.
Walter Elliot: Okay, I’m going out.
—end—
The second tape involved a different dispatcher but I allowed Golantz to play it. I had lost the big argument about whether the tapes could be played at all. I saw no sense in wasting the court’s time by making the prosecutor bring in the second dispatcher to establish and introduce the second tape.
This one was made from Elliot’s cell phone. He was outside, and the slight sound of the ocean’s waves could be heard in the background.