The Brass Verdict

Forty-seven

On Monday morning I had my Corneliani suit on. I was sitting next to my client in the courtroom and was ready to begin to present his defense. Jeffrey Golantz, the prosecutor, sat at his table, ready to thwart my efforts. And the gallery behind us was maxed out once again. But the bench in front of us was empty. The judge was sequestered in his chambers and running almost an hour behind his own nine-o’clock start time. Something was wrong or something had come up, but we had not yet been informed. We had seen sheriff’s deputies escort a man I didn’t recognize into chambers and then out again but there had been no word on what was going on.

“Hey, Jeff, what do you think?” I finally asked across the aisle.

Golantz looked over at me. He was wearing his nice black suit, but he had been wearing it every other day to court and it wasn’t as impressive anymore. He shrugged.

“No idea,” he said.

“Maybe he’s back there reconsidering my request for a directed verdict.”

I smiled. Golantz didn’t.

“I’m sure he is,” he said with his best prosecutorial sarcasm.

The prosecution’s case had strung out through the entire previous week. I had helped with a couple of protracted cross-examinations but for the most part it had been Golantz engaging in overkill. He kept the medical examiner who had conducted the autopsies on Mitzi Elliot and Johan Rilz on the witness stand for nearly an entire day, describing in excruciating detail how and when the victims died. He kept Walter Elliot’s accountant on the stand for half a day, explaining the finances of the Elliot marriage and how much Walter stood to lose in a divorce. And he kept the sheriff’s forensic tech on for nearly as long, explaining his finding of high levels of gunshot residue on the defendant’s hands and clothes.

In between these anchor witnesses he conducted shorter examinations of lesser witnesses and then finally finished his case Friday afternoon with a tearjerker. He put Mitzi Elliot’s lifelong best friend on the stand. She testified about Mitzi confiding in her the plans to divorce her husband as soon as the prenuptial agreement vested. She told of the fight between husband and wife when the plan was revealed and of seeing bruises on Mitzi Elliot’s arms the next day. She never stopped crying during her hour on the stand and continually veered into hearsay testimony that I objected to.

As is routine, I asked the judge as soon as the prosecution rested for a directed verdict of acquittal. I argued that the state had not come close to establishing a prima facie case against Elliot. But as is also routine, the judge flatly denied my motion and said the trial would move to the defense phase promptly at nine a.m. the following Monday. I spent the weekend strategizing and preparing my two anchor witnesses: Dr. Shamiram Arslanian, my GSR expert, and a jet-lagged French police captain named Malcolm Pepin. It was now Monday morning and I was locked and loaded and ready to go. But there was no judge on the bench to let me.

“What’s going on?” Elliot whispered to me.

I shrugged.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Most times when the judge doesn’t come out, it has nothing to do with the case at hand. Usually, it’s about the next trial on his calendar.”

Elliot wasn’t appeased. A deep furrow had settled into the center of his brow. He knew something was up. I turned and looked back into the gallery. Julie Favreau was sitting three rows back with Lorna. I gave them a wink and Lorna sent back a thumbs-up. I swept the rest of the gallery and noticed that behind the prosecution table, there was a gap in the shoulder-to-shoulder spectators. No Germans. I was about to ask Golantz where Rilz’s family members were, when a uniformed sheriff’s deputy walked up to the rail behind the prosecutor.

“Excuse me.”

Golantz turned and the deputy beckoned him with a document he was holding.

“Are you the prosecutor?” the deputy said. “Who do I talk to about this?”

Golantz got up and walked over to the rail. He took a quick look at the document and handed it back.

“It’s a defense subpoena. Are you Deputy Stallworth?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you’re in the right spot.”

“No, I’m not. I didn’t have anything to do with this case.”

Golantz took the subpoena back and studied it. I could see the wheels begin turning, but it was going to be too late when he figured things out.

“You weren’t on the scene at the house? What about the perimeter or traffic control?”

“I was home asleep, man. I work midnight shift.”

“Hold it a second.”

Golantz went back to his desk and opened a file. I saw him check the final witness list I had submitted two weeks before.

“What is this, Haller?”

“What’s what? He’s on there.”

“This is bullshit.”

“No, it’s not. He’s been on there for two weeks.”

I got up and went to the rail. I held out my hand.

“Deputy Stallworth, I’m Michael Haller.”

Stallworth refused to shake my hand. Embarrassed in front of the whole gallery, I pressed on.

“I’m the one who summoned you. If you wait out in the hall, I’ll try to get you in and out as soon as court starts. There’s some sort of delay with the judge. But sit tight and I’ll get to you.”

“No, this is wrong. I didn’t have anything to do with this case. I just got off duty and I’m going home.”

“Deputy Stallworth, there is no mistake here and even if there were, you can’t walk out on a subpoena. Only the judge can release you at my request. You go home and you’re going to make him mad. I don’t think you want him mad at you.”

The deputy huffed like he was being put out in a big way. He looked over at Golantz for help but the prosecutor was holding a cell phone to his ear and whispering into it. I had a feeling it was an emergency call.

“Look,” I said to Stallworth, “just go out into the hall and I’ll-”

I heard my name along with the prosecutor’s called from the front of the courtroom. I turned and saw the clerk signaling us to the door that led to the judge’s chambers. Finally, something was happening. Golantz ended his call and got up. I turned from Stallworth and followed Golantz toward the judge’s chambers.

The judge was sitting behind his desk in his black robe. He appeared ready to go as well, but something was holding him back.

“Gentlemen, sit down,” he said.

“Judge, did you want the defendant in here?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary. Just have a seat and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

Golantz and I sat side by side in front of the judge. I could tell that Golantz was silently steaming over the Stallworth subpoena and what it might mean. Stanton leaned forward and clasped his hands together on top of a folded piece of paper on the desk in front of him.

“We have an unusual situation involving juror misconduct,” he said. “It is still… developing and I apologize for keeping you out there in the dark.”

He stopped there and we both looked at him, wondering if we were supposed to leave now and go back to the courtroom, or if we could ask questions. But Stanton continued after a moment.

“My office received a letter Thursday addressed personally to me. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to open it until after court on Friday – kind of an end-of-the-week catch-up session after everybody was sent home. The letter said – well, here is the letter. I’ve already handled it but don’t either of you touch it.”

He unfolded the piece of paper he’d weighted with his hands and allowed us to read it. I stood up so I could lean over the desk. Golantz was tall enough – even sitting down – that he didn’t have to.

Judge Stanton, you should know that juror number seven is not who you think he is and not who he says he is. Check Lockheed and check his prints. He’s got an arrest record.

The letter looked like it had come out of a laser printer. There were no other markings on the page other than the two creases from where it had been folded.

I sat back down.

“Did you keep the envelope it came in?” I asked.

“Yes,” Stanton said. “No return address and the postmark is Hollywood. I’m going to have the sheriff’s lab take a look at the note and the envelope.”

“Judge, I hope you haven’t spoken to this juror,” Golantz said. “We should be present and part of any questioning. This could just be a ploy by someone to get that juror off the panel.”

I expected Golantz to rush to the juror’s defense. As far as he was concerned, number seven was a blue juror.

I rushed to my own defense.

“He’s talking about this being a ploy by the defense and I object to the accusation.”

The judge quickly held his hands up in a calming gesture.

“Just hold your horses, both of you. I didn’t talk to number seven yet. I spent the weekend thinking about how to proceed with it when I came to court today. I conferred with a few other judges on the matter and I was fully prepared to bring it up with counsel present this morning. The only problem is, juror number seven didn’t show up today. He’s not here.”

That brought a pause to both Golantz and me.

“He’s not here?” Golantz said. “Did you send deputies to -?”

“Yes, I sent court deputies to his home, and his wife told them that he was at work but she didn’t know anything about court or a trial or anything like that. They went over to Lockheed and found the man and brought him here a few minutes ago. It wasn’t him. He was not juror number seven.”

“Judge, you’re losing me,” I said. “I thought you said they found him at work.”

The judge nodded.

“I know. I did. This is beginning to sound like Laurel and Hardy and that ‘Who’s on first?’ thing.”

“Abbott and Costello,” I said.

“What?”

“Abbott and Costello. They did the ‘Who’s on first?’ thing.”

“Whichever. The point is, juror number seven was not juror number seven.”

“I’m still not following you, Judge,” I said.

“We had number seven down in the computer as Rodney L. Banglund, engineer from Lockheed, resident of Palos Verdes. But the man who has been sitting for two weeks in seat number seven is not Rodney Banglund. We don’t know who he was and now he’s missing.”

“He took Banglund’s place but Banglund didn’t know about it,” Golantz said.

“Apparently,” the judge said. “Banglund – the real one – is being interviewed about it now, but when he was in here he didn’t seem to know anything about this. He said he never got a jury summons in the first place.”

“So his summons was sort of hijacked and used by this unknown person?” I said.

The judge nodded.

“So it appears. The question is why, and the sheriff’s department will hopefully get that answered.”

“What does this do to the trial?” I asked. “Do we have a mistrial?”

“I don’t think so. I think we bring the jury out, we explain that number seven’s been excused for reasons they don’t need to know about, we drop in the first alternate and go from there. Meantime, the sheriff’s department quietly makes damn sure everybody else in that box is exactly who they are supposed to be. Mr. Golantz?”

Golantz nodded thoughtfully before speaking.

“This is all rather shocking,” he said. “But I think the state would be prepared to continue – as long as we find out that this whole thing stops at juror number seven.”

“Mr. Haller?”

I nodded my approval. The session had gone as I had hoped.

“I’ve got witnesses from as far as Paris in town and ready to go. I don’t want a mistrial. My client doesn’t want a mistrial.”

The judge sealed the deal with a nod.

“Okay, go on back out there and we’ll get this thing going in ten minutes.”

On the way down the hall to the courtroom Golantz whispered a threat to me.

“He’s not the only one who’s going to investigate this, Haller.”

“Yeah, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means when we find this bastard we’re also going to find out what he was doing on the jury. And if there is any tie to the defense, then I’m go-”

I pushed by him toward the door to the courtroom. I didn’t need to listen to the rest.

“Good for you, Jeff,” I said as I entered the courtroom.

I didn’t see Stallworth and hoped the deputy had gone out into the hallway as I had instructed and was waiting. Elliot was all over me when I got to the defense table.

“What happened? What’s going on?”

I used my hand to signal him to keep his voice down. I then whispered to him.

“Juror number seven didn’t show up today and the judge looked into it and found out he was a phony.”

Elliot stiffened and looked like somebody had just pressed a letter opener two inches into his back.

“My God, what does this mean?”

“For us, nothing. The trial continues with an alternate juror in his place. But there will be an investigation of who number seven was, and hopefully, Walter, it doesn’t come to your door.”

“I don’t see how it could. But we can’t go on now. You have to stop this. Get a mistrial.”

I looked at the pleading look on my client’s face and realized he’d never had any faith in his own defense. He had been counting solely on the sleeping juror.

“The judge said no on a mistrial. We go with what we’ve got.”

Elliot rubbed a shaking hand over his mouth.

“Don’t worry, Walter. You’re in good hands. We’re going to win this thing fair and square.”

Just then the clerk called the courtroom to order and the judge bounded up the steps to the bench.

“Okay, back on the record with California versus Elliot,” he said. “Let’s bring in our jury.”

Forty-eight

The first witness for the defense was Julio Muniz, the freelance videographer from Topanga Canyon who got the jump on the rest of the local media and arrived ahead of the pack at the Elliot house on the day of the murders. I quickly established through my questions how Muniz made his living. He worked for no network or local news channel. He listened to police scanners in his home and car and picked up addresses for crime scenes and active police situations. He responded to these scenes with his video camera and took film he then sold to the local news broadcasts that had not responded. In regard to the Elliot case, it began for him when he heard a call-out for a homicide team on his scanner and went to the address with his camera.

“Mr. Muniz, what did you do when you arrived there?” I asked.

“Well, I got my camera out and started shooting. I noticed that they had somebody in the back of the patrol car and I thought that was probably a suspect. So I shot him and then I shot the deputies stringing crime scene tape across the front of the property, things like that.”

I then introduced the digital videocassette Muniz used that day as the first defense exhibit and rolled the video screen and player in front of the jury. I put in the cassette and hit “play.” It had been previously spooled to begin at the point that Muniz began shooting outside the Elliot house. As the video played, I watched the jurors paying close attention to it. I was already familiar with the video, having watched it several times. It showed Walter Elliot sitting in the back passenger seat of the patrol car. Because the video had been shot at an angle above the car, the 4A designation painted on its roof was clearly visible.

The video jumped from the car to scenes of the deputies cordoning off the house and then jumped back again to the patrol car. This time it showed Elliot being removed from the car by detectives Kinder and Ericsson. They uncuffed him and led him into the house.

Using a remote, I stopped the video and rewound it back to a point where Muniz had come in close on Elliot in the backseat of the patrol car. I started the video forward again and then froze the image so the jury could see Elliot leaning forward because his hands were cuffed behind his back.

“Okay, Mr. Muniz, let me draw your attention to the roof of the patrol car. What do you see painted there?”

“I see the car’s designation painted there. It is four-A, or four alpha, as they say on the sheriff’s radio.”

“Okay, and did you recognize that designation? Had you seen it before?”

“Well, I listen to the scanner a lot and so I am familiar with the four-alpha designation. And I had actually seen the four-alpha car earlier that day.”

“And what were the circumstances of that?”

“I had been listening to the scanner and I heard about a hostage situation in Malibu Creek State Park. I went out to shoot that, too.”

“What time was this?”

“About two a.m.”

“So, about ten hours before you were videoing the activities at the Elliot house you went out to shoot video at this hostage situation, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“And the four-alpha car was involved also in this earlier incident?”

“Yes, when the suspect was finally captured, he was transported in four-alpha. The same car.”

“About what time did that occur?”

“That wasn’t until almost five in the morning. It was a long night.”

“Did you shoot video of this?”

“Yes, I did. That footage comes earlier on the same tape.”

He pointed to the frozen image on the screen.

“Then, let’s see,” I said.

I hit the “rewind” button on the remote. Golantz immediately stood, objected and asked for a sidebar. The judge waved us up and I brought along the witness list I had submitted to the court two weeks earlier.

“Your Honor,” Golantz said angrily. “The defense is once again sandbagging. There has been no indication in discovery or otherwise of Mr. Haller’s intent to explore some other crime with this witness. I object to this being introduced.”

I calmly slid the witness list in front of the judge. Under the rules of discovery, I had to list each witness I intended to call and give a brief summary of what their testimony was expected to include. Julio Muniz was on my list. The summary was brief but all-inclusive.

“It clearly says he would testify about video he shot on May second, the day of the murders,” I said. “The video he shot at the park was shot on the day of the murders, May two. It’s been on there for two weeks, Judge. If anybody is sandbagging, then it’s Mr. Golantz sandbagging himself. He could have talked to this witness and checked out his videos. He apparently didn’t.”

The judge studied the witness list for a moment and nodded.

“Objection overruled,” he said. “You may proceed, Mr. Haller.”

I went back and rewound the video and started to play it. The jury continued to pay maximum interest. It was a night shoot and the images were more grainy and the scenes seemed to jump around more than in the first sequence.

Finally, it came to footage showing a man with his hands cuffed behind his back being placed in a patrol car. A deputy closed the door and slapped the roof twice. The car drove off and came directly by the camera. As it was going by I froze the image.

The screen showed a grainy shot of the patrol car. The light of the camera illuminated the man sitting in the backseat as well as the roof of the car.

“Mr. Muniz, what’s the designation on the roof of that car?”

“Again it’s four-A or four-alpha.”

“And the man being transported, where is he sitting?”

“In the rear right passenger seat.”

“Is he handcuffed?”

“Well, he was when they put him in the car. I shot it.”

“His hands were cuffed behind his back, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Now, is he in the same position and seat in the patrol car that Mr. Elliot was in when you videotaped him about eight hours later?”

“Yes, he is. Exact same position.”

“Thank you, Mr. Muniz. No further questions.”

Golantz passed on cross-examination. There was nothing about the direct that could be attacked and the video didn’t lie. Muniz stepped down. I told the judge I wanted to leave the video screen in place for my next witness and I called Deputy Todd Stallworth to the stand.

Stallworth looked angrier as he came into the courtroom. This was good. He also looked beat and his uniform looked like it had wilted on his body. One of the sleeves of his shirt had a black scuff mark on it, presumably from some struggle during the night.

I quickly established Stallworth’s identity and that he was driving the alpha car in the Malibu district during the first shift on the day of the murders in the Elliot house. Before I could ask another question, Golantz once more objected and asked for another sidebar. When we got there, he raised his hands palms up in a What’s this? gesture. His style was getting old with me.

“Judge, I object to this witness. The defense hid him on the witness list among the many deputies who were on the scene and have no bearing on the case.”

Once again I had the witness list ready. This time I slapped it down in front of the judge with frustration, then ran my finger down the column of names until I reached Todd Stallworth. It was there in the middle of a list of five other deputies, all of whom had been on the scene at the Elliot house.

“Judge, if I was hiding Stallworth, I was hiding him in plain sight. He’s clearly listed there under law enforcement personnel. The explanation is the same as before. It says he’ll testify about his activities on May 2. That’s all I put down because I never talked to him. I’m hearing what he has to say for the first time right now.”

Golantz shook his head and tried to maintain his composure.

“Judge, from the start of this trial, the defense has relied on trickery and deception to-”

“Mr. Golantz,” the judge interrupted, “don’t say something you can’t back up and that will get you in trouble. This witness, just like the first one Mr. Haller called, has been on this list for two weeks. Right there in black-and-white. You had every opportunity to find out what these people were going to say. If you didn’t take that opportunity, then that was your decision. But this is not trickery or deception. You better watch yourself.”

Golantz stood with his head bowed for a moment before speaking.

“Your Honor, the state requests a brief recess,” he finally said in a quiet voice.

“How brief?”

“Until one o’clock.”

“I wouldn’t call two hours brief, Mr. Golantz.”

“Your Honor,” I cut in. “I object to any recess. He just wants to grab my witness and turn his testimony.”

“Now that I object to,” Golantz said.

“Look, no recess, no delay and no more bickering,” the judge said. “We’ve already lost most of the morning. Objection overruled. Step back.”

We returned to our places and I played a thirty-second cut of the video showing the handcuffed man being placed in the back of the 4-alpha car at Malibu Creek State Park. I froze the image in the same spot as before, just as the car was speeding by the camera. I left it on the screen as I continued my direct examination.

“Deputy Stallworth, is that you driving that car?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Who is the man in the backseat?”

“His name is Eli Wyms.”

“I noticed that he was handcuffed before being placed in the car. Is that because he was under arrest?”

“Yes, he was.”

“What was he arrested for?”

“For trying to kill me, for one. He was also charged with unlawful discharge of a weapon.”

“How many counts of unlawful discharge of a weapon?”

“I can’t recall the exact number.”

“How about ninety-four?”

“That sounds about right. It was a lot. He shot the place up out there.”

Stallworth was tired and subdued but unhesitant in his answers. He had no idea how they fit into the Elliot case and didn’t seem to care about trying to protect the prosecution with short, nonresponsive answers. He was probably mad at Golantz for not getting him out of testifying.

“So you arrested him and took him to the nearby Malibu station?”

“No, I transported him all the way to the county jail in downtown, where he could be placed on the psych level.”

“How long did that take? The drive, I mean.”

“About an hour.”

“And then you drove back to Malibu?”

“No, first I had four-alpha repaired. Wyms had fired a shot that took out the side lamp. While I was downtown, I went to the motor pool and had it replaced. That took up the rest of my shift.”

“So when did the car return to Malibu?”

“At shift change. I turned it over to the day-watch guys.”

I looked down at my notes.

“That would have been deputies… Murray and Harber?”

“That’s right.”

Stallworth yawned and there was murmured laughter in the courtroom.

“I know we have you past your bedtime, Deputy. I won’t take too much longer. When you turn the car over from shift to shift, do you clean it out or disinfect the car in any way?”

“You’re supposed to. Realistically, unless you’ve got puke in the backseat, nobody does that. The cars get taken out of rotation once or twice a week and the motor guys clean them up.”

“Did Eli Wyms puke in your car?”

“No, I would’ve known.”

More murmured laughter. I looked down from the lectern at Golantz and he wasn’t smiling at all.

“Okay, Deputy Stallworth, let me see if I got this right. Eli Wyms was arrested for shooting at you and firing at least ninety-three other shots that morning. He was arrested, his hands were cuffed behind his back and he was transported by you downtown. Do I have all of that right?”

“Sounds right to me.”

“In the video, Mr. Wyms can be seen in the rear passenger side seat. Did he stay there for the whole hour-long ride downtown?”

“Yes, he did. I had him belted in.”

“Is it standard procedure to place someone who is in custody on the passenger side?”

“Yes, it is. You don’t want him behind you when you’re driving.”

“Deputy, I also noticed on the tape that you did not place Mr. Wyms’s hands in plastic bags or anything of that nature before placing him in your patrol car. Why is that?”

“Didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Why?”

“Because it was not going to be an issue. The evidence was overwhelming that he had fired the weapons in his possession. We weren’t worried about gunshot residue.”

“Thank you, Deputy Stallworth. I hope you can go get some sleep now.”

I sat down and left the witness for Golantz. He slowly got up and took the lectern. He knew exactly where I was going now but there was little he was going to be able to do to stop me. But I had to give him credit. He found a small crack in my direct and tried his best to exploit it.

“Deputy Stallworth, approximately how long did you wait for your car to be repaired at the downtown motor hub?”

“About two hours. They only have a couple guys work midnight watch and they were juggling jobs down there.”

“Did you stay with the car for those two hours?”

“No, I grabbed a desk in the office and wrote up the arrest report on Wyms.”

“And you testified earlier that no matter what the procedure is supposed to be, you generally rely on the motor pool to keep the fleet cars clean, is that correct?”

“Yes, correct.”

“Do you make a formal request or do people working in the motor hub just take it upon themselves to clean and maintain the car?”

“I’ve never made a formal request. It just gets done, I guess.”

“Now, during those two hours that you were away from the car and writing the report, do you know if the employees in the motor hub cleaned or disinfected the car?”

“No, I do not.”

“They could have and you wouldn’t necessarily know about it, right?”

“Right.”

“Thank you, Deputy.”

I hesitated but got up for redirect.

“Deputy Stallworth, you said it took them two hours to repair the car because they were short-handed and busy, correct?”

“Correct.”

He said it in a boy-am-I-getting-tired-of-this tone.

“So it is unlikely that these guys would have taken the time to clean your car if you didn’t ask, right?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask them.”

“Did you specifically ask them to clean the car?”

“Nope.”

“Thank you, Deputy.”

I sat down and Golantz passed on another round.

It was now almost noon. The judge adjourned for lunch but gave the jury and lawyers only a forty-five-minute break as he sought to make up for time lost during the morning. That was fine with me. My star witness was next and the sooner I got her on the stand, the closer my client was going to be to a verdict of acquittal.

Forty-nine

Dr. Shamiram Arslanian was a surprise witness. Not in terms of her presence at the trial – she had been on the witness list longer than I had been on the case. But in terms of her physical appearance and personality. Her name and pedigree in forensics conjured an image of a woman deep, dark and scientific. A white lab coat and hair ironed back in a knot. But she was none of that. She was a vivacious, blue-eyed blonde with a cheerful disposition and easy smile. She wasn’t just photogenic. She was telegenic. She was articulate and confident but never came close to being arrogant. The one-word description for her was the one-word description every lawyer wants for every one of his witnesses: likable. And it was rare to get that in a witness delivering your forensic case.

I had spent most of the weekend with Shami, as she preferred to be called. We had gone over the gunshot residue evidence in the Elliot case and the testimony she would give for the defense, as well as the cross-examination she could expect to receive from Golantz. This had been delayed until so late in the game to avoid discovery issues. What my expert didn’t know she couldn’t reveal to the prosecutor. So she was kept in the dark about the magic bullet until the last possible moment.

There was no doubt that she was a celebrity gun for hire. She had once hosted a show about her own exploits on Court TV. She was asked twice for her autograph when I took her to dinner at the Palm and was on a first-name basis with a couple of TV execs who visited the table. She charged a celebrity-level fee as well. For four days in Los Angeles to study, prepare and testify she would receive a flat rate of $10,000 plus expenses. Nice work if you could get it, and she could. She was known to study the many requests for her time and to choose only those in which she steadfastly believed there had been a grievous error committed or a miscarriage of justice. It also didn’t hurt if you had a case that was getting the attention of the national media.

I knew after spending the first ten minutes with her that she was going to be worth every penny Elliot would pay her. She would be double trouble for the prosecution. Her personality was going to win over the jury, and her facts were going to seal the deal. So much of trial work comes down to who is testifying, not what the testimony actually reveals. It’s about selling your case to the jury, and Shami could sell burnt matches. The state’s forensic witness was a lab geek with the personality of a test tube. My witness had hosted a television show called Chemically Dependent.

I heard the low hum of recognition in the courtroom as my big-haired witness made her entrance from the back, holding all eyes as she walked up the center aisle, through the gate and across the proving grounds to the witness stand. She wore a navy blue suit that fit her curves snugly and accentuated the cascade of blonde curls over her shoulders. Even Judge Stanton seemed infatuated. He asked the courtroom deputy to get her a glass of water before she had even taken the oath. He hadn’t asked the state’s forensic geek if he had wanted jack shit.

After she gave her name and spelled it and took the oath to tell nothing but the truth, I got up with my legal pad and went to the lectern.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Arslanian. How are you?”

“I’m doin’ just fine. Thanks for asking.”

There was a slight trace of a southern accent in her voice.

“Before we go over your curriculum vitae, I want to get something out of the way up front. You are a paid consultant to the defense, is that correct?”

“Yes, that is correct. I’m paid to be here, not paid to testify to anything other than my own opinion – whether it’s in line with the defense or not. That’s my deal and I never change it.”

“Okay, tell us where you are from, Doctor.”

“I live in Ossining, New York, right now. I was born and raised in Florida and spent a lot of years in the Boston area, going to different schools here and there.”

“Shamiram Arslanian. That doesn’t sound like a Florida name.”

She smiled brilliantly.

“My father is one hundred percent Armenian. So I guess that makes me half Armenian and half Floridian. My father said I was Armageddian when I was a girl.”

Many in the courtroom chuckled politely.

“What is your background in forensic sciences?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve got two related degrees. I got my master’s at MIT – the Massachusetts Institute of Technology – and that is in chemical engineering. I then got a PhD in criminology and that was awarded to me from John Jay College in New York.”

“When you say ‘awarded,’ does that mean it’s an honorary degree?”

“Hell, no,” she said forcefully. “I worked my butt off two years to get that sucker.”

This time laughter broke out across the courtroom and I noticed that even the judge smiled before politely tapping his gavel one time for order.

“I saw on your résumé that you have two undergraduate degrees as well. Is that true?”

“I’ve got two of everything, it seems. Two kids. Two cars. I’ve even got two cats at home, named Wilbur and Orville.”

I glanced over at the prosecution table and saw that Golantz and his second were staring straight forward and had not so much as cracked a smile. I then checked the jury and saw all twenty-four eyes holding on my witness with rapt attention. She had them eating out of her hand and she hadn’t even started yet.

“What are your undergraduate degrees?”

“I got one from Harvard in engineering and one from the Berklee College of Music. I went to both schools at the same time.”

“You have a music degree?” I said with feigned surprise.

“I like to sing.”

More laughter. The hits kept coming. One surprise after another. Shami Arslanian was the perfect witness.

Golantz finally stood and addressed the judge.

“Your Honor, the state would ask that the witness provide testimony regarding forensics and not music or pet names or things not germane to the serious nature of this trial.”

The judge grudgingly asked me to keep my examination on point. Golantz sat down. He had won the point but lost the position. Everybody in the room now viewed him as a spoilsport, stealing what little levity there was in such a serious matter.

I asked a few more questions, which revealed that Dr. Arslanian currently worked as a teacher and researcher at John Jay. I covered her history and limited availability as an expert witness and finally brought her testimony to her study of the gunshot residue found on Walter Elliot’s body and clothing on the day of the murders in Malibu. She testified that she reviewed the procedures and results of the sheriff’s lab and conducted her own evaluations and modeling. She said she also reviewed all videotapes submitted to her by the defense in conjunction with her studies.

“Now, Dr. Arslanian, the state’s forensic witness testified earlier in this trial that the tabs wiped on Mr. Elliot’s hands and sleeves and jacket tested positive for elevated levels of certain elements associated with gunshot residue. Do you agree with that conclusion?”

“Yes, I do,” my witness said.

A low vibration of surprise rolled through the room.

“You are saying that your studies concluded that the defendant had gunshot residue on his hands and clothes?”

“That is correct. Elevated levels of barium, antimony and lead. In combination, these are indications of gunshot residue.”

“What does ‘elevated levels’ mean?”

“It just means that some of these materials you would find on a person’s body whether they had fired or handled a weapon or not. Just from everyday life.”

“So it is elevated levels of all three materials that are required for a positive result in gunshot residue testing, correct?”

“Yes, that and concentration patterns.”

“Can you explain what you mean by ‘concentration patterns’?”

“Sure. When a gun discharges – in this case we think we’re talking about a handgun – there is an explosion in the chamber that gives the bullet its energy and velocity. That explosion sends gases out the barrel with the bullet as well as out any little crack and opening in the gun. The breech – that is, the part at the rear of the gun’s barrel – comes open after a shot has been fired. The escaping gases propel these microscopic elements we’re talking about backward onto the shooter.”

“And that’s what happened in this case, correct?”

“No, not correct. Based on the totality of my investigation I cannot say that.”

I raised my eyebrows in feigned surprise.

“But Doctor, you just said you agreed with the state’s conclusion that there was gunshot residue on the defendant’s hands and sleeves.”

“I do agree with the state’s conclusion that there was GSR on the defendant. But that wasn’t the question you asked.”

I took a moment as if to retrace my question.

“Dr. Arslanian, are you saying that there could be an alternate explanation for the gunshot residue on Mr. Elliot?”

“Yes, I am.”

We were there. We had finally arrived at the crux of the defense’s case. It was time to shoot the magic bullet.

“Did your study of the materials provided to you over the weekend by the defense lead you to an alternate explanation for the gunshot residue on Walter Elliot’s hands and clothing?”

“Yes, they did.”

“And what is that explanation?”

“It is very highly likely, in my opinion, that the residue on Mr. Elliot’s hands and clothes was transferred there.”

“Transferred? Are you suggesting someone intentionally planted GSR on him?”

“No, I am not. I am suggesting that it occurred inadvertently by happenstance or mistake. Gunshot residue is basically microscopic dust. It moves. It can be transferred by contact.”

“What does ‘transferred by contact’ mean?”

“It means the material we are talking about lights on a surface after it is discharged from the firearm. If that surface comes into contact with another, some of the material will transfer. It will rub off, is what’m saying. This is why there are law enforcement protocols for safeguarding against this. The victims and suspects in gun crimes often have their clothes removed for preservation and study. Some agencies put evidence bags over people’s hands to preserve and guard against transference.”

“Can this material be transferred more than once?”

“Yes, it can, with depreciating levels. This is a solid material. It’s not a gas. It doesn’t dissipate like a gas. It is microscopic but solid and it has to be someplace at the end of the day. I have conducted numerous studies of this and found that transference can repeat and repeat.”

“But in the case of repeated transference, wouldn’t the amount of material depreciate with each transfer until negligible?”

“That’s right. Each new surface will hold less than the prior surface. So it’s all a matter of how much you start with. The more you start with, the greater the amount that can be transferred.”

I nodded and took a small break by flipping up pages on my pad as if I were looking for something. I wanted there to be a clear line between the discussion of theory and the specific case at hand.

“Okay, Doctor,” I finally said. “With these theories in mind, can you tell us what happened in the Elliot case?”

“I can tell you and show you,” Dr. Arslanian said. “When Mr. Elliot was handcuffed and placed in the back of the four-alpha patrol car, he was literally placed in a hotbed of gunshot residue. That is where and when the transference took place.”

“How so?”

“His hands, arms and clothing were placed in direct contact with gunshot residue from another case. Transfer to him would have been inevitable.”

Golantz quickly objected, saying I had not laid the groundwork for such an answer. I told the judge I intended to do that right now and asked permission to set the video equipment up in front of the jury again.

Dr. Arslanian had taken the video shot by my first witness, Julio Muniz, and edited it into one demonstration video. I introduced it as a defense exhibit over Golantz’s failed objection. Using it as a visual aid, I carefully walked my witness through the defense’s theory of transference. It was a demonstration that took nearly an hour and was one of the most thorough presentations of alternate theory I had ever been involved in.

We started with Eli Wyms’s arrest and his placement in the backseat of the alpha car. We then cut to Elliot being placed in the same patrol car less than ten hours later. The same car and the same seat. Both men’s hands cuffed behind their backs. She was stunningly authoritative in her conclusion.

“A man who had fired weapons at least ninety-four times was placed in that seat,” she said. “Ninety-four times! He would have literally been reeking of gunshot residue.”

“And is it your expert opinion that gunshot residue would have transferred from Eli Wyms to that car seat?” I asked.

“Most definitely.”

“And is it your expert opinion that the gunshot residue on that seat could then have been transferred to the next person who sat there?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And is it your expert opinion that this was the origin of the gunshot residue on Walter Elliot’s hands and clothes?”

“Again, with his hands behind his back like that, he came in direct contact with a transfer surface. Yes, in my expert opinion, I do believe that this is how he got the gunshot residue on his hands and clothes.”

I paused again to drive home the expert’s conclusions. If I knew anything about reasonable doubt, I knew I had just embedded it in every juror’s consciousness. Whether they would later vote their conscience was another matter.

Fifty

It was now time to bring in the big prop to drive Dr. Arslanian’s testimony home.

“Doctor, did you draw any other conclusions from your analysis of the GSR evidence that supported the theory of transference you have outlined here?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what was that?”

“Can I use my mannequin to demonstrate?”

I asked the judge for permission to allow the witness to use a mannequin for demonstration purposes and he granted it without objection from Golantz. I then stepped through the clerk’s corral to the hallway leading to the judge’s chambers. I had left Dr. Arslanian’s mannequin here until it had been ruled admissible. I wheeled it out to the center of the proving grounds in front of the jury – and the Court TV camera. I signaled to Dr. Arslanian to come down from the witness stand to make her demonstration.

The mannequin was a full-body model with fully manipulating limbs, hands and even fingers. It was made of white plastic and had several smudges of gray on its face and hands from experiments and demonstrations conducted over the years. It was dressed in blue jeans and a dark blue collared shirt beneath a windbreaker with a design on the back commemorating a University of Florida national football championship earlier in the year. The mannequin was suspended two inches off the ground on a metal brace and wheeled platform.

I realized I had forgotten something and went over to my rolling bag. I quickly pulled out the wooden dummy gun and collapsing pointer. I handed them both to Dr. Arslanian and then went back to the lectern.

“Okay, what do we have here, Doctor?”

“This is Manny, my demonstration mannequin. Manny, this is the jury.”

There was a bit of laughter and one juror, the lawyer, even nodded his hello to the dummy.

“Manny’s a Florida Gator fan?”

“Uh, he is today.”

Sometimes the messenger can obscure the message. With some witnesses you want that because their testimony isn’t all that helpful. But that was not the case with Dr. Arslanian. I knew I had been walking a tightrope with her: too cute and entertaining on one side; solid scientific evidence on the other. The proper balance would make her and her information leave the strongest impression on the jury. I knew it was now time to get back to serious testimony.

“Why do we need Manny here, Doctor?”

“Because an analysis of the SEMS tabs collected by the sheriff’s forensic expert can show us why the gunshot residue on Mr. Elliot did not come from his firing of a weapon.”

“I know the state’s expert explained these procedures to us last week but I would like you to refresh us. What is a SEMS tab?”

“The GSR test is conducted with round tabs or disks that have a peel-off sticky side. The tabs are patted on the area to be tested and they collect all the microscopic material on the surface. The tab then goes into a scanning electron microscope, or SEMS, as we call it. Through the microscope, we see or don’t see the three elements we have been talking about here. Barium, antimony and lead.”

“Okay, then, do you have a demonstration for us?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Please explain it to the jury.”

Dr. Arslanian extended her pointer and faced the jury. Her demonstration had been carefully planned and rehearsed, right down to my always referring to her as ‘doctor’ and her always referring to the state’s forensic man as ‘mister.’

“Mr. Guilfoyle, the Sheriff’s Department forensic expert, took eight different samples from Mr. Elliot’s body and clothes. Each tab was coded so that the location it sampled would be known and charted.”

She used the pointer on the mannequin as she discussed the locations of the samples. The mannequin stood with its arms down at its sides.

“Tab A was the top of the right hand. Tab B was the top of the left hand. Tab C was the right sleeve of Mr. Elliot’s windbreaker and D was the left sleeve. Then we have tabs E and F being the right- and left-front panels of the jacket, and G and H being the chest and torso portions of the shirt Mr. Elliot wore beneath the open jacket.”

“Are these the clothes he was wearing that day?”

“No, they are not. These are exact duplicates of what he was wearing, right down to the size and manufacturer.”

“Okay, what did you learn from your analysis of the eight tabs?”

“I’ve prepared a chart for the jurors so they can follow along.”

I presented the chart as a defense exhibit. Golantz had been given a copy of it that morning. He now stood and objected, saying his late receipt of the chart violated the rules of discovery. I told the judge the chart had only been composed the night before after my meetings with Dr. Arslanian on Saturday and Sunday. The judge agreed with the prosecutor, saying that the direction of my examination of the witness was obvious and well prepared and that I therefore should have drawn the chart sooner. The objection was sustained, and Dr. Arslanian now had to wing it on her own. It had been a gamble but I didn’t regret the move. I would rather have my witness talking to the jurors without a net than have had Golantz in possession of my strategy in advance of its implementation.

“Okay, Doctor, you can still refer to your notes and the chart. The jurors just need to follow along. What did you learn from your analysis of the eight SEMS tabs?”

“I learned that the levels of gunshot residue on the different tabs greatly differed.”

“How so?”

“Well, tabs A and B, which came from Mr. Elliot’s hands, were where the highest levels of GSR were found. From there we get a steep drop-off in the GSR levels: tabs C, D, E and F with much lower levels, and no GSR reading at all on tabs G and H.”

Again she used the pointer to illustrate.

“What did that tell you, Doctor?”

“That the GSR on Mr. Elliot’s hands and clothes did not come from firing a weapon.”

“Can you illustrate why?”

“First, comparable readings coming from both hands indicate that the weapon was fired in a two-handed grip.”

She went to the mannequin and raised its arms, forming a V by pulling the hands together out front. She bent the hands and fingers around the wooden gun.

“But a two-handed grip would also have to result in higher levels of GSR on the sleeves of the jacket in particular and the rest of the clothes as well.”

“But the tabs processed by the sheriff’s department don’t show that, am I right?”

“You’re right. They show the opposite. While a drop-off from the readings on the hands is expected, it is not expected to be of this rate.”

“So in your expert opinion, what does it mean?”

“A compound-transfer exposure. The first exposure occurred when he was placed with his hands and arms behind his back in the four-alpha car. After that, the material was on his hands and arms, and some of it was then transferred for a second time onto the front panels of his jacket during normal hand and arm movement. This would have occurred continuously until the clothing was collected from him.”

“What about the zero reading on the tabs from the shirt beneath the jacket?”

“We discount that because the jacket could have been zipped closed during the commission of the shooting.”

“In your expert opinion, Doctor, is there any way that Mr. Elliot could have gotten this pattern of GSR on his hands and clothing by discharging a firearm?”

“No, there is not.”

“Thank you, Doctor Arslanian. No further questions.”

I returned to my seat and leaned over to whisper into Walter Elliot’s ear.

“If we didn’t just give them reasonable doubt, then I don’t know what it is.”

Elliot nodded and whispered back to me.

“The best ten thousand dollars I’ve ever spent.”

I didn’t think I had done so badly myself but I let it go. Golantz asked the judge for the midafternoon break before cross-examination of the witness began and the judge agreed. I noticed what I believed to be a higher energy in the verbal buzz of the courtroom after the adjournment. Shami Arslanian had definitely given the defense momentum.

In fifteen minutes I would see what Golantz had in his arsenal for impeaching my witness’s credibility and testimony but I couldn’t imagine he had much. If he had something, he wouldn’t have asked for the break. He would have gotten up and charged right after her.

After the jury and the judge had vacated the courtroom and the observers were pushing out into the hallway, I sauntered over to the prosecutor’s table. Golantz was writing out questions on a legal pad. He didn’t look up at me.

“What?” he said.

“The answer’s no.”

“To what question?”

“The one you were going to ask about my client taking a plea agreement. We’re not interested.”

Golantz smirked.

“You’re funny, Haller. So what, you’ve got an impressive witness. The trial’s a long way from over.”

“And I’ve got a French police captain who’s going to testify tomorrow that Rilz ratted out seven of the most dangerous, vindictive men he’s ever investigated. Two of them happened to get out of prison last year and they disappeared. Nobody knows where they are. Maybe they were in Malibu last spring.”

Golantz put his pen down and finally looked up at me.

“Yeah, I talked to your Inspector Clouseau yesterday. It’s pretty clear he’s saying whatever you want him to say, as long as you fly him first class. At the end of the depo, he pulled out one of those star maps and asked me if I could show him where Angelina Jolie lives. He’s one serious witness you came up with.”

I had told Captain Pepin to cool it with the star map stuff. He apparently hadn’t listened. I needed to change the subject.

“So, where are the Germans?” I asked.

Golantz checked behind him as if to make sure Johan Rilz’s family members weren’t there.

“I told them that they had to be prepared for your strategy of building a defense by shitting all over the memory of their son and brother,” he said. “I told them you were going to take Johan’s problems in France five years ago and use them to try to get his killer off. I told them that you were going to depict him as a German gigolo who seduced rich clients, men and women, all over Malibu and the west side. You know what the father said to me?”

“No, but you’ll tell me.”

“He said that they’d had enough of American justice and were going back home.”

I tried to retort with a clever and cynical comeback line. But I came up empty.

“Don’t worry,” Golantz said. “Up or down, I’ll call them and tell them the verdict.”

“Good.”

I left him there and went out into the hallway to look for my client. I saw him in the center of a ring of reporters. Feeling cocky after the success of Dr. Arslanian’s testimony, he was now working the big jury – public opinion.

“All this time they’ve concentrated on coming after me, the real killer’s been out there running around free!”

A nice concise sound bite. He was good. I was about to push through the crowd to grab him, when Dennis Wojciechowski intercepted me first.

“Come with me,” he said.

We walked down the hallway away from the crowd.

“What’s up, Cisco? I was wondering where you’ve been.”

“I’ve been busy. I got the report from Florida. Do you want to hear it?”

I had told him what Elliot had told me about fronting for the so-called organization. Elliot’s story had seemed sincere enough but in the light of day I reminded myself of a simple truism – everybody lies – and told Cisco to see what he could do about confirming it.

“Give it to me,” I said.

“I used a PI in Fort Lauderdale who I’ve worked with before. Tampa’s on the other side of the state but I wanted to go with a guy I knew and trusted.”

“I understand. What did he come up with?”

“Elliot’s grandfather founded a phosphate-shipping operation seventy-eight years ago. He worked it, then Elliot’s father worked it and then Elliot himself worked it. Only he didn’t like getting his hands dirty in the phosphate business and he sold it a year after his father died of a heart attack. It was a privately owned company, so the record of the sale is not public. Newspaper articles at the time put the sale at about thirty-two million.”

“What about organized crime?”

“My guy couldn’t find a whiff of it. Looked to him like it was a good, clean operation – legally, that is. Elliot told you he was a front and he was sent out here to invest their money. He didn’t say anything about him selling his own company and bringing the money out here. The man’s lying to you.”

I nodded.

“Okay, Cisco, thanks.”

“You need me in court? I’ve got a few things I’m still working on. I heard juror number seven went missing this morning.”

“Yeah, he’s in the wind. And I don’t need you in court.”

“Okay, man, I’ll talk to you.”

He headed off toward the elevators and I was left to stare at my client holding forth with the reporters. A slow burn started in me and it gained heat as I waded into the crowd to get to him.

“Okay, that’s all, people,” I said. “No further comment. No further comment.”

I grabbed Elliot by the arm, pulled him out of the crowd and walked him down the hall. I shooed a couple of trailing reporters away until we were finally far enough from all other ears and could speak privately.

“Walter, what were you doing?”

He was smiling gleefully. He made a fist and pumped it into the air.

“Sticking it up their asses. The prosecutor and the sheriffs, all of them.”

“Yeah, well, you better wait on that. We’ve still got a ways to go. We may have won the day but we haven’t won the war yet.”

“Oh, come on. It’s in the bag, Mick. She was fucking outstanding in there. I mean, I want to marry her!”

“Yeah, that’s nice but let’s see how she does on cross before you buy the ring, okay?”

Another reporter came up and I told her to take a hike, then turned back to my client.

“Listen, Walter, we need to talk.”

“Okay, talk.”

“I had a private investigator check your story out in Florida and I just found out it was bullshit. You lied to me, Walter, and I told you never to lie to me.”

Elliot shook his head and looked annoyed with me for taking the wind out of his sails. To him, being caught in the lie was a minor inconvenience, an annoyance that I would even bring it up.

“Why did you lie to me, Walter? Why’d you spin that story?”

He shrugged and looked away from me when he spoke.

“The story? I read it in a script once. I turned the project down, actually. But I remembered the story.”

“But why? I’m your lawyer. You can tell me anything. I asked you to tell me the truth and you lied to me. Why?”

He finally looked me in the eyes.

“I knew I had to light a fire under you.”

“What fire? What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Mickey. Let’s not get-”

He was turning to go back to the courtroom but I grabbed him roughly by the arm.

“No, I want to hear. What fire did you light?”

“Everybody’s going back in. The break is over and we should be in there.”

I gripped him even harder.

“What fire, Walter?”

“You’re hurting my arm.”

I relaxed my grip but didn’t let go. And I didn’t take my eyes off his.

“What fire?”

He looked away from me and put an “aw, shucks” grin on his face. I finally let go of his arm.

“Look,” he said. “From the start I needed you to believe I didn’t do it. It was the only way for me to know you would bring your best game. That you would be goddamn relentless.”

I stared at him and saw the smile become a look of pride.

“I told you I could read people, Mick. I knew you needed something to believe in. I knew if I was a little bit guilty but not guilty of the big crime, then it would give you what you needed. It would give you your fire back.”

They say the best actors in Hollywood are on the wrong side of the camera. At that moment I knew that was true. I knew that Elliot had killed his wife and her lover and was even proud of it. I found my voice and spoke.

“Where’d you get the gun?”

“Oh, I’d had it. Bought it under the table at a flea market back in the seventies. I was a big Dirty Harry fan and I wanted a forty-four mag. I kept it out at the beach house for protection. You know, a lot of drifters down on the beach.”

“What really happened in that house, Walter?”

He nodded like it was his plan all along to take this moment to tell me.

“What happened was I went out there to confront her and whoever she was fucking every Monday like clockwork. But when I got there, I realized it was Rilz. She’d passed him off in front of me as a faggot, had him to dinners and parties and premieres with us, and they probably laughed all about it later. Laughed about me, Mick.

“It got me mad. Enraged, actually. I got the gun out of the cabinet, put on rubber gloves from under the sink and I went upstairs. You should have seen the look on their faces when they saw that big gun.”

I stared at him for a long moment. I’d had clients confess to me before. But usually they were crying, wringing their hands, battling the demons their crimes had created inside. But not Walter Elliot. He was cold to the bone.

“How’d you get rid of the gun?”

“I hadn’t gone out there alone. I had somebody with me and they took the gun, the gloves and my first set of clothes, then walked down the beach, got back up to the PCH and caught a cab. Meantime, I washed up and changed, then I dialed nine-one-one.”

“Who was it that helped you?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

I nodded. Not because I agreed with him. I nodded because I already knew. I had a flash vision of Nina Albrecht easily unlocking the door to the deck when I couldn’t figure it out. It showed a familiarity with her boss’s bedroom that had struck me the moment I saw it.

I looked away from my client and down at the floor. It had been scuffed by a million people who had trod a million miles for justice.

“I never counted on the transference, Mick. When they said they wanted to do the test, I was all for it. I thought I was clean and they would see that and it would be the end of it. No gun, no residue, no case.”

He shook his head at such a close call.

“Thank God for lawyers like you.”

I jerked my eyes up to his.

“Did you kill Jerry Vincent?”

Elliot looked me in the eye and shook his head.

“No, I didn’t. But it was a lucky break because I ended up with a better lawyer.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I looked down the hall to the courtroom door. The deputy was there. He waved to me and signaled me into the courtroom. The break was over and the judge was ready to start. I nodded and held up one finger. Wait. I knew the judge wouldn’t take the bench until he was told the lawyers were in place.

“Go back in,” I said to Elliot. “I have to use the restroom.”

Elliot calmly walked toward the waiting deputy. I quickly stepped into the nearby restroom and went to one of the sinks. I splashed cold water on my face, spotting my best suit and shirt but not caring at all.

Fifty-one

That night I sent Patrick to the movies because I wanted the house to myself. I wanted no television or conversation. I wanted no interruption and no one watching me. I called Bosch and told him I was in for the night. It was not so that I could prepare for what likely would be the last day of the trial. I was more than ready for that. I had the French police captain primed and ready to deliver another dose of reasonable doubt to the jury.

And it was not because I now knew that my client was guilty. I could count the truly innocent clients I’d had over the years on one hand. Guilty people were my specialty. But I was feeling bruised because I had been used so well. And because I had forgotten the basic rule: Everybody lies.

And I was feeling bruised because I knew that I, too, was guilty. I could not stop thinking about Rilz’s father and brothers, about what they had told Golantz about their decision to go home. They were not waiting to see the verdict if it first meant seeing their dead loved one dragged through the sewers of the American justice system. I had spent the good part of twenty years defending guilty and sometimes evil men. I had always been able to accept that and deal with it. But I didn’t feel very good about myself or the work that I would perform the next day.

It was in these moments that I felt the strongest desire to return to old ways. To find that distance again. To take the pill for the physical pain that I knew would numb me to the internal pain. It was in these moments that I realized that I had my own jury to face and that the coming verdict was guilty, that there would be no more cases after this one.

I went outside to the deck, hoping the city could pull me out of the abyss into which I had fallen. The night was cool and crisp and clear. Los Angeles spread out in front of me in a carpet of lights, each one a verdict on a dream somewhere. Some people lived the dream and some didn’t. Some people cashed in their dreams a dime on the dollar and some kept them close and as sacred as the night. I wasn’t sure if I even had a dream left. I felt like I only had sins to confess.

After a while a memory washed over me and somehow I smiled. It was one of my last clear memories of my father, the greatest lawyer of his time. An antique glass ball – an heirloom from Mexico passed down through my mother’s family – had been found broken beneath the Christmas tree. My mother brought me to the living room to view the damage and to give me the chance to confess my guilt. By then my father was sick and wasn’t going to get better. He had moved his work – what was left of it – home to the study next to the living room. I didn’t see him through the open door but from that room I heard his voice in a sing-song nursery rhyme.

In a pickle, take the nickel…

I knew what it meant. Even at five years old I was my father’s son in blood and the law. I refused to answer my mother’s questions. I refused to incriminate myself.

Now I laughed out loud as I looked at the city of dreams. I leaned down, elbows on the railing, and bowed my head.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I whispered to myself.

The song of the Lone Ranger suddenly burst from the open door behind me. I stepped back inside and looked at the cell phone left on the table with my keys. The screen said PRIVATE NUMBER. I hesitated, knowing exactly how long the song would play before the call went to message.

At the last moment I took the call.

“Is this Michael Haller, the lawyer?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“This is Los Angeles police officer Randall Morris. Do you know an individual named Elaine Ross, sir?”

I felt a fist grip my guts.

“Lanie? Yes. What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Uh, sir, I have Miss Ross up here on Mulholland Drive and she shouldn’t be driving. In fact, she sort of passed out after she handed me your card.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. The call seemed to confirm my fears about Lanie Ross. She had fallen back. An arrest would put her back into the system and probably cost her another stay in jail and rehab.

“Which jail are you taking her to?” I asked.

“I gotta be honest, Mr. Haller. I’m code seven in twenty minutes. If I take her down to book her, I’m looking at two more hours and I’m tapped on my overtime allowance this month. I was going to say, if you can come get her or send somebody for her, I’m willing to give her the break. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you, Officer Morris. I’ll come get her if you give me the address.”

“You know where the overlook is above Fryman Canyon?”

“Yes, I do.”

“We’re right here. Make it quick.”

“I’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes.”

Fryman Canyon was only a few blocks from the converted garage guesthouse where a friend allowed Lanie to live rent free. I could get her home, walk back to the park and retrieve her car afterward. It would take me less than an hour and it would keep Lanie out of jail and her car out of the tow lot.

I left the house and drove Laurel Canyon up the hill to Mulholland. When I reached the top, I took a left and headed west. I lowered the windows and let the cool air in as I felt the first pulls of fatigue from the day grab me. I followed the serpentine road for half a mile, slowing once when my headlights washed across a scruffy coyote standing vigil on the side of the road.

My cell phone buzzed as I had been expecting it to.

“What took you so long to call, Bosch?” I said by way of a greeting.

“I’ve been calling but there’s no cell coverage in the canyon,” Bosch said. “Is this some kind of test? Where the hell are you going? You called and said you were done for the night.”

“I got a call. A… client of mine got busted on a deuce up here. The cop’s giving her a break if I drive her home.”

“From where?”

“The Fryman Canyon overlook. I’m almost there.”

“Who was the cop?”

“Randall Morris. He didn’t say whether he was Hollywood or North Hollywood.”

Mulholland was a boundary between the two police divisions. Morris could work out of either one.

“Okay, pull over until I can check it out.”

“Pull over? Where?”

Mulholland was a winding two-lane road with no pull-over spots except for the overlooks. If you pulled over anywhere else, you would get plowed into by the next car to come around the bend.

“Then, slow down.”

“I’m already here.”

The Fryman Canyon overlook was on the Valley side. I took a right to turn in and drove right by the sign that said that the parking area was closed after sunset.

I didn’t see Lanie’s car or a police cruiser. The parking area was empty. I checked my watch. It had been only twelve minutes since I had told Officer Morris that I would be there in less than fifteen.

“Damn!”

“What?” Bosch asked.

I hit the heel of my palm on the steering wheel. Morris hadn’t waited. He’d gone ahead and taken Lanie to jail.

“What?” Bosch repeated.

“She’s not here,” I said. “And neither is the cop. He took her to jail.”

I would now have to figure out which station Lanie had been transported to and probably spend the rest of the night arranging bail and getting her home. I’d be wrecked in court the next day.

I put the car in park and got out and looked around. The lights of the Valley spread out below the precipice for miles and miles.

“Bosch, I gotta go. I have to try to find-”

I saw movement in my peripheral vision to the left. I turned and saw a crouching figure coming out of the tall brush next to the parking clearing. At first I thought coyote but then I saw that it was a man. He was dressed in black and a ski mask was pulled down over his face. As he straightened from the crouch, I saw that he was raising a gun at me.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What is-”

“Drop the fucking phone!”

I dropped the phone and raised my hands.

“Okay, okay, what is this? Are you with Bosch?”

The man moved quickly toward me and shoved me backwards. I stumbled to the ground and then felt him grab the back of my jacket’s collar.

“Get up!”

“What is-?”

“Get up! Now!”

He started pulling me up.

“Okay, okay. I’m getting up.”

The moment I was on my feet I was shoved forward and crossed through the lights at the front of my car.

“Where are we going? What is-?”

I was shoved again.

“Who are you? Why are you-?”

“You ask too many questions, lawyer.”

He grabbed the back of my collar and shoved me toward the precipice. I knew it was almost a sheer drop-off at the edge. I was going to end up in somebody’s backyard hot tub – after a three-hundred-foot high dive.

I tried to dig my heels in and slow my forward momentum but that resulted in an even harder shove. I had velocity now and the man in the mask was going to run me off the edge into the blackness of the abyss.

“You can’t-”

Suddenly there was a shot. Not from behind me. But from the right and from a distance. Almost simultaneously, there was a metal snapping sound from behind me and the man in the mask yelped and fell into the brush to the left.

Then came voices and shouting.

“Drop your weapon! Drop your weapon!”

“Get on the ground! Get down on the ground!”

I dove facedown to the dirt at the edge of the precipice and put my hands over my head for protection. I heard more yelling and the sound of running. I heard engines roaring and vehicles crunching across the gravel. When I opened my eyes, I saw blue lights flashing in repeated patterns off the dirt and brush. Blue lights meant cops. It meant I was safe.

“Counselor,” a voice said from above me. “You can get up now.”

I craned my neck to look up. It was Bosch, his shadowed face silhouetted by the stars above him.

“You cut that one pretty close,” he said.

Fifty-two

The man in the black mask groaned in pain as they cuffed his hands behind his back.

“My hand! Jesus, you assholes, my hand is broken!”

I climbed to my feet and saw several men in black windbreakers moving about like ants on a hill. Some of the plastic raid jackets said LAPD on them but most had FBI printed across the back. Soon a helicopter came overhead and lit the entire parking clearing with a spotlight.

Bosch stepped over to the FBI agents huddling over the man in the mask.

“Was he hit?” he asked.

“There is no wound,” an agent said. “The round must have hit the gun, but that still hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“Where is the gun?”

“We’re still looking,” the agent said.

“It may have gone over the side,” another agent said.

“If we don’t find it tonight, we find it in daylight,” said a third.

They pulled the man up into a standing position. Two of the FBI agents stood on either side of him, holding him at the elbows.

“Let’s see who we’ve got,” Bosch said.

The ski mask was unceremoniously yanked off and a flashlight was aimed point-blank at the man’s face. Bosch turned and looked back at me.

“Juror number seven,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Juror number seven from the trial. He didn’t show up today and the Sheriff’s Department was looking for him.”

Bosch turned back to the man I knew was named David McSweeney.

“Hold him right there.”

He then turned and signaled to me to follow him. He walked out of the circle of activity and into the parking clearing near my car. He stopped and turned back to me. But I got my question in first.

“What just happened?”

“What just happened was we just saved your life. He was going to push you over the side.”

“I know that, but what happened? Where did you and everybody else come from? You said you would let people go at night after I was tucked in. Where did all of these cops come from? And what’s the FBI doing here?”

“Things were different tonight. Things happened.”

“What things happened? What changed?”

“We can go over that later. Let’s talk about what we’ve got here first.”

“I don’t know what we’ve got here.”

“Tell me about juror number seven. Why didn’t he show up today?”

“Well, you should probably ask him that. All I can tell you is that this morning the judge called us into chambers and said he got an anonymous letter saying number seven was a phony and he lied about having a record. The judge planned to question him but he didn’t show up. The sheriffs were sent to his house and his job and they brought back a guy who wasn’t juror number seven.”

Bosch raised his hand like a traffic cop.

“Hold on, hold on. You’re not making sense. I know you just had a scare but-”

He stopped when one of the men in an LAPD jacket came over to address him.

“You want us to call paramedics? He says he thinks his hand is broken.”

“No, just hold him there. We’ll have him checked after we book him.”

“You sure?”

“Fuck him.”

The man nodded and went back to the spot where they were holding McSweeney.

“Yeah, fuck him,” I said.

“Why did he want to kill you?” Bosch asked.

I raised my empty hands.

“I don’t know. Maybe because of the story we planted. Wasn’t that the plan, to draw him out?”

“I think you’re holding out on me, Haller.”

“Look, I’ve told you what I could tell you all along. You’re the one holding out and playing games. What’s the FBI doing here?”

“They’ve been in it from the start.”

“Right, and you just forgot to tell me.”

“I told you what you needed to know.”

“Well, I need to know it all now or my cooperation with you ends now. That includes being any sort of witness against that man over there.”

I waited a moment and he said nothing. I turned to walk toward my car and Bosch put his hand on my arm. He smiled in frustration and shook his head.

“Come on, man, cool your jets. Don’t be throwing empty threats around.”

“You think it’s an empty threat? Why don’t we see how empty it is when I start stringing out the federal grand jury subpoena I know is going to come out of this. I can argue client confidentiality all the way to the Supreme Court – I bet that will only take about two years – and your newfound pals over in the bureau are going to wish you had just come clean with me when you had the chance.”

Bosch thought a moment and pulled me by the arm.

“All right, tough guy, come over here.”

We walked to a spot in the parking area even further from the law enforcement ant hill. Bosch started to talk.

“The bureau contacted me a few days after the Vincent murder and said that he had been a person of interest to them. That’s all. A person of interest. He was one of the lawyers whose names came up in their look at the state courts. Nothing specific, just based on rumors, things he had supposedly told clients he could get done, connections he claimed to have, that sort of thing. They’d drawn up a list of lawyers they heard might be bent and Vincent was on it. They invited him in as a cooperating witness and he declined. They were increasing the pressure on him when he got hit.”

“So they tell you all of this and you join forces. Isn’t that wonderful? Thanks for telling me.”

“Like I said, you didn’t need to know.”

A man in an FBI jacket crossed the parking area behind Bosch, and his face was momentarily lit from above. He looked familiar to me but I couldn’t place him. But then I imagined a mustache on him.

“Hey, there’s the asshole you sent after me the other night,” I said loud enough for the passing agent to hear. “He’s lucky I didn’t put a bullet in his face at the door.”

Bosch put his hands on my chest and pushed me back a few steps.

“Calm down, Counselor. If it weren’t for the bureau, I wouldn’t have had the manpower to keep the watch on you. And right now you could be lying down there at the bottom of the mountain.”

I pushed his hands off me but settled down. My anger dissipated as I accepted the reality of what Bosch had just said. And the reality that I had been used as a pawn from the beginning. By my client and now by Bosch and the FBI. Bosch took the moment to signal over another agent, who was standing nearby watching.

“This is Agent Armstead. He’s been running the bureau’s side of things and he’s got some questions for you.”

“Why not?” I said. “Nobody answers mine. I might as well answer yours.”

Armstead was a young, clean-cut agent with a precision military haircut.

“Mr. Haller, we’ll get to your questions as soon as we can,” he said. “Right now we have a fluid situation here and your cooperation will be greatly appreciated. Is juror number seven the man Vincent paid the bribe to?”

I looked at Bosch with a “who is this guy?” expression.

“Man, how would I know that? I wasn’t part of this thing. You want an answer to that, go ask him.”

“Don’t worry. We will be asking him a lot of questions. What were you doing up here, Mr. Haller?”

“I told you people. I told Bosch. I got a call from somebody who said he was a cop. He said he had a woman I know personally up here and she was under the influence and that I could come up and drive her home and save her the trouble of getting booked on a deuce.”

“We checked that name you gave me on the phone,” Bosch said. “There is one Randall Morris in the department. He’s on gang detail in South Bureau.”

I nodded.

“Yeah, well, I think it’s pretty clear now that it was a fake call. But he knew my friend’s name and he had my cell. It seemed convincing at the time, all right?”

“How did he get the woman’s name?” Armstead asked.

“Good question. I had a relationship with her – a platonic relationship – but I haven’t talked to her in almost a month.”

“Then, how would he know about her?”

“Man, you’re asking me shit I don’t know. Go ask McSweeney.”

I immediately realized I had slipped up. I wouldn’t know that name unless I had been investigating juror number seven.

Bosch looked at me curiously. I didn’t know if he realized the jury was supposed to be anonymous, even to the lawyers on the case. Before he could come up with a question, I was saved by someone yelling from the brush where I had almost been pushed over the side.

“I’ve got the gun!”

Bosch pointed a finger at my chest.

“Stay right here.”

I watched Bosch and Armstead trot over and join a few of the others as they studied the found weapon under a flashlight beam. Bosch didn’t touch the weapon but bent down into the light to examine it closely.

The William Tell Overture started to play behind me. I turned around and saw my phone lying on the gravel, its tiny square screen glowing like a beacon. I went over and picked it up. It was Cisco and I took the call.

“Cisco, I gotta call you back.”

“Make it quick. I’ve got some good shit for you. You’re going to want to know this.”

I closed the phone and watched as Bosch finished his study of the weapon and then stepped over to McSweeney. He leaned close to him and whispered something into his ear. He didn’t wait for a response. He just turned and walked back toward me. I could tell even in the dim moonlight that he was excited. Armstead was following behind him.

“The gun’s a Beretta Bobcat, like we were looking for on Vincent,” he said. “If the ballistics match, then we’ve got that guy locked in a box. I’ll make sure you get a commendation from City Hall.”

“Good. I’ll frame it.”

“Put this together for me, Haller, and you can start with him being the one who killed Vincent. Why did he want to kill you, too?”

“I don’t know.”

“The bribe,” Armstead asked. “Is he the one who got the money?”

“Same answer I gave you five minutes ago. I don’t know. But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“How did he know your friend’s name on the phone?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“Then, what good are you?” Bosch asked.

It was a good question and the immediate answer didn’t sit well with me.

“Look, Detective, I-”

“Don’t bother, man. Why don’t you just get in your car and get the fuck out of here? We’ll take it from here.”

He turned and started walking away and Armstead followed. I hesitated and then called out to Bosch. I waved him back. He said something to the FBI agent and came back to me alone.

“No bullshit,” he said impatiently. “I don’t have the time.”

“Okay, this is the thing,” I said. “I think he was going to make it look like I jumped.”

Bosch considered this and then shook his head.

“Suicide? Who would believe that? You’ve got the case of the decade, man. You’re hot. You’re on TV. And you’ve got a kid to worry about. Suicide wouldn’t sell.”

I nodded.

“Yes, it would.”

He looked at me and said nothing, waiting for me to explain.

“I’m a recovering addict, Bosch. You know anything about that?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“The story would go that I couldn’t take the pressure of the big case and all the attention, and I either had or was about to relapse. So I jumped instead of going back to that. It’s not an uncommon thing, Bosch. They call it the fast out. And it makes me think that…”

“What?”

I pointed across the clearing toward juror number seven.

“That he and whoever he was doing this for knew a lot about me. They did a deep background. They came up with my addiction and rehab and Lanie’s name. Then they came up with a solid plan for getting rid of me because they couldn’t just shoot down another lawyer without bringing down massive scrutiny on what it is they’ve got going. If I went down as a suicide, there’d be a lot less pressure.”

“Yeah, but why did they need to get rid of you?”

“I guess they think I know too much.”

“Do you?”

Before I could answer, McSweeney started yelling from the other side of the clearing.

“Hey! Over there with the lawyer. I want to make a deal. I can give you some big people, man! I want to make a deal!”

Bosch waited to see if there was more but that was it.

“My tip?” I said. “Go over there and strike while the iron’s hot. Before he remembers he’s entitled to a lawyer.”

Bosch nodded.

“Thanks, Coach,” he said. “But I think I know what I’m doing.”

He started to head across the clearing.

“Hey, Bosch, wait,” I called. “You owe me something before you go over there.”

Bosch stopped and signaled to Armstead to go to McSweeney. He then came back to me.

“What do I owe you?”

“One answer. Tonight I called you and told you I was in for the night. You were supposed to cut the surveillance down to one car. But this is the whole enchilada up here. What changed your mind?”

“You haven’t heard, have you?”

“Heard what?”

“You get to sleep late tomorrow, Counselor. There’s no trial anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because your client’s dead. Somebody – probably our friend over there who wants to make a deal – took Elliot and his girlfriend out tonight when they came home from dinner. His electric gate wouldn’t open and when he got out to push it open, somebody came up and put a bullet in the back of his head. Then he hit the woman in the car.”

I took a half step back in shock. I knew the gate Bosch was talking about. I had been to Elliot’s mansion in Beverly Hills just the other night. And as far as the girlfriend went, I also thought I knew who that would be. I’d had Nina Albrecht figured for that position ever since Elliot told me he’d had help on the day of the murders in Malibu.

Bosch didn’t let the stunned look on my face keep him from continuing.

“I got tipped from a friend in the medical examiner’s office and figured that somebody might be out there cleaning the slate tonight. I figured I ought to call the team back and see what happens at your place. Lucky for you I did.”

I stared right through Bosch when I answered.

“Yeah,” I said. “Lucky for me.”

Fifty-three

There was no longer a trial but I went to court on Tuesday morning to see the case through to its official end. I took my place next to the empty seat Walter Elliot had occupied for the past two weeks. The news photographers who had been allowed access to the courtroom seemed to like that empty chair. They took a lot of photos of it.

Jeffrey Golantz sat across the aisle. He was the luckiest prosecutor on earth. He had left court one day, thinking he was facing a career-hobbling loss, and came back the next day with his perfect record intact. His upward trajectory in the DA’s office and city politics was safe for now. He had nothing to say to me as we sat and waited for the judge.

But there was a lot of talk in the gallery. People were buzzing with news of the murders of Walter Elliot and Nina Albrecht. No one made mention of the attempt on my life and the events at the Fryman Canyon overlook. For the moment, that was all secret. Once McSweeney told Bosch and Armstead that he wanted to deal, the investigators had asked me to keep quiet so they could move slowly and carefully with their cooperating suspect. I was happy to cooperate with that myself. To a point.

Judge Stanton took the bench promptly at nine. His eyes were puffy and he looked like he’d had very little sleep. I wondered if he knew as many details of what had transpired the night before as I did.

The jury was brought in and I studied their faces. If any of them knew what had happened, they weren’t showing it. I noticed several of them check out the empty seat beside me as they took their own.

“Ladies and gentlemen, good morning,” the judge said. “At this time I am going to discharge you from service in this trial. As I am sure you can see, Mr. Elliot is not in his seat at the defense table. This is because the defendant in this trial was the victim of a homicide last night.”

Half of the jurors’ mouths dropped open in unison. The others expressed their surprise with their eyes. A low murmur of excited voices went through the courtroom and then a slow and deliberate clapping began from behind the prosecution table. I turned to see Mitzi Elliot’s mother applauding the news of Elliot’s demise.

The judge brought his gavel down harshly just as Golantz jumped from his seat and rushed to her, grabbing her hands gently and stopping her from continuing. I saw tears rolling down her cheeks.

“There will be no demonstrations from the gallery,” the judge said harshly. “I don’t care who you are or what connection you might have to the case, everyone in here will show respect to the court or I will have you removed.”

Golantz returned to his seat but the tears continued to flow from the mother of one of the victims.

“I know that to all of you, this is rather shocking news,” Stanton told the jurors. “Be assured that the authorities are investigating the matter thoroughly and hopefully will soon bring the individual or individuals responsible to justice. I am sure you will learn all about it when you read the paper or watch the news, as you are now free to do. As far as today goes, I want to thank you for your service. I know you all were very attentive to the presentation of the prosecution and defense cases and I hope your time here was a positive experience. You are free now to go back to the deliberation room to gather your things and go home. You are excused.”

We stood one last time for the jury and I watched them file through the doorway to the deliberation room. After they were gone, the judge thanked Golantz and me for our professional demeanor during trial, thanked his staff and quickly adjourned court. I hadn’t bothered to unpack any files from my bag, so I stood motionless for the longest time after the judge left the courtroom. My reverie wasn’t broken until Golantz approached me with his hand out. Without thinking I reached out and shook it.

“No hard feelings on anything, Mickey. You’re a damn good lawyer.”

Was, I thought.

“Yeah,” I said. “No hard feelings.”

“You going to hang around and talk to jurors, see which way they were leaning?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“No, I’m not interested.”

“Me neither. Take care of yourself.”

He clapped me on the shoulder and pushed out through the gate. I was sure there would be a throng of media out in the hall waiting and he’d tell them that in some strange way he felt that justice had been served. Live by the gun, die by the gun. Or words to that effect.

I’d leave the media for him. Instead, I gave him a good lead and then followed him out. The reporters were already surrounding him and I was able to hug the wall and escape notice. All except for Jack McEvoy from the Times. He spotted me and started trailing. He caught me as I got to the stairwell entrance.

“Hey, Mick!”

I glanced at him but didn’t stop walking. I knew from experience not to. If one member of the media downed you, the rest of the pride would catch up and pile on. I didn’t want to be devoured. I hit the stairwell door and started down.

“No comment.”

He stayed with me, stride for stride.

“I’m not writing about the trial. I’m covering the new murders. I thought maybe you and I could have the same deal again. You know, trade informa-”

“No deal, Jack. And no comment. Catch you later.”

I put my hand out and stopped him on the first landing. I left him there, went down two more landings and then out into the hallway. I walked down to Judge Holder’s courtroom and entered.

Michaela Gill was in the clerk’s pod and I asked if I could see the judge for a few minutes.

“But I don’t have you down for an appointment,” she said.

“I know that, Michaela, but I think the judge will want to see me. Is she back there? Can you tell her I only want ten minutes? Tell her it’s about the Vincent files.”

The clerk picked up the phone, punched a button and gave the judge my request. Then she hung up and told me I could go right back to her chambers.

“Thank you.”

The judge was behind her desk with her half-glasses on, a pen poised in her hand as if I had interrupted her in the middle of signing an order.

“Well, Mr. Haller,” she said. “It’s certainly been an eventful day. Have a seat.”

I sat in the familiar chair in front of her.

“Thank you for seeing me, Judge.”

“What can I do for you?”

She asked the question without looking at me. She started scribbling signatures on a series of documents.

“I just wanted you to know I will be resigning as counsel on the rest of the Vincent cases.”

She put the pen down and looked over her glasses at me.

“What?”

“I’m resigning. I came back too soon or probably should never have come back at all. But I’m finished.”

“That’s absurd. Your defense of Mr. Elliot has been the talk of this courthouse. I watched parts of it on television. You clearly were schooling Mr. Golantz and I don’t think there were many observers who would have bet against an acquittal.”

I waved the compliments away.

“Anyway, Judge, it doesn’t matter. It’s not really why I’m here.”

She took her glasses off and put them down on the desk. She looked hesitant but then asked the next question.

“Then, why are you here?”

“Because, Judge, I wanted you to know that I know. And soon enough everybody else will as well.”

“I am sure I don’t know what you are talking about. What do you know, Mr. Haller?”

“I know that you are for sale and that you tried to have me killed.”

She barked out a laugh but there was no mirth in her eyes, only daggers.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, it’s no joke.”

“Then, Mr. Haller, I suggest you calm down and compose yourself. If you go around this courthouse making these kinds of outlandish accusations, then there will be consequences for you. Severe consequences. Maybe you are right. You are feeling the stress of coming back too soon from rehab.”

I smiled and I could tell by her face that she immediately realized her mistake.

“Slipped up there, didn’t you, Judge? How’d you know I was in rehab? Better yet, how did juror number seven know how to lure me away from home last night? The answer is, you had me backgrounded. You set me up and sent McSweeney out to kill me.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about and I don’t know this man you say tried to kill you.”

“Well, I think he knows you, and the last time I saw him he was about to start playing Let’s Make a Deal with the federal government.”

It hit her like a punch in the gut. I knew revealing it to her wasn’t going to endear me to Bosch or Armstead, but I didn’t care. Neither of them was the guy who had been used like a pawn and had nearly taken the high dive off Mulholland. I was that guy and that entitled me to confront the person I knew was behind it.

“I put it together without having to make a deal with anybody,” I said. “My investigator traced McSweeney. Nine years ago he was arrested for an ADW and who was his attorney? Mitch Lester, your husband. The next year he was popped again for fraud and once again it was Mitch Lester on the case. There’s the connection. It makes a nice little triangle, doesn’t it? You have access to and control of the jury pool and the selection process. You can get into the computers and it was you who planted the sleeper on my jury. Jerry Vincent paid you but then he changed his mind after the FBI came sniffing around. You couldn’t run the risk that Jerry might get jammed up with the FBI and try to deal a judge to them. So you sent McSweeney.

“Then, when it all turned to shit yesterday, you decided to clean house. You sent McSweeney – juror number seven – after Elliot and Albrecht, and then me. How am I doing, Judge? I miss anything so far?”

I said the word “judge” like it had the same meaning as garbage. She stood up.

“This is insane. You have no evidence connecting me to anyone but my husband. And making the leap from one of his clients to me is completely absurd.”

“You’re right, Judge. I don’t have evidence but we’re not in court here. This is just you and me. I just have my gut instincts and they tell me that this all comes back to you.”

“I want you to leave now.”

“But the feds on the other hand? They have McSweeney.”

I could see it strike fear in her eyes.

“Guess you haven’t heard from him, have you? Yeah, I don’t think they’re letting him make any calls while they debrief him. You better hope he doesn’t have any of that evidence. Because if he puts you in that triangle, then you’ll be trading your black robe for an orange jumpsuit.”

“Get out or I will call courthouse security and have you arrested!”

She pointed toward the door. I calmly and slowly stood up.

“Sure, I’ll go. And you know something? I may never practice law again in this courthouse. But I promise you that I’ll come back to watch you prosecuted. You and your husband. Count on it.”

The judge stared at me, her arm still extended toward the door, and I saw the anger in her eyes slowly change to fear. Her arm drooped a little and then she let it drop all the way. I left her standing there.

I took the stairs all the way down because I didn’t want to get on a crowded elevator. Eleven flights down. At the bottom I pushed through the glass doors and left the courthouse. I pulled my phone and called Patrick and told him to pull the car around. Then I called Bosch.

“I decided to light a fire under you and the bureau,” I told him.

“What do you mean? What did you do?”

“I didn’t want to wait around while the bureau took its usual year and a half to make a case. Sometimes justice can’t wait, Detective.”

“What did you do, Haller?”

“I just had a conversation with Judge Holder – yes, I figured it out without McSweeney’s help. I told her the feds had McSweeney and he was cooperating. If I were you and the bureau, I’d hurry the fuck up with your case and in the meantime keep tabs on her. She doesn’t seem like a runner to me, but you never know. Have a good day.”

I closed the phone before he could protest my actions. I didn’t care. He had used me the whole time. It felt good to turn the tables on him, make him and the FBI do the dancing at the end of the string.