Resurrection Walk

24

The eagle had angry, righteous eyes. It looked as if, given the opportunity, it would drop the arrows and olive branch it grasped in its sharp talons, swoop down from the wall, and tear your throat open for having even thought of coming here for justice. I studied it as I grew accustomed to my new surroundings. I had spent most of my decades-long practice trying to avoid being in federal courtrooms. The U.S. District Court for the Central District of California was where defense cases went to die. The feds operated with a near 100 percent conviction rate. Defense cases here were managed, not often tried, and almost never won.

But Lucinda Sanz v. the State of California was different. A habeas petition was a civil motion. My opponent wasn’t the federal government. I was in a battle against the state, with a federal judge presiding as referee, and that opened the door of hope. After I took in the seal with the angry eagle affixed to the wall above the judge’s bench, my eyes moved about the august room with its deep, rich woods, flags in the front corners, and textured oil portraits of former jurists on the side walls. This room had stood the test of time better than any lawyer who had ever stepped in here with a prayer for justice. This was what Legal Siegel had taught me so long ago. Breathe it in. This is your moment. This is your stage. Want it. Own it. Take it.

I closed my eyes and repeated the words in my head, ignoring the sounds around me: people shuffling into the benches of the gallery behind me, whispers from the AG’s table to my left, the court clerk in his corral muttering into his phone to the right. And then came an intrusion I could not ignore.

“Mickey! Mickey!”

An urgent whisper. I opened my eyes and looked at Lucinda. She nodded toward the back of the room. I turned and saw the reporters in the first row and the courtroom artist working for one of the TV stations, since cameras were not allowed in federal court. And beyond them I saw Deputy Stephanie Sanger sitting in the last row. It was the first time I had seen her in person. Since the habeas was a civil motion, I could have deposed her but that would have given her, and the AG, a heads-up on my case strategy. I didn’t want that. So I’d gambled and skipped the depo, and I would question her for the first time when I called her as a witness.

I locked eyes for a moment with Sanger. She had sandy-blond hair and pale eyes; her stare was as cold and angry as the eagle’s up on the wall. She was in full uniform, badge and commendation pins on display. This was the oldest trick in the book when it came to reminding a jury of the authority of a testifying law enforcement officer. But this wasn’t a jury trial and the uniform most likely would not impress the judge.

“Can she do that?” Lucinda asked. “Sit behind us like that?”

I looked from Sanger to my client. She was scared.

“Don’t worry about her,” I said. “When court starts, she’ll leave. She’s a witness and they’re not allowed to be in court until they testify. That’s why Harry Bosch isn’t here.”

Before Lucinda could respond, the courtroom marshal stood at his desk next to the door to the courtside holding cell and announced the arrival of Judge Ellen Coelho. The timing was perfect. As people in the courtroom stood, the door behind the bench opened and the black-robed judge took the three steps up to the black leather chair from which she would preside.

“Be seated,” she said, her voice amplified by the coffered ceiling and the other acoustics of the courtroom.

As I sat down, I leaned toward Lucinda and whispered, “There will be some discussions with the judge and then it will be your turn. Like we talked about, be calm, be direct, look at me or the judge when you answer. Don’t look at the other attorneys.”

Lucinda nodded hesitantly. She still looked scared, her light brown complexion turning pale.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “You’re ready for this. You’ll do fine.”

“But what if I don’t?” she said.

“Don’t think like that. These people at the other table want to take the rest of your life away. They want to take your son away. Be angry at them, not scared. You need to get back to your son, Lucinda. They are trying to stop you from doing that. Think about that.”

I noticed motion behind her and looked up from our huddle to see Frank Silver pull out the chair on her other side and sit down.

“Sorry I’m late,” he whispered. “Hi, Lucinda, do you remember me?”

Before she could answer I put my hand on Lucinda’s arm to stop her and leaned across her to address Silver as quietly as my anger would allow.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered.

“I’m co-counsel,” he said. “That was our deal. I’m here to help.”

“What deal?” Lucinda asked.

“There is no deal,” I said. “You need to leave, Frank. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Silver said.

“Listen to me carefully,” I said. “You can’t be here. It will throw—”

I was cut off by the judge.

“In the matter of Sanz versus the State of California we have a habeas corpus petition. Is counsel ready to proceed?”

Hayden Morris and I stood at the same time at our separate tables and affirmed that we were ready to proceed.

“Mr. Haller,” the judge said, “I have no record of you having a co-counsel. Who is seated next to your client?”

Silver stood up to answer the question himself, but I beat him to it.

“Mr. Silver is the plaintiff’s original defense attorney in this case,” I said. “He just came by to show his support for her. He is not co-counsel.”

Coelho looked down at the paperwork in front of her on the bench.

“He is on your witness list, is he not?” she asked. “I recall that name, I believe.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “He is. And he just wanted to be here at the start, as I said, to show his support. He will step out now. In fact, Your Honor, plaintiff requests that all witnesses be excused from the courtroom until they are called upon to testify.”

Morris, who had already sat down, shot back up to his feet and told the judge that the witness I was referring to was Sergeant Stephanie Sanger, who was in the courtroom for a state motion to quash her subpoena for improper service.

“All right, we’ll get into that,” Coelho said. “But first, Mr. Silver, you are excused from the courtroom.”

I was still standing, readying for the argument about Sanger, and I’d already dismissed Silver from my thoughts. I had to keep my eyes on the prize and not be distracted. Morris obviously wanted to keep Sanger off the stand and as far away from the case and my questioning as possible. I could not allow that.

In my peripheral vision I saw Silver slowly stand and push back his chair. I turned and gave a quick nod so it looked like we were close colleagues and of one mind on this miscarriage of justice. He played along, giving Lucinda a pat on the shoulder before moving by me to the gate. He smiled and nodded in a supportive way while he whispered, “Fuck you. And I’m not testifying. Good luck hitting me with a subpoena.”

I nodded as though he had just whispered words of great inspiration.

And then he was gone. I remained standing for the argument to come while opening a file on the table with a copy of the subpoena Bosch had dropped on Sanger. I had no idea how Morris was going to challenge this.

Judge Coelho waited until Silver was almost to the courtroom door before continuing.

“Mr. Morris, you may proceed,” she said.

For the next five minutes Morris argued that the subpoena served on Sergeant Sanger should be quashed because opposing counsel — me — was on a fishing expedition with no evidentiary basis for putting Sanger on the stand.

“Sergeant Sanger is involved in ongoing investigations that could be compromised if counsel strays willy-nilly in his questioning. He is trying to grandstand with this witness, Your Honor, and it could come at the expense of justice in other cases. Additionally, counsel’s application for the subpoena is based on an identification made by the plaintiff that was highly suspect and did not conform to standard procedures for photographic identification. That alone makes the subpoena invalid.”

“Tell me about the photo identification,” Coelho said.

“Yes, Your Honor. Plaintiff’s investigator showed her a series of photos in the visiting room at the prison where she was housed. This allowed him to steer her identification to Sergeant Sanger. This then became the basis for the subpoena you signed. As the court knows, a proper photographic display to a witness would be what is commonly known as a six-pack, where the individual is shown six photos at once and without any outside influence as to which photo, if any, to choose. But now it is too late; the identification is tainted, and the People ask that the subpoena be quashed.” Morris sat down.

I was relieved. The assistant AG’s argument was complete bullshit. Morris was clearly grasping at straws, which told me how concerned he was about Sanger testifying. I now just had to make sure I could get her on the stand.

“Mr. Haller?” the judge said. “Your response?”

“Thank you, Judge,” I said. “I would love to respond. First of all, I’ve practiced law in this town for decades and this is the first time I’ve ever heard the term willy-nilly put forth as the basis of an objection. I must have missed that in law school, but to use my colleague’s word, his argument is willy-nilly and, I’ll add, absurd. My investigator Harry Bosch spent more than forty years as a police officer and detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. He knows how to conduct a proper photo lineup. He first asked the supervisors at the prison for a private attorney room to meet with Ms. Sanz but he was denied that. So he met with Ms. Sanz in a booth in the visitation room and proceeded as outlined in my request for a subpoena. He showed Ms. Sanz one photo at a time and did not pick the phone up until after she had seen all six photos. That was when she made the identification. There was nothing untoward, nothing sneaky, nothing even willy-nilly — whatever that means. And, Your Honor, a prison camera recorded every moment of it. If there were any truth to the accusation of a tainted identification, then Mr. Morris would have shown us the video from that camera. If we want to delay this hearing and further the illegal incarceration of Lucinda Sanz, we can halt everything while the court orders that the video be brought forward for review.”

“Your Honor?” Morris said.

“Not yet, Mr. Morris,” Coelho said. “Mr. Haller, a response to the first part of the objection?”

“Mr. Morris makes reference to other investigations of a confidential nature,” I said. “He’s clearly desperate. I have no intention of bringing up any investigation other than the flawed and corrupt investigation into the killing of Roberto Sanz. The witness he is trying to keep from testifying was knee-deep in that investigation and Mr. Morris wants to prevent the court from finding out the truth about this matter. No other investigation will be mentioned. I stipulate to that right now. If I stray from it, the court can shut me down.”

There was a pause and then Morris tried for a second bite of the apple.

“Your Honor, if I could respond briefly,” he said.

“That won’t be necessary,” Coelho said. “Do you have a video recording of the investigator showing the plaintiff the photos?”

“No, Your Honor, I don’t,” Morris said.

“Have you seen it?” Coelho pressed. “Was it the basis of your motion?”

“No, Your Honor,” Morris said meekly. “Our basis was the subpoena request from the plaintiff.”

“Then you are unprepared to support your argument,” Coelho said. “The motion to quash is denied. Sergeant Sanger is excused from the courtroom until such time as she is called to testify. Anything else, gentlemen, before we start hearing from witnesses in this matter?”

Morris stood up at his table again.

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said.

“Very well,” Coelho said. “What have you got?”

“As the court knows, this motion was sealed by the court at the request of the State,” Morris said. “This was to prevent it from being played out in the media, as opposing counsel has shown a propensity to do in past cases.”

I stood up.

“Objection,” I said. “Your Honor, the assistant attorney general is doing anything and everything in his power to distract the court from the fact—”

“Mr. Haller,” Coelho said forcefully. “I don’t like counsel interrupting each other. If I deem that Mr. Morris’s argument has merit, you will get your chance to respond. Now, sit down, please, and let him finish.”

I did as I was told, hoping my objection would at least throw Morris off his game.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Morris said. “As I was saying, this motion was sealed by the court until such time as a hearing on the matter began.”

“Which is right now, Mr. Morris,” Coelho said. “I know where you are going with this. I see representatives of the media in the gallery and have approved a request for a courtroom artist. This matter is no longer sealed. We are in open court. What is your objection?”

“The court received the request for a courtroom artist on Friday,” Morris said. “We were all copied. At that time this matter was still under seal and yet the media was somehow alerted to it. The State asks for sanctions against plaintiff’s counsel for violating the court order sealing the petition.”

I stood once again but did not interrupt. I just wanted the judge to know I was ready to respond. But she held out a hand and patted the air, a signal for me to sit down again. I did.

“Mr. Morris, you are doing what two minutes ago you accused Mr. Haller of,” Coelho said. “Playing to the media. I am sure that if I asked Mr. Haller whether he alerted the media to this hearing before the seal was lifted, he would say he did not and that there is no evidence to the contrary. Frankly, I think he is too smart to have done such a thing himself. So, Mr. Morris, unless you can provide such evidence, then all you are doing here is grandstanding. I would rather you did not. I would rather get to what we are actually here to do. There will be no sanctions. Now, Mr. Haller, are you ready to proceed?”

I stood up, this time buttoning my jacket as though it were a shield and I was going into battle.

“We are ready,” I said.

“Very well,” the judge said. “Call your first witness.”

25

I had turned down an offer from Judge Coelho to allow Lucinda Sanz to dress in street clothes supplied by her mother. I didn’t want to agree to anything that would distract from the fact that this woman had been in prison for five years for a crime she did not commit. I wanted her appearance to be a constant reminder to the judge of how a wrongful prosecution had taken everything away from her — her son, her family, her freedom, and her livelihood — and left her with a blue jumpsuit with CDC INMATE stenciled on it, front and back.

Sitting in the witness chair, Lucinda seemed small, her face barely rising above the ornate wooden railing in front of her. Her hair was pulled back in a short ponytail; the line of her jaw was sharp. She looked scared but resolute. I would question her first. That would be the easy part. Morris’s cross-examination was where the danger lay. He had the transcripts from the first interview she’d given investigators almost six years ago and the deposition taken at Chino two months ago. While I had avoided using the deposition option that came with a civil action, Morris had elected to depose Lucinda, a clear sign of his strategy. If he could catch her in a single lie, he could discredit her and the whole claim that she was innocent.

“Is it all right if I call you Cindi?” I asked.

“Uh, yes,” she said.

“Cindi, please tell the court where you live and how long you have lived there.”

Before Lucinda could speak, Morris cut in.

“Your Honor, the aspects of Ms. Sanz’s incarceration for a crime she confessed to are well known to all parties and the court,” he said. “Can we just move to matters germane to the petition?”

“Is that an objection, Mr. Morris?” Coelho asked.

“Yes, Your Honor, it is.”

“Very well. Sustained. Mr. Haller, move on and get to the reason we are here today.”

I nodded. So it was going to be like that.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “Cindi, did you kill your ex-husband, Roberto Sanz?”

“I did not,” Lucinda said.

“But you pleaded no contest to manslaughter in the case. Why would you plead to something you now say you didn’t do?”

“I’m not saying it just now. I have said it all along. I told the sheriffs. I told my family. I told my lawyer. I did not shoot Roberto. But Mr. Silver told me the evidence was too much, that a jury would find me guilty if we had a trial. I have a son. I wanted to see my son again. I wanted to hug him and be part of his life. I didn’t think I would get so many years.”

It was said in such a heartfelt manner that I paused and looked at the legal pad in front of me on the lectern so I could let Lucinda’s words hang in the courtroom like a ghost. But the judge, who had been appointed for life more than a quarter of a century ago, had witnessed every trick in the book and wasn’t having it.

“No further questions, Mr. Haller?” she said.

“No, Your Honor, I have more,” I said. “Cindi, why don’t you tell the court what happened that night nearly six years ago.”

This was the dangerous part. Lucinda could not stray from what was already repeatedly on the record. We could add to it, which I intended to do, but we could not deviate from what was there. To do so would give Morris all he needed to send her back to Chino to finish her sentence.

“Roberto had our son for the weekend,” Lucinda began. “He was supposed to bring him home at six so we could go to my mother’s house for dinner. But he didn’t bring him till almost eight o’clock and he’d had dinner already at Chuck E. Cheese.”

“Did that upset you?” I asked.

“Yes, I was very upset and we had an argument. Me and Robbie. And he—”

“Before we get to that, did Roberto tell you why he was late?”

“He just said he had a work meeting, and I knew that was a lie because it was Sunday and his unit didn’t work on Sundays.”

“Okay, so you didn’t believe him and you argued. Is that what happened?”

“Yes, and then he left. I slammed the door because he had ruined my plans for that night.”

“And what happened next?”

“I heard the gunshots. Two.”

“How did you know they were gunshots?”

“Because I grew up hearing guns in Boyle Heights, and Roberto, when we were married, took me to a gun range to teach me how to shoot. I know what a gunshot sounds like.”

“So you hear two gunshots and what do you do?”

“I thought it was him — Roberto — shooting at the house because he was mad, you know? I ran back to my son’s room and we got on the floor. But that was it, no more shots.”

“Did you make a 911 call?”

“I called, yes. I told them my ex-husband is out there shooting at my house.”

“What did they tell you to do?”

“To stay with my son and hide until they checked it out.”

“Did they tell you to stay on the line?”

“Yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“I don’t know how much time went by but then they said it was safe outside and that I should go to the door because a deputy was there.”

“Did you do that?”

“Yes, and that’s when I saw him. Roberto was lying on the ground and they said he was dead.”

I paused and asked the judge to allow me to play the recording of the 911 call Lucinda had just described. Morris did not object and the recording was played on the courtroom’s AV equipment. It did not deviate from the description Lucinda had just given, but her voice on tape had an urgency and fear in it that was absent in her recounting of the event all these years later. I felt that it was good for the judge to hear it and was surprised that Morris had not tried some sort of objection to block.

After the call was played I pivoted to a new line of questioning.

“Now, Cindi, a few minutes ago you mentioned that when you and Roberto were married, he took you to a range to learn how to shoot. Can you tell the court more about that?”

“Like what?”

“Like how many times you went to the range.”

“It was two or three times. It was before our son was born. Once he was born I didn’t want to have guns or shoot.”

“But at that time, before your son was born, did you own a gun?”

“No, they were Robbie’s guns. All of them.”

“How many guns did he have?”

“I’m not sure. Like five.”

“And he had bought all of these?”

“No, he told me he took some of them away from people. Bad people. If they found them with guns they would take them away. Sometimes they kept them.”

“Who is ‘they,’ Cindi?”

“His unit. It was—”

Morris objected, but not fast enough. Mention of the unit was out there. Morris argued that the answer should be stricken from the record and that the story and whatever else Lucinda was about to say would be hearsay based on the alleged statement of a man who was now dead. The judge sustained the objection without giving me a chance to argue it. But that was okay because everyone in the courtroom, including, and most important, the judge, knew who “they” were — the other members of Roberto Sanz’s anti-gang unit.

“Okay,” I said. “Cindi, tell us about the training at the range you did with your then-husband.”

“Well,” Lucinda began, “he taught me about the different parts of the gun and how to stand and point when firing. We shot at targets.”

“Do you remember what stance you were taught to take?”

“Yes.”

“And what was it called?”

“Oh, I thought you meant if I remembered the stance. I don’t remember if it was called anything.”

“Are you saying you could demonstrate it if the court allowed it?”

“Uh, yes.”

I asked the court’s permission to have Lucinda step down from the witness stand and demonstrate the shooting stance her husband had taught her. Morris objected, arguing that such an exercise would waste the court’s time because the demonstration could not be connected in any way to the shooting of Roberto Sanz.

“Your Honor,” I countered, “I plan to prove that Lucinda Sanz did not fire the shots that killed her ex-husband. This demonstration is one of the dots that will be connected along the way.”

“I’ll allow it,” Coelho said. “But I will hold you to your promise to connect those dots. Proceed.”

“Thank you, Judge. Cindi, would you show us what you were taught by your husband?”

Lucinda stepped down into the well, the open space in front of the judge’s bench. She spread her feet at least two feet apart for stability and brought her arms up straight and extended at shoulder height. She used her left hand to steady her right, the index finger pointing like the barrel of a gun.

“Like this,” she said.

“Okay, thank you,” I said. “You can return to the witness stand.”

As Lucinda returned, I went to the plaintiff’s table to get a file. I opened it and asked permission to show two photographs to the witness. I gave copies to Morris, even though he had already received these in discovery and they had been part of the so-called evidence against Lucinda five years before. I also gave copies to the judge. They showed Lucinda at the range, holding a gun in the same stance she had just demonstrated in the courtroom.

“Mr. Haller, I’m concerned,” the judge said after reviewing the photos. “You are asking to place into exhibit two photos that would tend to show that your client had access to a firearm and knew how to use it. Are you sure this is wise?”

“It’s one of the dots, Your Honor,” I said. “And the court will soon understand that the photos are exculpatory, not damning to my client’s cause.”

“Very well,” Coelho said. “It’s your show.”

I walked a third set of photos to the witness stand and put them down in front of Lucinda.

“Lucinda, can you identify when and where those two photos were taken?” I asked.

“I don’t know the exact date,” Lucinda said. “But it was when Robbie taught me how to shoot. This was the range we would go to in Sand Canyon.”

“Sand Canyon — is that in the Antelope Valley?”

“I think it’s Santa Clarita Valley.”

“But nearby?”

“Yes, not too far.”

“Okay, in that second photo, who is that man next to you?”

“That’s Robbie.”

“Your husband at the time.”

“Yes.”

“Who took that photo?”

“It was one of his friends from the unit. He was teaching his wife how to shoot there too.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Keith Mitchell.”

“Okay, and in the pictures, the gun you are holding, where is that now?”

“I don’t know.”

“When you and your husband divorced, did he leave you any of the guns he possessed?”

“No, none. I didn’t want them in my house. Not with my son there.”

I nodded as if her answer were important and looked at my legal pad, where I had outlined my examination. I used a pen to check off the different avenues of questioning I had covered.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go back to the night of your ex-husband’s death. What happened after you opened the door for the deputy and saw Roberto’s body on the lawn? Was he facedown or face up?”

“Facedown,” Lucinda replied.

“And what happened next with you?”

“They took me and my son and made us sit in the back of a patrol car.”

“And how long were you there?”

“Um, it seemed like a long time. But then they took me and put me in a different car from my son. An unmarked car.”

“You were eventually driven to the Antelope Valley substation and questioned?”

“Yes.”

“Before that, were you asked to allow your hands and clothes to be tested for gunshot residue?”

“Yes. I was asked to step out of the car and they tested me.”

“You were swabbed with a foam disk?”

“Yes.”

“And who conducted this test?”

“A deputy. A woman.”

“Now, there came a time when my investigator Harry Bosch visited with you at the prison in Chino and asked if you would look at some photographs.”

“Yes.”

“He wanted to see if you could identify the female deputy who swabbed you, correct?”

“Yes.”

“He showed you six different photographs?”

“Yes.”

“And did you pick one of those photographs and identify the person who swabbed you?”

“Yes.”

I gave copies of the photo of Stephanie Sanger from Bosch’s photo lineup to Morris and the judge. Permission was quickly granted to enter the photo as plaintiff’s exhibit 2 and show it to the witness.

“Is that the woman you identified as the deputy who tested you for gunshot residue?”

“Yes, that’s her,” Lucinda said.

“Did you know her?”

“No.”

“You didn’t know she was in your husband’s unit with the sheriff’s department?”

“No, I didn’t know her but she told me she worked with Robbie.”

“Did she seem upset that Robbie was dead?”

“She was calm. Professional.”

I nodded. I had gotten everything I needed on the record. Most of it would pay dividends at later points in the hearing. I was pleased. I now had to hope that Lucinda would stand up to a cross-examination from Morris. If she survived that, I knew we had a solid chance.

“I have no further questions,” I said. “But I reserve the right to call the witness back to the stand.”

“Very well, Mr. Haller,” the judge said. “Mr. Morris, would you like to take a break before you begin your cross-examination?”

Morris stood.

“The State would welcome a short break, Your Honor,” he said. “But I have only two questions for this witness, and they require only yes-or-no answers. Perhaps the break could come after the witness is excused.”

“Very well, Mr. Morris,” the judge said. “Proceed.”

To say I was surprised would be an understatement. Morris was either a lot smarter than I’d given him credit for or a lot dumber. It was hard to tell because I had never seen him in court before this day. The AG usually hired the best and brightest, and for most of them, habeas hearings were a walk in the park. But based on his previous motions and his habit of contesting what he called my “lack of good-faith discovery,” he hadn’t seemed to be mailing it in. So his letting the petitioner off the stand with just two questions gave me pause. Maybe he sensed that he could not shake Lucinda’s story because she was telling the truth.

I watched attentively as Morris went to the lectern to ask his two questions.

“Ms. Sanz, you reside at the state prison for women in Chino, correct?” Morris asked.

“Uh, yes,” Lucinda said. “Correct.”

“Do you know another inmate there named Isabella Moder?”

Lucinda looked over at me, a momentary flash of What do I do? panic entering her eyes. I hoped the judge didn’t see it. I simply nodded. There was nothing else I could do.

Lucinda looked back at Morris.

“Yes,” she said. “She was in my cell. Then she got transferred to another prison.”

With that answer, I knew exactly what the State’s strategy was and how Morris planned to play it.

26

I talked to Lucinda and then came out of the courtroom like an escaped prisoner. Moving fast, looking up and down the hall, I saw Stephanie Sanger sitting on a bench against the wall opposite the courtroom entrance. She smirked when she saw me, as if she knew what Morris had just done.

I didn’t have time to throw a smirk back at her. I kept scanning the hall until I saw Bosch standing by the elevator. He looked like he was chatting with the marshal who ran the metal detector. The courtrooms on this floor were used primarily for criminal cases, thus the security scan in addition to the metal detector on the first floor of the building.

Bosch glanced over, saw me, and held up an I’ll be right back finger to the marshal. I stopped and waited for him to join me halfway down the hall so we would be out of earshot of both Sanger and the deputy Bosch had been conversing with.

“How’d she do?” Bosch whispered.

“Fine on the direct,” I said. “But it took only two questions from the assistant AG to undo everything.”

“What? What happened?”

“He’s going to sandbag us with a prison informant. I need you to find out everything you can by tomorrow morning about an inmate named Isabella Moder — I think it’s M-o-d-e-r.”

“What about handling the witnesses?”

“I’ll have to do it. I need you on Moder. Now.”

“Okay. Is she at Chino? Who is she?”

“She was Lucinda’s old cellmate. But they moved her about six months ago — about the time I filed the habeas.”

“And her name didn’t come up in discovery? Isn’t that a vi—”

“Morris didn’t need to put her in if she was going to be used for rebuttal. So no violation. A good, clean sandbagging. I should have seen it coming.”

“So what’s the hurry if Morris isn’t going to call her until after your case?”

“Because the best defense is a good offense. I need to know if we’re going to be able to neutralize her whenever they put her on the stand.”

“Got it. Did Cindi tell you what she’d told Moder?”

“She didn’t tell her anything. Moder’s a jailhouse snitch. She’s going to lie. She’s going to say Lucinda admitted to killing her husband.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It doesn’t matter. That’s why I want you to get out of here and find out everything you can about her. Find me something I can burn her to the ground with.”

“I’m on it.”

“Call Cisco if you need help. No stone left unturned, but you’re working against the clock. I should be finished with my witnesses tomorrow. That’s when Morris will bring Moder in.”

“If I’m on this, I won’t be able to get Dr. Arslanian to court tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll deal with her. You go. Call me as soon as you have something. Court is dark this afternoon because Coelho has a judges’ conference. I’m going to put Sanger on the stand now, Arslanian and the rest tomorrow. That includes you, so get going on Moder.”

“I’ll call you. Good luck with Sanger.”

“Luck won’t have anything to do with it.”

Bosch walked off toward the elevator. I checked my watch. There were still a few minutes left in the break. I went into the restroom, cupped my hands under the cold water at a sink, then held my hands to my face. There was a heaviness growing in the center of my chest. It was the feeling of being unprepared. I hated that feeling more than anything in the world.

On my way back to the courtroom I saw Sanger still posted on the bench.

“Not going so good, is it?” she said.

I stopped and looked at her. She had that smirk again.

“It’s going great,” I said. “And you’re next.”

With that, I opened the courtroom door and went in.

The marshals were returning Lucinda from the courtroom lockup to the plaintiff’s table, a sign that the judge was ready. I took my seat next to my client as the shackles came off her wrists and ankles, and one wrist was locked to the steel ring on the underside of the table.

“What will happen now?” she whispered.

“I’m going to call Sanger, put her on the record, then tomorrow we prove she’s a liar.”

“No, I mean what happens now with Isabella?”

“Harry is working on it, trying to find something we can impeach her with.”

“‘Impeach’?”

“Prove she’s lying. You sure you never talked about your case with her?”

“Never. We never talked about her case either.”

“All right. I need you to think, Lucinda. Is there anything you know about her that will help us? I can almost guarantee she’s going to come in here and testify that you told her you killed Roberto. I need to come back at her with something. Is there—”

The marshal interrupted us with his call to rise. We stood and the judge entered the courtroom and bounded up the steps to the bench. Ellen Coelho had been on the federal bench for nearly thirty years. She was a Clinton appointee, which tended to put her on the liberal side, which was good for us. But when push came to shove, I had no idea what her view of jailhouse snitches would be.

“Continuing in the matter of Sanz versus the State of California,” she said. “Mr. Haller, call your next witness.”

I called Stephanie Sanger. Since Bosch was no longer in the hall to wrangle witnesses, I asked the judge to send one of the courtroom marshals to get her. The judge seemed annoyed but complied, and while we waited I turned back to my client.

“I need something to go at Isabella with,” I whispered. “Try to remember what you talked about. When they put the lights out at night, did you two talk?”

“Yes. It’s hard to fall asleep.”

“I can imagine. Did she ever—”

The rear door of the courtroom opened and the marshal entered, followed by Sanger, who walked down the center aisle and through the gate. She stopped by the witness chair and took the oath from the clerk before sitting. I moved to the lectern with my files and notes.

“Your Honor,” I said, “before I begin, I ask the court to declare Deputy Sanger a hostile witness.”

“She’s your witness, Counselor,” Coelho said. “On what grounds should I declare her to be hostile to the petitioner?”

I wanted Sanger declared hostile because it gave me more freedom during direct examination. I could pose leading questions to which only a yes or no was required. This would allow me to stock those questions with facts I wanted the judge to hear, even if Sanger denied them. The information would still get through.

“As you saw this morning, she has already attempted to avoid testifying, Your Honor,” I said. “Add to that a short conversation I just had with her during the break. She clearly doesn’t like me, my client, or being here.”

Morris stood to respond, but Coelho held her hand up like a stop sign.

“Let’s just see how it goes, Mr. Haller,” she said. “Proceed with your examination.”

Morris sat down and Sanger seemed pleased with my failure to persuade the judge.

“Thank you, Judge,” I said. “Deputy Sanger, you are employed by the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, correct?”

“I am,” Sanger said. “And it’s Sergeant.”

“When did you get that promotion?”

“Two years ago.”

“What is your current assignment with the department?”

“I’m assigned to the Antelope Valley substation, where I’m in charge of the gang-intervention unit.”

“You have been with that unit for several years, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And now you are in charge of it.”

“I just said that.”

“Yes, thank you. You were assigned to that unit at the time of Deputy Roberto Sanz’s death, correct?”

“I was.”

“Were the two of you partners?”

“No, we don’t have partners per se on the unit. There are six deputies and a sergeant. We work as a team and on any given day, depending on vacations and sick-outs, you could be partnered with any of the five other deputies. It changes all the time.”

“Thank you, Deputy, for that clarif—”

“Sergeant.”

“I’m sorry. Sergeant. Thank you for the clarification. So, based on that sort of round-robin of interactions and partnerships, is it correct to say you knew Deputy Sanz well?”

“Yes. We worked together for three years before he was murdered by his ex-wife.”

I looked up at the judge.

“Your Honor,” I said, “I’d say that’s pretty hostile. The witness is revealing a belief that is counter to my client’s cause.”

“Just proceed, Mr. Haller,” Coelho said.

I looked at my notes and quickly regrouped. I had to move carefully now and walk Sanger into a truth trap. If I got her under oath and on the record saying something I could later prove false, it would go a long way toward making the case that Lucinda was corruptly or at least wrongfully convicted.

“Let’s talk about the murder of Deputy Sanz,” I said. “It happened on a Sunday. Do you recall how you found out that he had been killed?”

“I got a SORS text,” Sanger said. “Like everybody in the department.”

“Can you tell the judge what a SORS text is?”

“The Special Operations Reporting System is a texting service that allows the department to get messages to all sworn personnel. A text went out that said there had been a deputy-involved shooting in the AV division and that we had lost one of our own.”

“AV as in Antelope Valley?”

“Correct. I then made a call and found out that the deputy killed was Roberto Sanz from my unit.”

“And what did you do?”

“I called another deputy in the unit and we proceeded to the scene to see if we could be of any help.”

“Which deputy was that?”

“Keith Mitchell.”

“Why did you only call him when you say the unit consisted of six deputies and a sergeant?”

“Because Keith was the closest to Robbie Sanz.”

I opened the file I had brought to the lectern and took out three copies of a document. I distributed them to Morris, the witness, and the judge and asked Coelho for permission to enter the document as the next plaintiff’s exhibit and to question the witness about it. Permission was granted.

“What is that, Sergeant?”

“It’s a copy of the SORS text that went out,” Sanger said.

“And what time does it say it went out?”

“Twenty-eighteen hours.”

“Or eight eighteen p.m. in nonmilitary time, correct?”

“Correct.”

“How soon after that went out did you arrive at the crime scene?”

“Probably no more than fifteen minutes later.”

“The AV, as you call it, is a big place. How was it that you were so close you could be there within fifteen minutes?”

“I happened to be eating dinner at a restaurant nearby.”

“What restaurant was that?”

“Brandy’s Café.”

“Were you with anyone?”

“I was alone at the counter. I got the text, put down some money, and immediately left. I called Keith Mitchell on my way.”

She said it in a tired tone, as if I were asking irrelevant questions with no bearing on the case. The judge must have felt like this as well; she interrupted me.

“Mr. Haller,” she said. “Is this line of questioning really necessary?”

“It is, Judge,” I said. “That will become clear when other witnesses testify.”

“Well, please hurry through this so we can get to those witnesses sooner rather than later.”

“We would get there sooner if my examination were not interrupted.”

“If that remark is intended as a rebuke to the court, we have a problem, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor, it was not intended as a rebuke in any way. May I continue?”

“Please, but hurry.”

I nodded and checked my notes to make sure I picked up where I had left off.

“Sergeant Sanger, were homicide investigators on the scene when you arrived?” I asked.

“No, not yet,” Sanger said.

“Who from the sheriff’s department was there?”

“A lot of deputies had arrived to secure the scene for the homicide unit rolling from the STARS Center in Whittier.”

“That would put them as much as an hour out, correct?”

“Yes, most likely.”

“So, during that time of waiting for the homicide team, you decided to do their job for them, didn’t you?”

“No, that’s not correct.”

“Well, didn’t you take Lucinda Sanz from the car she had been placed in and conduct a test for gunshot residue on her body and clothes?”

“Yes, I did that. It’s best to conduct such a test as soon as possible after a shooting crime has been committed.”

“Was it procedure for a deputy who worked with the victim to swab the arms and hands of a suspect for a gunshot-residue test?”

“She was not a suspect at that time. It—”

“Not a suspect? Why was she put in the back of a patrol car and swabbed for GSR if she was not a suspect?”

Morris stood up and objected.

“Your Honor,” he said. “Counsel is badgering the witness and not allowing her to finish her answers.”

“Mr. Haller,” Coelho said. “Let her complete her answers and dial back the tone. There is no jury here to impress.”

I nodded contritely.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “Sergeant Sanger, by all means, please continue and finish your answer.”

“As I said, it is important to test for gunshot residue early in an investigation,” Sanger said. “Otherwise, the evidence can dissipate or be removed or transferred. I knew in this case that it might be an hour or more before homicide investigators were on scene, so I swabbed the defendant and secured the swab disks in an evidence bag.”

“She’s the petitioner, not the defendant, Sergeant. Once you completed this test you say was required so urgently, what did you do with that evidence bag containing the swab disks?”

“I turned it over to Deputy Mitchell, who later gave it to the homicide team. It should be noted in the evidence chain-of-custody report, which I’m sure you’ve seen.”

“What if I told you it is not in the chain-of-custody report?”

“Then that would be a slight oversight on Deputy Mitchell’s part.”

“Nice of you to throw Deputy Mitchell under the bus, but why didn’t you just turn it over to the homicide team yourself? You conducted the test. Were you trying to hide that, Sergeant?”

“I wasn’t hiding anything. I was going to leave the crime scene. I went to tell Deputy Sanz’s girlfriend at the time what had happened. I thought she should hear it from one of Robbie’s friends before she saw it on the news.”

“That was very noble of you, Sergeant Sanger.”

“Thank you.”

She said it with a solid tone of sarcasm. I was near the end of my questioning. I decided it was time to rock her boat with a big-time wave.

“Sergeant Sanger, were you aware that at the time of his murder, Roberto Sanz was in a sheriff’s gang?”

Sanger actually did rock back in her seat a few inches. Morris quickly stood and objected.

“Assumes facts not in evidence,” he said. “Your Honor, counsel is on a fishing expedition, hoping the witness will misspeak and give him something he can blow out of proportion.”

I shook my head. I walked to the petitioner’s table and opened a file containing several copies of the photos from the Roberto Sanz autopsy. I made sure Lucinda did not see them.

“Your Honor, this is no fishing expedition and I think counsel knows it,” I said. “I am prepared, if the court will indulge me, to show this witness proof that her colleague was a member of a sheriff’s clique. If the court needs it, I can also bring in an expert on the internal investigation by the sheriff’s department and the external investigation by the FBI into these clusters of gangsters with badges, probes that resulted in a former sheriff going to prison and wholesale changes in personnel and training within the department.”

It was a bluff. The expert was the FBI agent MacIsaac, and so far I hadn’t been able to get to him. If pressed by the court, I would bring in the Los Angeles Times reporter who exposed the scandal and covered its multiple investigations.

Luckily, I needed neither.

“I don’t think we need an expert to tell us about the well-known problems in the sheriff’s department at the time of this murder,” Coelho said. “The witness will answer the question.”

All eyes in the courtroom returned to Sanger. I asked if she needed me to repeat the question.

“No,” she said. “I was not aware of Roberto being in a clique or a gang or whatever you want to call it.”

“If the court allows, I am going to show you two photos,” I said. “They were taken during the autopsy of Roberto Sanz.”

I approached the bench and handed the judge a set of photos showing Sanz’s body on the autopsy table and the close-up of the tattoo on the body’s hip. I turned and gave Morris a set. He immediately stood and objected to the inflammatory nature of the photos.

“This man was a hero, Your Honor,” he said. “Counsel wants to flaunt these photos that purport to show gang affiliation when they show and prove nothing.”

“Your Honor,” I countered, “the petitioner can bring in an expert on this subject who will identify the tattoo on Roberto Sanz’s body — incidentally located in a place that would not be seen by the public — if necessary. But just a casual Google search by the court or anyone else would confirm that Sanz’s secret tattoo directly connects him with a so-called clique that operated in the Antelope Valley.”

The judge did not take long to render a decision.

“You may show the witness,” she said.

I approached the witness stand and handed Sanger a set of photos.

“Do you recognize that tattoo, Sergeant Sanger?” I asked.

“I do not,” Sanger said.

“You did not know of your unit member’s association with the Cucos, a known sheriff’s clique?”

“I did not and I don’t think a tattoo is proof of that.”

“Do you have such a tattoo, Sergeant?”

“I do not.”

I paused there and in my peripheral vision saw Morris stand, anticipating that my next move would be to ask the court to have Sanger’s body inspected for tattoos. But I didn’t. I wanted that possibility to hang over the judge’s eventual decision on the petition.

“I have one more question for now,” I said. “Sergeant, what was your phone number that was linked to the Special Operations Reporting System?”

Morris, who was in the act of sitting down, suddenly bolted to his feet. He spread his arms wide and displayed an exaggerated look of shock and horror on his face.

“Objection, Your Honor,” he said. “What could the plaintiff possibly want with the revelation of this law enforcement officer’s private number other than to expose it to the media and the public?”

“Can you answer that, Mr. Haller?” the judge asked.

“Your Honor, I am not trying to expose her private number to the public,” I said. “But she testified to having received notice of the Sanz killing on her cell phone, and the petitioner is entitled to that phone number as part of the evidence in this case. If the court would order the witness to privately disclose the number to me through Mr. Morris or the clerk of the court, that would be fine.”

“But why would he need the number other than to harass the witness with phone calls?” Morris said.

“Judge, I will never distribute or call the number,” I said. “And you can hold me in contempt if I do.”

“Then why do you need the number, Mr. Haller?” the judge asked.

I spread my arms in surprise in the same way Morris had just moments earlier.

“Your Honor, please,” I said. “Are you asking me to stand here and outline my case strategy for Mr. Morris?”

“Let’s just calm things down here,” the judge said.

She seemed to understand her misstep. She considered her ruling for a long moment before responding.

“Very well,” she finally said. “The court orders the witness to provide the clerk with the phone number requested, and it will be turned over to the plaintiff’s counsel.”

“Your Honor,” Morris said, “the State asks that the number be sealed.”

“Is that necessary, Mr. Morris?” Coelho asked.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Morris said. “To protect Deputy Sanger from harassment.”

“It’s Sergeant Sanger,” I said.

“Sergeant Sanger,” Morris corrected himself.

“Very well,” Coelho said. “There is to be no distribution or use of the number by the plaintiff. It is under court seal. To violate the seal, Mr. Haller, will be to incur the wrath of this court.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Morris said, his tone suggesting that he had just attained some sort of victory.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I echoed, because I knew that the victory was mine.

27

It was late when I got the text from Bosch. I was working at the kitchen table because my home office was still a shambles. I had been writing out questions for Shami Arslanian on a legal pad when my phone buzzed with the message. It was an address in Burbank. A third-floor apartment. Bosch told me to come quickly and provided the combo for the building security gate.

I left the legal pad on the table, took the Navigator down the hill, and cut through Laurel Canyon to get to the Valley. I reached the destination near the Burbank Airport in forty minutes. The gate combo Bosch had sent worked and I was knocking on the door of apartment 317 two minutes later. Cisco answered the door and brought me in. Bosch was in the tiny apartment’s living room, sitting on a garish green couch next to a man with unkempt red hair and pale white skin. He looked to be in his late twenties, but that was just a guess because the scabs on his face disguised his true age. He was an obvious tweaker and that meant he could have been fifty or twenty. I almost turned around and walked. Tweakers were bad witnesses.

“Mick, this is Max Moder,” Cisco said. “His sister is Isabella.”

Moder pointed at me with recognition in his eyes.

“Hey, you, you’re the guy on the billboards, right?” Moder said. “I seen you up there.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said. “What’ve you got for me?”

Moder turned to Bosch as if to get his approval. Bosch nodded, giving him the go-ahead.

“Well, about three or four months ago my sister called me from the prison where she is,” he said. “She asked me to go to the library where they keep the old newspaper archives. She told me to try to find stories about a murder case. A sheriff’s deputy that got killed up in Quartz Hill.”

“So did you do it?” I asked.

“Yeah, I went,” Moder said. “Had to go to the big library downtown.”

“And what did you find there?”

“I found the stories she wanted.”

“Okay. What did you do then?”

Moder glanced at Bosch and then up at Cisco.

“Is this guy going to take care of me?” he asked them.

Cisco and Bosch stayed silent. I answered the question.

“I need to know what you know first,” I said. “We can talk about what I can do for you after. What did you do when you found the newspaper stories?”

“I had to pay them to print them out for me,” Moder said. “Then when she called me back, I read them to her. Each one.”

“She called you collect from the prison? Or did she have a cell phone in there?”

“She borrowed a cell. I don’t know how she got it.”

“But she called you on your cell, right?”

“Yeah, my cell.”

“Where is that phone?”

“Uh, I don’t have it anymore. I sold it. I needed the money.”

“When?”

“When did I sell it, you mean?”

“Yes, when did you sell it?”

“A couple months ago. Thereabouts.”

“Where did you sell it?”

“Uh, actually I traded it to a guy.”

For drugs. He didn’t need to add that part. Everyone in the room knew it.

“Do you have any bills from the carrier?” I asked. “From the phone company?”

“Not really,” Moder said. “I wasn’t that good at paying the bill, to tell you the truth. They cut me off and then I traded it.”

“What about the number? Do you remember it?”

“I don’t really remember the number.”

“Then what about the printouts from the library? Where are they?”

“I think I left them at my last place. They’re gone.”

I nodded. Of course he didn’t have them — that would have been too easy. I thought about whether to pursue this further. Drug addicts were extremely unreliable witnesses who could hurt you more than help you on the stand. There appeared to be nothing I could use to back up his story.

“Are you going to pay me?” Moder asked. “I need to get well, man.”

“I don’t pay for testimony,” I said. “All I can give you is a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s my business card. You call the number on it the next time you’re arrested and I’ll get you out and take your case.”

Moder looked up at Cisco with a scowl.

“What the fuck, man?” he said. “You said he’d pay me.”

“I never said that,” Cisco said. “I said if he likes what you say, he’ll take care of you. That’s it.”

“Fuck!” Moder said.

“Calm down,” I said. “You—”

“No, you calm the fuck down!” Moder yelled. “I need real money, man. I’m hurtin’, man!”

“The only witnesses I pay are expert witnesses,” I said. “And I don’t think you’re an expert in anything but getting high on crystal meth.”

“Then get the fuck out of here. All a’ you. Just get the fuck out. I ain’t fucking over my sister for a fucking business card. Get out!”

Bosch got up from the couch and started for the door. Cisco didn’t move. He was waiting for me so he could be the last man out in case Moder foolishly decided to get physical. I pulled out my wallet and retrieved a business card.

“You already fucked her over,” I said.

I tossed the card onto the coffee table and followed Bosch out the door.

The three of us didn’t speak until we got back to the street and stood around the Navigator.

“What do you think?” Cisco asked.

“It’d be nice if I had something solid to back up his story,” I said. “But I think I can make do if push comes to shove with the sister.”

“Subpoena him?” Bosch asked.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want the AG to know we found him. How did we find him?”

Bosch lifted his chin in Cisco’s direction.

“Cisco’s the man,” he said.

“I found out where she used to live in Glendale and asked around the neighborhood,” Cisco said. “People didn’t like her or her brother. It got easy from there.”

I nodded approvingly.

“So what is she inside for?” I asked.

“DUI manslaughter,” Cisco said. “Ran through a light in Sun Valley and T-boned a nurse coming home from work at St. Joseph’s. She blew a point-three. Got fifteen years for it. The nurse had a family.”

“What do you think, Harry?” I asked. “What could she get in exchange for snitching on Lucinda? I mean, going back to the sentencing judge is a nonstarter. No judge is going to chip time off the sentence on a case like that. That doesn’t win you any votes.”

“Don’t know,” Bosch said. “Maybe just a promise from the AG to try. She’s already been in eight years. She’ll start getting parole hearings in a year. Maybe Morris will put in the word there.”

“Yeah, gotta be it,” I said. “Good job, fellas. I’ve got something I can work with if need be.”

Neither investigator responded to the compliment.

“So, anybody hungry?” I said. “I’m starved. Musso’s is still open and I’m buying.”

“I could eat,” Cisco said.

“You can always eat,” I said. “Harry?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Okay, then,” I said. “I’ll call Sonny at the bar and see if he can get us a good table. Meet you both there.”

28

Eating late at Musso and Frank had been a mistake. I consumed no alcohol but couldn’t say no to a New York strip with all the trimmings. In the morning I felt heavy and sluggish. Luckily, Bosch was waiting on the front deck when I stumbled out. He drove while I pulled out the legal pad and got reacquainted with my case as we headed downtown.

“Who you calling first this morning?” Bosch asked.

“Well, first we see what comes up when Morris crosses Sanger,” I said. “I might need to take another go at her. I’m hoping she wears her uniform again today.”

“Why is that?”

“Oh, just a little groundwork I forgot to lay yesterday.”

“Okay, then who? Keith Mitchell?”

“Yeah, we’ll go with Mitchell. Get him on the record with his story, and then we bring in Shami. I need you to get her after you drop me at the courthouse. Just in case Sanger and Mitchell go down in a hurry.”

“You got it.”

My strategy was twofold. First and foremost, I had to show that the investigation of the case was off the rails from the beginning. There was either tunnel vision that led solely to Lucinda Sanz or, worse, a cover-up in which Lucinda was set up and sold down the river. The second part of the strategy was to somehow hand the judge a villain. I needed to point the finger at someone convincingly enough to show that Lucinda Sanz should be declared innocent or, at the very least, allowed to pull back her plea and go to trial. Exactly who that villain would be was yet to be determined, but thanks to Shami Arslanian’s computer modeling, I had an idea.

Bosch made good time. My eyes were on the paperwork and I didn’t notice the turns he made, but I got to the courthouse and through the two security screens early enough to ask Nate, the main courtroom marshal, to allow me back into the holding area so I could visit with my client.

Lucinda was in the same short-sleeved blue jumpsuit, but on this day she wore a heavy white long-sleeved T-shirt underneath. It didn’t matter what time of year it was — federal lockup was always a cold place to be.

“Cindi,” I said. “You doing all right?”

“I guess so,” she said. “When does court start?”

“They’ll get us in a few minutes. I just wanted to come back and tell you, so far so good. I think we’re right on track with how we want to present our case. Also, I don’t think you need to worry about Isabella Moder. We have that covered.”

“What do you mean, you have it covered?”

“If the AG puts her on the stand and she testifies about you, we should be able to show her to be the lying jailhouse snitch that she is.”

“Okay. Then what happens today?”

“Well, we put on our main case, and we hope it’s enough to force the judge to allow me to bring Agent MacIsaac in to testify. He’s the key, but we haven’t been able to get him into court. The feds are playing hide the ball with him.”

“Why won’t he come?”

“Well, because what the feds did is embarrassing to the Bureau. They looked the other way when you got charged, Cindi, and that wasn’t right.”

“And you can prove this?”

“I think so. If I can get him on the stand.”

The door behind me opened and Marshal Nate came in.

“Time to go,” he said.

I turned back to Lucinda and told her to stay strong.

A few minutes later we were seated at the table in the courtroom, and Judge Coelho took the bench. Sergeant Sanger was called back to the stand for cross-examination. I was pleased to see that she was once again in uniform.

Morris’s cross was pedantic. He painstakingly walked Sanger through her seventeen-year career with the sheriff’s department, detailing her different postings, promotions, and commendations. He went so far as to present as an exhibit the plaque she had received the year before from the Antelope Valley Rotary Club as Law Enforcement Officer of the Year. In doing so, Morris was revealing his strategy — the case would come down to the believability and character of the deputies involved. That’s why he was laying it on thick.

He finished strongly with questions that went to the heart of Lucinda Sanz’s claim of malfeasance in her conviction.

“Sergeant Sanger, are you aware of any sort of corruption or wrongdoing in the investigation of Roberto Sanz’s death?” he asked. “And I remind you that you are under oath.”

“No, sir,” Sanger responded.

The reminder that the witness was under oath was grandstanding, but Morris’s message to the judge was clear: This is a professional and highly decorated law enforcement officer and it is her word against that of the petitioner, who previously pleaded no contest to this crime.

When Morris was finished, it was my turn again. I moved quickly to the lectern.

“Brief redirect, Your Honor,” I said.

“Proceed, Mr. Haller,” the judge intoned.

“Sergeant Sanger, when Mr. Morris went over your career and commendations, he seemed to leave one item out,” I said. “Isn’t that correct?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sanger said.

“Well, I’m talking about that pin you’re wearing on your uniform above the breast pocket. What is that for, Sergeant Sanger?”

I had seen the pin the day before, but it was only after reviewing Sanger’s testimony that I realized what I could do with it.

“That’s a badge for qualifying at the sheriff’s range,” Sanger answered.

“The shooting range, you mean?” I asked.

“Yes, the range.”

“To get a pin like that for your uniform, you have to do more than qualify, don’t you?”

“It’s given to the top percentage of shooters.”

“What percentage is that?”

“Top ten percent.”

“I see. And what is a pin like that called?”

“I don’t know.”

“It means you are an expert marksman, does it not?”

“I don’t use gendered words.”

“Okay, how about the word shooter instead of marksman? That pin you proudly wear on your uniform means you qualified as an expert shooter, does it not?”

“I’ve never used those words.”

In a show of frustration, I raised my hand and then dropped it down on the lectern with a thud. I asked the judge if I could approach the witness to show her an exhibit previously accepted by the court. After permission was granted, I carried over the photos of Lucinda at the shooting range.

“Can you identify the people in that photo?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sanger said. “It’s Robbie Sanz and his then-wife, the defendant, Lucinda Sanz.”

“You mean the petitioner?”

“Yes, the petitioner.”

She said it in a sarcastic tone.

“Thank you,” I said. “Now, in the second photo in your possession, you have the man you identified as Robbie Sanz using his hands to improve the posture and stance of his then-wife. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Sanger said.

“As you are a law officer and a shooting expert, with the commendation to go with it, can you tell me what stance the petitioner is learning in that photo?”

“It’s the high-ready stance.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Sanger. I have no further questions, Your Honor, but the petitioner reserves the right to recall the witness at a later stage of the hearing.”

“Okay,” Coelho said. “Mr. Morris, do you wish to re-cross?”

“No, Your Honor,” Morris said. “The State is ready to move on.”

“Sergeant Sanger, you are excused,” Coelho said. “Mr. Haller, call your next witness.”

Keeping to my plan, I called Deputy Keith Mitchell. He was brought in from the hallway, placed under oath, and seated in the witness stand. He was a large Black man with a shaved head. His biceps stretched the sleeves of his uniform shirt to their limit. I moved back to the lectern with my legal pad. I didn’t bother asking the judge to rule that Mitchell was a hostile witness.

After a few preliminary questions that established that Mitchell was a member of the same anti-gang unit as both Roberto Sanz and Sanger, I got down to the meat of his testimony.

“You are a big man, sir,” I began. “How tall are you?”

Mitchell looked confused by the question.

“Uh, six four,” he said.

Morris stood up.

“Your Honor, can we keep the examination to things pertinent to the case?” he asked.

“Sorry, Your Honor,” I said. “I’ll move on.”

Coelho frowned.

“Don’t meander, Mr. Haller,” she said.

“I won’t, Your Honor,” I said. “Deputy Mitchell, you were at the crime scene on the night of Roberto Sanz’s murder, correct?”

“That is correct,” Mitchell said.

“But you were off duty, were you not?”

“I was.”

“How did you come to be there?”

“The department sent out a text alert that there had been an officer-involved shooting in the AV, and then like maybe ten minutes later another member of our unit called me and said it was Robbie who got shot. We were close, Robbie and me, so I went to the house.”

“And that was Stephanie Sanger who called, correct?”

“Correct. Sergeant Sanger.”

“Was she a sergeant at that time?”

“Uh, no. Not then.”

“And where were you when Deputy Sanger called you?”

“I was at my home in Lancaster.”

“What is your home address?”

Mitchell hesitated and Morris jumped up to object to revealing the witness’s home address to the public.

“Your Honor,” Morris said. “This could put this witness and his family in danger.”

“I withdraw the question,” I said before the judge had to rule.

“Very well,” the judge said. “Proceed.”

Morris nodded his approval like he had once again scored some kind of point over me.

“Deputy Mitchell, let’s go back to that night,” I said. “Were you part of the investigation of Deputy Sanz’s death?”

“No, I was not,” Mitchell said.

“But on the evidence report, it says you had possession of the gunshot-residue pads taken during the examination of Lucinda Sanz. Is that true?”

“Yes. That evidence was handed to me by another deputy to safeguard until investigators were on the scene. When the homicide investigators arrived, I handed the evidence over.”

“What exactly was the evidence?”

“As I recall, it was two GSR pads in an evidence bag.”

“And which deputy gave that bag to you to, as you say, safeguard?”

“Sergeant Sanger. I mean, Deputy Sanger at the time.”

I paused and looked down at my pad and braced myself for more pushback on my next line of questioning.

“Deputy Mitchell,” I finally said, “were you aware that Deputy Roberto Sanz was a member of a sheriff’s clique that had become the focus of an FBI invest—”

“Objection!” Morris practically shrieked before I could finish my question. He jumped to his feet.

“Assumes facts not in evidence,” he said. “Counsel for the petitioner is again trying to cloud these proceedings with innuendo he has absolutely zero evidence to support.”

“Mr. Haller, response?” the judge said.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said. “If allowed to continue with the petition, these facts will come to light.”

The judge considered this for a long moment before responding.

“Once again, I’m going to hold you to that, Mr. Haller,” she said. “The witness may answer.”

“Your Honor,” Morris said. “This is highly—”

“Mr. Morris, did you not hear the court’s ruling?” Coelho said.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Morris said. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

Morris sat down and all eyes returned to Mitchell. For dramatic effect, I asked the question again.

“Deputy Mitchell, were you aware that Deputy Roberto Sanz was a member of a sheriff’s clique that had become the focus of an FBI investigation?”

Mitchell hesitated in case Morris wanted to try a new objection, but the assistant AG remained quiet.

“No, I was not aware of that,” Mitchell said.

“At the time of Sanz’s death, were you a member of a sheriff’s clique called the Cucos?” I asked.

“No, I was not.”

“Were you ever questioned by the FBI in regard to being a member of a sheriff’s clique?”

“No, I was not.”

“Do you have a tattoo anywhere on your body that indicates that you are a member of a sheriff’s clique called the Cucos?”

Morris stood up again. “Your Honor, the State adamantly objects,” he said. “Counsel has a habit of trying to smear his own witness. What comes next? Will he ask the witness to take off his clothes so he can look for tattoos?”

Coelho held a hand up to stop me from responding.

“I want to see counsel in chambers before we proceed further down this path,” she said.

With that, she adjourned court and left the bench for her chambers. Morris and I soon followed.

29

Judge Coelho didn’t bother removing her black robe as she took a seat behind a massive desk that dwarfed any I had ever seen in the Criminal Courts Building, where state jurists presided.

“Well, gentlemen,” she said, “the gloves have certainly come off. And before things get too combative out there, I thought we’d have a little sit-down to discuss where we’re going in this hearing. Mr. Haller, you went down this road with Sergeant Sanger and here we are back again with Deputy Mitchell.”

I nodded as I collected my thoughts. I knew that my response would determine how the rest of the hearing would go.

“Your Honor, thank you for this opportunity to explain,” I said. “If we’re given the chance to present our full case, the court will see that Roberto Sanz was killed because he had become an FBI informant. He was, in fact, talking to an FBI agent an hour before he was killed. Lucinda Sanz was set up to take the fall for his murder and coerced into taking a plea.”

“Your Honor, this is crazy,” Morris said. “He can’t prove any of this, so he’s going to use open court to make outrageous and slanderous claims against law enforcement officers who were just doing their jobs.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morris,” the judge said. “But don’t speak until I ask you to. Now, Mr. Haller, how do you plan to show this? There is nothing in your moving papers that supports it.”

“Your Honor, the petition does state that we have evidence of a conspiracy to frame Lucinda Sanz,” I said. “This is that conspiracy. I could not outline it in detail because that would give the conspirators a heads-up and they would cover their tracks. I need the court’s latitude now so I can bring it out. My next two witnesses will make it abundantly clear, and I believe the court will then order the appearance of Roberto Sanz’s FBI handler — Agent MacIsaac — so he can be questioned under oath about what really happened on the day Sanz was murdered.”

“Your Honor,” Morris said, “if I could be heard.”

“No,” Coelho said. “That won’t be necessary, because I know what you’re going to say, Mr. Morris. But I am the trier of fact in this hearing. As such, I am obligated to seek the facts before rendering a decision. Mr. Haller, I am going to let you go forward but I warn you to move carefully. If you stray from the provable facts, I will shut you down hard and you won’t want that. Neither will your client. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, Judge,” I said. “You’re clear.”

“Very well,” Coelho said. “You can return to the courtroom and I will be there presently to continue the hearing.”

Morris and I got up and headed out the door. I followed him into the hall that ran behind the courtroom. As we approached the door that led to the court clerk’s corral, Morris suddenly turned and confronted me.

“You fucking asshole,” he said. “You don’t care who you drag through the mud as long as you can make a play in front of the media. How do you sleep at night, Haller?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Morris,” I said. “Lucinda Sanz is innocent and if you had given the case a full workup, you’d see that. The people I drag through the mud belong there. And you’re going to get splashed with it too.”

He turned and grabbed the handle on the door but then looked back at me.

“The Lincoln Lawyer, my ass,” he said. “More like the Lying Lawyer. No wonder your wife left you and your kid moved away.”

I grabbed Morris by the jacket collar, turned him, and drove him into the wall next to the door.

“How do you know about my wife and daughter?” I demanded.

Morris held his hands up against the wall, maybe hoping that somebody would come into the hall and see he was being attacked.

“Get your hands off me, Haller, or I’ll have you arrested for assault,” he said. “It’s common knowledge how you blew up your marriage.”

I released my grip and reached for the door handle. I swung the door open and looked back at him. He still had his hands up.

“Fuck you,” I said.

I walked back into the courtroom. The marshals had kept Lucinda in place, anticipating that the meeting in chambers would be quick. I sat down next to her and filled her in as best I could. I tried to be reassuring.

“As soon as we get through with Mitchell, we go to our forensics expert and then I think things will start turning our way. So let’s see where we are by the end of the day. We should know a lot by then.”

The judge returned to the courtroom and we were back on record. Morris initially helped move things along by passing on cross-examining Mitchell. The big deputy was excused from the courtroom, and that left me down to my last two witnesses and the recall of Stephanie Sanger. That is, unless I was able to convince the judge to order Agent MacIsaac to testify. I also had Frank Silver on my witness list, though I had done that largely to keep him out of the courtroom. I now had to consider calling him to the stand. It would be a risky move and he most assuredly would be a hostile witness. If I could find him.

I called Shami Arslanian to the stand, and Morris immediately stood up to object.

“On what grounds, Mr. Morris?” the judge asked.

“Well, Your Honor, as you know, plaintiff’s counsel filed a request with the court yesterday afternoon,” Morris said. “The request was to use the courtroom audiovisual equipment. As of this moment, Your Honor, the State has received nothing in discovery that would require AV equipment. Counsel is clearly planning to spring something on us that we are not prepared for, and the State objects.”

The judge turned to me.

“Mr. Haller, I did receive and grant your request yesterday afternoon,” she said. “What do you plan to do with my AV equipment that has Mr. Morris so bothered?”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said. “May I first state that there has been no violation of the rules of discovery, as Mr. Morris suggests. Today I plan to call Dr. Shami Arslanian as a witness. She is a world-renowned forensics expert who has testified at more than two hundred trials, including several times in Los Angeles in both state and federal court. She has examined this case and the circumstances of Roberto Sanz’s murder and will use the AV equipment to project her findings. If Mr. Morris had paid attention, he would have seen her name on the plaintiff’s witness list from the start. He could have deposed her at his leisure anytime during the past six weeks to find out what she was going to do in court, but he chose not to and now complains that I’ve sandbagged him before I’ve even called Dr. Arslanian to the stand.”

“‘Project,’ Mr. Haller?” Coelho said. “What does that mean exactly?”

“She has produced a re-creation of the crime,” I said. “It is based on forensics, witness statements, and photographic evidence from the crime scene. All of which, I might add, Mr. Morris has had access to for longer than the petitioner.”

The judge’s attention swung back to Morris.

“Your Honor, counsel is leaving out a few facts,” he said. “My office did reach out to Dr. Arslanian on three different occasions to set up a deposition, but each time she said she was still reviewing the case and was not ready to be deposed. Now, on the eve of her testimony, we find out that there is going to be some sort of smoke-and-mirrors re-creation that we are not prepared for and that may not conform to rule seven-oh-two.”

I didn’t wait for the judge to turn her attention back to me. I jumped in.

“Smoke and mirrors, Your Honor?” I said. “Dr. Arslanian has testified as an expert forensics witness for the prosecution more often than for the defense. According to counsel’s statement, all those times she helped convict a defendant were smoke and mirrors too.”

“Okay, counsel, let’s leave the semantic bickering for another day,” Coelho said. “What the court will do is hold a Daubert hearing in which we will hear Dr. Arslanian’s testimony and see this demonstration. At that point, as the trier of fact in the proceeding, as I said before, I will make a decision under seven-oh-two as to whether it helps the court understand the evidence or determine a fact at issue. Mr. Haller, we are losing the morning. Please bring in your witness so we may proceed.”

For a moment I stood still and tried to digest the judge’s ruling.

“Mr. Haller, is your witness here?” the judge said sternly.

“Uh, yes, Your Honor,” I said. “The petitioner calls Dr. Shami Arslanian.”

I sat down and waited while one of the courtroom marshals went out to the hall to retrieve Arslanian. Almost immediately Lucinda grabbed my arm.

“What is going on?” she whispered. “What is Daubert?”

“It’s a hearing within the hearing,” I said. “Dr. Arslanian will testify and show her video re-creation so the judge can determine if it is... valid and useful to her in making a decision in the case. That’s where rule seven-oh-two comes in. It requires expert witnesses to prove their expertise. I’m not worried about it, Lucinda. I mean, if this were in front of a jury I would be unhappy, but the judge will make the call on this, so one way or the other she’s going to know what Dr. Arslanian came up with.”

“But she can kick the whole thing out if she wants?”

“Yes, but remember, you can’t unring a bell. Have you heard that saying before?”

“No.”

“It means that even if the judge kicks out everything, she is still going to know what Dr. A found. So let’s just see what happens, okay?”

“Okay. I trust you, Mickey.”

Now I had to make sure her trust wasn’t misplaced.

30

Dr. Arslanian entered the courtroom carrying a slim computer case. She put it down on the witness chair while she raised her hand and swore to tell the truth. I was already at the lectern and had with me a copy of the Federal Rules of Evidence, the tome open to a page that listed the parameters of rule 702 governing the admissibility of expert testimony. I wanted to be ready for any objections from Morris.

Once Arslanian was seated I began my direct examination.

“Dr. Arslanian, let’s start with your educational background,” I said. “Can you tell the judge what degrees you have earned and from where?”

“Sure,” Arslanian said. “I have a bunch. I got my master’s in chemical engineering at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I then went down to New York and got a PhD in criminology at John Jay College, where I am currently an associate professor.”

“What about your undergraduate degree?”

“I have two of them too. I graduated from Harvard with a bachelor of science in engineering, and then I went down the road a bit and got a bachelor of music from Berklee College. I like to sing.”

I smiled. I wished at that moment that she were testifying in front of a jury. I knew from experience that they’d be eating out of her hand at this point. But Judge Coelho, almost thirty years on the bench, seemed less enamored. I moved on.

“And what about honorary degrees?” I asked. “Do you have any of those?”

“Oh, sure,” Arslanian said. “I have three of those so far. Let’s see... from the University of Florida — Go, Gators! — and from its cross-state rival Florida State in forensic sciences, and then another degree in forensic sciences from Fordham in New York.”

I flipped a page on my legal pad and asked the judge to approve Arslanian under rule 702 as an expert witness. She did so. Surprisingly, there was no objection from Morris.

“Okay, Dr. Arslanian,” I said. “For the record, you are being paid as an expert witness in this case, correct?”

“Yes, I charge a flat fee of three thousand dollars to review a case,” she said. “More if it requires any travel. And more if it requires giving testimony about my findings in court.”

“How did you come to review the evidence in this case?”

“Well, you hired me, plain and simple, to review the known evidence in the case.”

“Have I hired you in the past?”

“Yes, this was the sixth time you hired me over a span of sixteen years.”

“And what is the ethical standard that you hold yourself to when you review a case?”

“It’s simple: I call ’em like I see ’em. I review a case and let the chips fall where they may. If I think the evidence points to the guilt of your client, I won’t testify to anything but that.”

“You said that I hired you six times. Did you testify for the defense in all six of those cases?”

“I did not. In three of them my review led me to believe that the evidence pointed to your client as culpable. I reported this and my involvement in the case ended there.”

I flipped a page and checked on the judge to be sure she was listening to the witness. Many times — in state court, at least — I had noted that the judges appeared distracted during a witness’s testimony. Many judges thought that once they ascended to the bench, whether by appointment or election, they had the power and ability to multitask while hearing a case. They were up there writing opinions or reviewing submissions in other cases while presiding over my cases. One time a judge started snoring into his microphone while I was questioning a witness. The clerk had to wake him.

But none of this was true of Judge Coelho. She had turned in her seat and was looking directly at Arslanian as she testified. I continued.

“But here you are, Dr. Arslanian,” I said. “Can we take it by your testifying today that you believe that Lucinda Sanz is possibly innocent in the killing of her ex-husband?”

“It is not about guilt or innocence for me,” Arslanian said. “It’s about the forensics. Do they add up and point in the direction of the accused? That is the question. When I reviewed this case, the answer I came to was no.”

“Can you walk us through what made you arrive at that answer?”

“I can show you.”

I asked the judge’s permission for the doctor to project images from her digital re-creation of the crime onto the large screen on the wall opposite the jury box. Morris objected under rule 702(c), which requires expert testimony to be the product of “reliable principles and methods” of forensic investigation. This would apply to any sort of re-creation of a crime.

“Thank you, Mr. Morris,” Coelho said. “I am going to allow the witness to proceed with the demonstration and then I will make a ruling under seven-oh-two.”

Morris sat down and I saw him make an angry slash with a pen across the top page of his legal pad.

Arslanian connected her laptop to the courtroom AV equipment, and soon there was a table of contents for various versions of her presentation.

“So, from the investigative file, we know the State’s version of what happened,” she said. “What I’ve done here is produce a re-creation of the crime based on known parameters, such as body location, projectile trajectory, and witness statements. Take a look.”

On her laptop she ran the program. I watched the judge and saw that her eyes were sharply focused on the wall screen. The re-creation began with a front view of Lucinda Sanz’s house from a photograph Arslanian had taken on the field trip with Bosch. The door opened and a male avatar — a generic digital creation — exited. The door was slammed by an unseen hand behind him. The man went down the three steps of the stoop, left the stone path, and started slowly crossing the lawn on a diagonal. The front door opened again and a female avatar emerged carrying a handgun in her left hand. As the man crossed the lawn away from her, she raised the weapon to a high-ready position, aimed, and fired. The man was hit; he dropped immediately to his knees and then pitched forward to the ground. The woman fired again and this bullet struck the man while he was down. The bullets left red tracer lines from gun to target.

“This is what the investigators and prosecutors originally said happened,” Arslanian said.

“And is what they said happened possible?” I asked.

“Not in the world of physics that I know,” Arslanian said.

“Please tell the court why.”

“Because, Your Honor, there are variables, such as the victim’s speed in crossing the lawn. As you saw from the re-creation, after the door was slammed shut, he had to walk very slowly across the lawn in order to be at the spot where he was shot and fell to the ground.”

Morris stood and objected.

“Your Honor, this is pure conjecture and speculation, not fact,” he complained.

Before I could even begin to reply, Coelho responded to the prosecutor.

“She called it a variable, Mr. Morris,” the judge said. “I would like to hear the variables and hope they are supported by facts before rendering a decision on this demonstration. Continue, Dr. Arslanian.”

I took it as a good sign that the judge addressed Arslanian as “Doctor.”

Arslanian continued. “In every interview Lucinda Sanz has given, from the night of the murder to the most recent interviews with her attorney and investigator, she has maintained that she slammed the front door after her ex-husband left the house. She then would have had to reopen the door to step out to shoot. That is a variable of time, which includes the question of where and how she retrieved the gun, and it makes it highly unlikely that Roberto Sanz was only fourteen feet from the stoop when he was shot. Let’s look at it again with re-creation number two, which has Roberto Sanz walking at an average speed of two-point-eight miles per hour.”

Arslanian went back to her keyboard and chose the second re-creation from the table of contents. This time the male avatar stepped off the stoop more quickly and was well past the fourteen-foot mark when he was shot.

“So, as you can see, that doesn’t work,” Arslanian said. “And Mr. Morris, you are right that this is speculation, but it is based on known facts. Now, let’s add in more facts, shall we?”

“Please, more facts,” Morris said sarcastically.

He shook his head in a show of disbelief.

“Mr. Morris, I can do without the tone and the theatrical performance,” the judge said.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Morris responded.

“Dr. Arslanian,” I said. “What are you showing us next?”

“Well, the coroner’s people did a good job with the body. They probably took extra care because the victim was a law enforcement officer. They checked the wound tracks and bullet trajectories and were able to determine that the bullets that struck Deputy Sanz hit him at very different angles. The first, which struck him while he was walking, hit him at almost no angle. It severed his spine, and we know from abrasions on the legs that he immediately dropped to his knees and fell forward. He was then hit with the second shot, which came at a very sharp angle. What I will show you next is a re-creation that illustrates that the physics of this shooting do not match the official story. This re-creation doesn’t show the shooter. It shows the angle of the bullets and where the weapon would have had to be located to make those shots.”

Arslanian played a third re-creation on the big screen. Once again the male avatar came out of the house and the door was slammed and then reopened. This time no female emerged but the trajectories of the bullets were traced in red across the screen. They clearly showed that both shots had to have been fired from a low angle if they came from the stoop.

“These shots incorporate the trajectories arrived at by the coroner’s report,” Arslanian said.

“And what did you conclude from this re-creation?” I asked.

“That it is highly unlikely that the shots came from the stoop,” Arslanian said. “The shooter, whoever it was, would have had to be crouching like a baseball catcher on the stoop to make the shots.”

“Did you measure the height of the stoop when you were conducting your research, Doctor?”

“Yes, I did. Each of the three steps is ten inches high, putting the stoop at thirty inches high.”

“So what you are saying, Dr. Arslanian, is that the shots that killed Roberto Sanz did not come from the stoop, correct?”

“That is correct, yes.”

I glanced at the judge before moving on. She was staring at the screen. Another good sign.

“Doctor, did you form an opinion as to where the shots did come from?” I asked.

“I did, yes.”

“Can you share that with the court?”

“Yes, I have a final re-creation that I believe, based on the known facts regarding trajectory and victim location, shows where the shots were fired from.”

As Arslanian started the final re-creation on the big screen, I watched Morris. There was a look of dread on his face.

On the screen, the male avatar emerged from the house and the door was slammed behind him. This time as the figure crossed the lawn, red tracer lines started from the front wall of the house, to the left of the stoop. The male figure was struck, went down, and was struck again. Arslanian stopped the playback.

“What other facts were you able to determine from this re-creation, Doctor?” I asked.

“Well,” Arslanian said, “if you place the shooter against the front wall of the house, you can create a triangle — with the sides being the ground, the wall, and the bullet trajectory — that gives us an approximate height from which the shots were fired.”

“And what height was that?”

“Between five foot two and five foot six would be a liberal range.”

“And if you had a woman who was five foot two, like Ms. Sanz, could she make those shots from a high-ready stance?”

“No, she would not be tall enough. For a woman that height to make that shot at that angle, she would have to be holding the weapon above eye level. Over her head, in fact. When you take into account the proximity of the impacts in the victim’s center mass, I believe that it would be impossible for her to make one of those shots, let alone two in a short space of time.”

Morris stood and weakly objected, again citing unfounded speculation by the witness.

And again, I didn’t need to respond.

“Mr. Morris, you did not object when I accepted Dr. Arslanian as an expert witness,” the judge said. “Now that her expertise runs counter to your case, you object. I find the factual basis behind her opinions and testimony sufficient, and the objection is overruled.”

I waited to see if Morris would make a different challenge but he remained quiet.

“Proceed, Mr. Haller,” the judge said.

“Thank you, Judge,” I said. “At this time I have no further questions for Dr. Arslanian, but I reserve the right to recall her if needed.”

“Mr. Morris, do you care to question the witness?” Coelho said.

“Your Honor, it is approaching noon,” Morris said. “The State asks for a recess now so that we have the lunch hour to digest the witness’s presentation and opinions and decide whether to conduct a cross-examination.”

“Very well, we will break,” Coelho said. “All parties will return at one o’clock to continue with the witness. And Mr. Morris, please check your sarcasm at the door. We are adjourned.”

The judge left the bench. Morris was left chin to chest at his table. I didn’t know if it was the judge’s final rebuke or the weight of Arslanian’s testimony, but he looked like a man on a sinking ship that hadn’t come with a life raft.

I turned to Lucinda and saw that she had been crying. Her eyes were rimmed in red and there were smear marks on her cheeks from wiped-away tears. I realized that I had forgotten to warn her about the re-creations, which showed the man she had once loved and had started a family with being shot down in her front yard.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Lucinda,” I said. “I should have prepared you for it.”

“No, it’s okay,” she said. “I just got emotional.”

“But you have to know Dr. Arslanian did us a lot of good with it. I don’t know if you were watching the judge, but she was all in. I think she’s convinced.”

“Then it’s good.”

The marshal came to take her back into holding. He paused to let us finish our conversation, a nicety he had not shown previously. I took it as an indicator that he too had been swayed by what he had seen on the big screen.

“I’ll see you in a little while,” I said. “And we’re going to go from this to another strong witness in Harry Bosch.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Marshal Nate released her from the ring under the table and then cuffed her wrists together for the short walk to the courtroom lockup, where she would spend the lunch hour. She walked toward the door, not needing to be led by Nate. I watched her go. Her head was down and I thought maybe more tears were coming.

Nate opened the steel door and then she was gone.