The Gods of Guilt

I smiled as I started putting my own files and notes into my briefcase.

  “We’re actually calling it the ‘Cat in the Hat’ defense. And believe me, it’s a lock.”

  He said nothing in response and I paused my efforts to look at him.

  “One-Echo-Robert-five-six-seven-six.”

  “What’s that, your mother’s phone number?”

  “No, Lankford, it’s your license plate number.”

  I saw a split-second change in his eyes. It was recognition or maybe fear. I kept going, improvising but following some instinctual path to an unknown destination.

  “It’s a city of cameras. You should have lost the plate before you started following her. That next witness the judge wanted to hear today? He’s bringing video from outside the hotel, and he’s going to identify you as the cat in the hat.”

  The look in Lankford’s eyes wasn’t fleeting anymore. It was the vicious look of a cornered animal.

  “And then you’re going to have to explain to the jury why you were following Gloria Dayton before she was murdered and before you were on the case.”

  Lankford suddenly moved into me, grabbing my tie to jerk me away from the table. But the tie came off in his hand and he stumbled backwards off balance.

  “Hey! Is there a problem?”

  Forsythe had taken notice. Lankford recovered and I looked at Forsythe.

  “No, no problem.”

  I calmly took my tie back from Lankford. His back was to Forsythe. He stared at me with those black-marble eyes. I started clipping my tie back on and leaned in to whisper.

  “Lankford, I’m going to go out on a limb here. I don’t think you’re a killer. I’m guessing you got into something way over your head and you got pushed. Used. You found her for somebody and he did the rest. Maybe you knew what was coming, maybe not. Either way, you’re going to let an innocent man go down for it?”

  “Fuck you, Haller. Your client is scum. All of them are.”

  Forsythe walked up to us then.

  “I’m leaving now, gentlemen. I ask again, is there a problem here? Do I have to stay here and babysit you two?”

  Neither of us broke our stares to look at the prosecutor. I answered.

  “We’re fine. I’m just explaining to . . . Investigator Lankford the reason I wear clip-ons.”

  “Fascinating. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Forsythe went out through the gate and down the middle aisle of the empty courtroom. I picked up with Lankford where I had left off before the interruption.

  “You’ve got less than twenty-four hours to figure out how you want to play this. Tomorrow your buddy Marco is going to go down. You can go down with him or you can get smart and get out of this in one piece. There is a way, you know.”

  Lankford slowly shook his head.

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Haller. You never do. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. In fact, you don’t know shit.”

  I nodded as though I felt I had been properly rebuked.

  “Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I clapped him on the arm like I was saying good-bye to a good friend.

  “Don’t fucking touch me,” he said.

  39

  Under directions from Lorna, Cisco brought wine and pizza from the takeout at Mozza to the loft for the postcourt staff meeting that night. She said it was warranted because for the first time in two weeks of trial and more than seven months of prep, it felt like there was something to celebrate.

  It was unexpected to have a midtrial celebration, but the bigger surprise was seeing Legal Siegel in a wheelchair at the end of the table. He had a mobile air tank on the chair and was happily munching on a piece of pizza.

  “Who sprung you?” I asked.

  “Your girl here,” Legal said, pointing with his pizza at Jennifer. “She rescued me from those people. Just in time, too.”

  He toasted me with his slice, holding it up with two bony white hands.

  I nodded and looked at everyone. I guess the reluctance to celebrate anything showed on my face.

  “Come on, we finally had a good day,” Lorna said, handing me a glass of red. “Revel in it.”

  “I’ll revel in it when it’s over and we put the big NG on the scoreboard,” I said.

  I pointed to the whiteboard, which had our defense strategy outlined on it. But I took the glass and a slice of sausage pizza, and smiled at the others as I made my way to a chair by Legal Siegel. Once everyone was seated, Lorna initiated a toast to me, and with great embarrassment I held up my glass. I then hijacked the moment and added my own toast.

  “To the gods of guilt,” I said. “May they release Andre La Cosse soon.”

  That turned the happy moment somber, but it couldn’t be helped. Getting a not-guilty verdict was a long shot. Even when you knew in your gut that you were sitting next to an innocent man at the defense table, you also knew that the NGs came grudgingly from a system designed only to deal with the guilty. I had to satisfy myself with knowing, no matter the outcome, that I had done all I could do for Andre La Cosse.

  I then cleared my throat, held up my glass, and offered another toast.

  “And to Gloria Dayton and Earl Briggs. May justice be done by our work.”

  The others chimed in and an impromptu moment of silence followed. It seemed that we all were reminded that the victims in this case were many.

  I broke the spell by steering everyone back to the business at hand.

  “Before we all get too drunk, let’s talk about tomorrow for a few minutes.”

  I went down the line, pointing to each as I gave orders and asked questions.

  “Lorna, I want to go in a little bit early. So pick me up at seven forty-five, okay?”

  “Hey, I’ll be there if you’ll be there.”

  A not-so-veiled reference to my showing up late that morning.

  “Jennifer, are you with me tomorrow or do you have things on your calendar?”

  “I’m there in the morning. In the afternoon I’ve got a loan-modification hearing.”

  Another foreclosure case, which were still the only cases bringing in any money.

  “All right. Cisco, where are we with the witnesses?”

  “Well, you have Budwin stashed at Checkers. Just let me know whether to bring him to the courthouse. You got my guy from the Ferrari dealership standing by and ready to authenticate. Then you’ve got the big question. Marco. Will he show up or not?”

  I nodded.

  “He has till ten, so I’d better be able to put someone in the chair at nine when the judge comes out. So bring Budwin over first thing.”

  “You got it.”

  “When does Moya come in?”

  “They won’t divulge an exact time for security reasons. But they are transporting him from Victorville tomorrow. I don’t think you can count on him in court till Thursday.”

  “That’ll work.”

  I nodded. Things seemed to be in place. I would have rather held back Budwin Dell, the gun dealer, until after I knew whether Marco was going to testify, but I had no choice. A trial was always a work in progress and it almost never rolled out the way you initially planned or envisioned it.

  “What about going with Lankford ahead of Marco?” Jennifer asked, eyeing the witness order I had written along one side of the whiteboard. “Would that work?”

  “I have to think about it,” I said. “It might.”

  “There are no maybes and might-bes in trial,” Legal Siegel announced. “You gotta be sure.”

  I put my arm on his shoulder and nodded my thanks for his counsel.

  “He’s right. Legal’s always right.”

  Everyone laughed, including Legal. The work questions finished for the moment, we went back to eating. I took a second piece of pizza and soon the wine worked its way into everybody in the room, and the banter and laughs continued. All seemed well in the Haller & Associates universe. No one seemed to notice that
I was not actually drinking my wine.

  Then my phone started vibrating. I pulled it from my pocket, checking the caller ID before answering because I didn’t want to intrude on the moment.

  LA COUNTY JAIL

  Normally, I wouldn’t take a call after hours from the jail. Most of the time it’s a collect call from somebody who got my name and number from somebody else. Nine out of ten times it’s somebody who says he has money for private counsel but ultimately proves to be lying about that and everything else. But this time I knew there was a good chance it was Andre La Cosse. He had taken to calling me from the jail after court to discuss what had happened that day and what to expect the next. I stood up and worked my way around the table so I could walk out into the loft and be able to hear the call.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m looking for Michael Haller.”

  It wasn’t Andre and it wasn’t a collect call. I instinctively closed the door to the boardroom to further insulate myself from the noise.

  “This is Haller. Who is this?”

  “This is Sergeant Rowley at the Men’s Central jail. I am calling to tell you there has been an incident involving your client Andre La Cosse.”

  He had pronounced “La Cosse” wrong.

  “What do you mean? What incident?”

  I started pacing across the empty wooden floor, putting more space between me and the boardroom.

  “The inmate was assaulted early this evening in the transportation center at the Criminal Courts Building. Another inmate is being investigated.”

  “Assaulted? What does that mean? How bad is it?”

  “He was stabbed multiple times, sir.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “Is he dead? Is Andre dead?”

  “No, sir, he was transported in critical condition to the jail ward at County/USC Medical Center. No other details on his condition are available at this time.”

  I opened my eyes, turned, and unconsciously raised my left hand in an impotent gesture. A sharp pain shot through my elbow, reminding me of my injury, and I dropped my arm to my side.

  “How could this happen? What exactly is the transportation center at CCB?”

  “The TC is the staging area in the courthouse basement where custodies are loaded on buses for transport back to our different holding facilities. Your client was about to be transported back to Men’s Central when the assault took place.”

  “Aren’t these people in shackles? How could—”

  “Sir, the incident is under investigation and I can’t—”

  “Who is the investigator? I want his number.”

  “I’m not at liberty to give you that information. I am only calling as a courtesy to tell you there has been an incident and your client is at County/USC. Yours is the only name on his sheet here.”

  “Is he going to make it?”

  “I don’t know that information, sir.”

  “You don’t know shit, do you?”

  I disconnected before I heard a reply. I started walking toward the boardroom. Lorna, Cisco, and Jennifer were standing behind the glass window, watching me. They knew something was up.

  “Okay,” I said after entering. “Andre got stabbed in the courthouse before they put him on the bus tonight. He’s at County/USC.”

  “Oh my god!” Jennifer exclaimed.

  Her hands went to her face. She had sat next to Andre through several days of the trial, often whispering in his ear explanations about what I was doing when I dealt with witnesses. I was too busy with the trial. She had become the chief handholder, and that had drawn them close.

  “How?” Cisco said. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. They said another inmate is under investigation. This is what I want to do. I’m going to go to County/USC and see what his status is and if I can get in to see him. Cisco, I want you on the investigation. They wouldn’t tell me the name of the suspect. I want to know who it is and what connections he could have to Marco and Lankford.”

  “You think they’re behind this?” Lorna asked.

  “Anything’s possible. I spoke to Lankford today after court. I tried to rattle him but he didn’t rattle. Maybe he knew what was going to come down.”

  “I thought you had Moya’s people protecting him,” Jennifer said.

  “In the jail module, yeah,” I said. “But it would be impossible to cover the buses and the courthouse. It’s not like I could get him a bodyguard.”

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “I want you to take Legal back first. Then I want you to blueprint an argument against mistrial.”

  Jennifer seemed to come out of the shock of the moment and focus for the first time on what I had just said.

  “You mean—”

  “I was told he was in critical condition. I don’t know if that means he’s going to live or die. But either way I doubt he’s going to court in the foreseeable future. The default setting on that is to go to mistrial and start over when he’s recovered. If Leggoe doesn’t come to that on her own, then Forsythe will make the motion because he saw his case start to go sideways today. We have to stop it. We’re about to win this case. Let’s proceed with the trial.”

  Jennifer pulled a pad and pen up from her bag that was on the floor.

  “So we want to continue the trial with Andre in absentia? I’m not sure that will fly.”

  “They proceed with cases when defendants escape during trial. Why not here? There’s got to be a precedent. If not, we need to make one.”

  Jennifer shook her head.

  “In those escape cases, the defendants forfeit the right to be present by their own actions in escaping. This is different.”

  Not interested in the legal discussion, Cisco stepped out into the loft space so he could start working his phone.

  “No, it’s different but the same,” I said. “It’s just going to come down to the judge and judicial discretion.”

  “Judicial discretion is a big fucking tent,” Legal said.

  I nodded and pointed at him.

  “He’s right, and we have to find space in that tent.”

  “Well, I would say that at the very least we are going to need a waiver from Andre,” Jennifer said. “The judge won’t even consider it if Andre hasn’t signed off, and we don’t know if he’s in a condition to sign or understand any of this.”

  “Pull out your computer and let’s write up the waiver right now.”

  There was a printer on the counter beneath our whiteboard. We had set things up for printing in the loft after my car was wrecked and the printer I had was destroyed.

  “You’re sure he’ll be able to knowingly sign?” Jennifer asked.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “You write it up, I’ll get it signed.”

  I spent six hours in a family waiting room on the lockdown floor at County/USC. For the first four hours I was repeatedly told that my client was in surgery. I was then told he was in recovery but that I could not see him because he had not regained consciousness. During the whole time, I never lost my cool with anyone. I did not complain and I did not yell.

  But by two o’clock in the morning I had reached the limits of my patience and started demanding to see my client at ten-minute intervals. I pulled out the full arsenal, threatening legal action, media attention, even FBI intervention. It got me nowhere.

  By then I had received two updates from Cisco on his investigation of the investigation. In his first call, he confirmed much of what we had suspected; that a fellow inmate who had been in the courthouse for his own trial had attacked Andre, using a shiv fashioned from a piece of metal. Though shackled at the waist like all the men waiting in lines to load onto jail buses, the suspect dropped to the ground and managed to slip the waist chain down over his feet, freeing his movements enough to attack Andre and stab him seven times in the chest and abdomen before he was overpowered by jail deputies.

  In his second call, Cisco added the name of the suspect—Patrick Sewell—and said he
had found no connection so far by case or other means to either DEA agent James Marco or DA investigator Lee Lankford. The name of the assailant was familiar to me, and then I remembered that Sewell was the defendant in the death-penalty case my half brother was in trial with. I recalled that Harry had said Sewell was brought down from San Quentin, where he was already serving a life sentence. This told me Sewell was the perfect hit man. He had nothing to lose.

  I told Cisco to keep working it. If he came up with even a slim connection between Sewell and Marco or Lankford, then I’d be able to create enough smoke to make Judge Leggoe think twice about calling a mistrial.

  “I’m on it,” Cisco said.

  I expected nothing less.

  At three ten in the morning, I was finally allowed to see my client. I was escorted by a nurse and a detention deputy into the high-dependency unit of the medical wing. I had to gown up because of the risk of infection to Andre, and then I was able to enter a surgery recovery room where Andre’s frail body lay attached to a concert of machines, tubes, and hanging plastic bags.

  I stood at the end of the bed and just watched as the nurse checked the machines and then lifted the blanket over him to look at the bandages that wrapped Andre’s entire torso. His upper body was propped at a low angle on the bed, and I noticed that next to his right hand was a remote for setting the bed’s incline. His left wrist was handcuffed to a thick metal eyelet attached to the bed’s side frame. Though the prisoner was barely clinging to life, no chances were being taken with the possibility of escape.

  Andre’s eyes were puffy and half open, but he wasn’t seeing anything.

  “So . . . is he going to make it?” I asked.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you anything,” the nurse said.

  “But you could.”

  “The first twenty-four hours will tell the tale.”

  At least it was something.

  “Thank you.”

  She patted my arm and left the room, leaving the deputy standing in the doorway. I walked over to the door and started to close it.

  “You can’t close that,” the deputy said.

  “Sure I can. This is an attorney-client conference.”

  “He’s not even conscious.”

  “Right now he isn’t, but it doesn’t matter. He’s my client and we are entitled by the U.S. Constitution to private consultation. You want to stand in front of a judge tomorrow and explain why you failed to provide this man—who is now the victim of a vicious crime—his inalienable right to confer with his attorney?”