The Fifth Witness

Thirty-nine

If the defense tactics during the latter stages of the prosecution’s case were surprising, the first step out of the corner during the defense phase did nothing to lessen some observers’ doubts as to the competence of counsel. Once everyone was back in place following the afternoon break, I went to the lectern and threw another What the hell? move into the trial.

“The defense calls the defendant, Lisa Trammel.”

The judge asked for quiet as my client stood and made her way to the stand. That she was called at all was shocking and caused a roll of whispers and chatter in the courtroom. As a general rule, defense attorneys don’t like to put a client on the witness stand. In a risk-to-reward ratio this tactic ranks quite low. You can never be sure what your client will say because you can never fully believe anything she has told you. And to be caught in a single lie while under oath and on the stand in front of the twelve people determining your guilt or innocence is devastating.

But this time and this case were different. Lisa Trammel had never wavered in her claim to innocence. She had never once waffled in her response to the evidence against her. And she had never once been remotely interested in any sort of deal. Given this, and the developments regarding the Herb Dahl-Louis Opparizio connection, I was viewing her differently than I had at the start of the trial. She had insisted on having a chance to tell the jury she was innocent and it occurred to me the night before that she should be given the opportunity the very moment it became available. She would be the first witness.

The defendant took the oath with a slight smile on her face. It may have seemed out of place to some. After she was seated and her name was in the record, I jumped right on it.

“Lisa, I just saw you smiling a little bit when you were taking the oath to tell the truth. Why were you smiling?”

“Oh, you know, nervousness. And relief.”

“Relief?”

“Yes, relief. I finally get the chance to tell my side. To tell the truth.”

It started out well. From there I quickly took her through the standard list of basic questions about who she was, what she did for a living and the state of her marriage, as well as touching on the state of her home ownership.

“Did you know the victim of this terrible crime, Mitchell Bondurant?”

“Know him, no. Know of him, yes.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, over the past year or so, when I started to get in trouble with the mortgage, I had seen him. I went to the bank a couple times to plead my case to him. They never let me talk to him, but I saw him back there in his office. The wall of his office was completely made of glass, which was a joke. Like you could see him but not talk to him.”

I checked the jury. I didn’t see any outright head nods, but I thought the answer and the image my client had conjured were perfect. The banker hiding behind a wall of glass while the downtrodden and disadvantaged are kept away.

“Did you ever see him anywhere else?”

“On the morning of the murder. I saw him at the coffee shop I stop at. He was two people behind me in line. That’s why I was confused when I was talking to the detectives. They were asking about Mr. Bondurant and I had just seen him that morning. I didn’t know he was dead. I didn’t realize they were investigating me for a murder I didn’t know had even been committed.”

So far, so good. She was playing it as we had discussed and rehearsed, right down to always referring to the victim with complete respect if not sympathy.

“Did you talk to Mr. Bondurant that morning?”

“No, I didn’t. I was afraid he might think I was stalking him or something and take me to court. Also, I had been warned by you to avoid any encounter or confrontation with people from the bank. So I quickly got my coffee and left.”

“Lisa, did you kill Mr. Bondurant?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Did you sneak up behind him with a hammer from your garage and hit him on the head so hard that he was dead before he hit the ground?”

“No, I did not!”

“Did you hit him two more times when he was on the ground?”

“No!”

I paused as if to study my notes. I wanted her denials to echo in the courtroom and in each juror’s mind.

“Lisa, you made quite a name for yourself fighting the foreclosure of your home, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to keep my home for myself and my son. I did what I thought was right. It ended up getting a lot of attention.”

“It wasn’t good attention for the bank, was it?”

Freeman objected, arguing that I was asking Trammel a question she would not have the knowledge to answer. The judge agreed and told me to ask something else.

“There came a time when the bank sought to stop your protests and other activities, correct?”

“Yes, they took me to court and got a restraining order against me. I couldn’t have any more protests at the bank. So I had them at the courthouse.”

“And did people join your cause?”

“Yes, I started a website and hundreds of people-a lot of them like me, losing their homes-joined in.”

“You became quite visible as the leader of this group, didn’t you?”

“I guess so. But it was never about getting attention for myself. It was about what they were doing, the frauds they were committing when they took away people’s houses and condos and everything.”

“How many times do you think you were on the television news or in the newspaper?”

“I didn’t keep count but a few times I went national. I was on CNN and Fox.”

“By the way, speaking of going national, Lisa, on the morning of the murder, did you walk by WestLand National in Sherman Oaks?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“That wasn’t you on the sidewalk, just a half block away?”

“No, it was not.”

“So the woman who testified she saw you was lying under oath?”

“I don’t want to call anyone a liar but it wasn’t me. Maybe she just made a mistake.”

“Thank you, Lisa.”

I looked down at my notes and shifted direction. By seemingly keeping my own client off guard with changing subjects and questions I was in effect keeping the jury off guard, which is what I wanted to do. I didn’t want them thinking ahead of me. I wanted their undivided attention and I wanted to feed them the story in pieces and in an order of my choosing.

“Do you normally keep your garage door locked?” I asked.

“Yes, always.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, it’s not attached to the house. You have to go outside the house to go into the garage. So I always have the door locked. I have mostly junk in there but some stuff is valuable. My husband always treated the tools like they were precious and I have the helium tank for balloons and parties and I don’t want any of the older kids in the neighborhood to get into that. And, well, I once read about somebody who had a detached garage like mine and she never locked her door. And then one day she went into the garage and a man was in there stealing stuff. He raped her. So I always keep the door locked.”

“Do you have any idea why it was unlocked when the police searched your home on the day of the murder?”

“No, I always kept it locked.”

“When was the last time before this trial that you saw the hammer from your workbench in its place in the garage?”

“I don’t remember ever seeing it. My husband was the one who had all the tools set up in there. I’m not really good with tools.”

“What about gardening tools?”

“Well, I take that back if you mean tools like that. I do the gardening and those are my tools.”

“Do you have any idea how a micro-dot of blood from Mr. Bondurant ended up on one of your gardening shoes?”

Lisa stared forward with a troubled look on her face. Her chin wavered slightly as she spoke.

“I don’t know. There’s no explanation. I hadn’t worn those shoes in a long time and I didn’t kill Mr. Bondurant.”

Her last line was spoken almost as a plea. It carried a sense of desperation and truth. I paused to savor it and hoped the jurors had noted it as well.

After that I spent another half hour with her, working mostly the same themes and denials. I got into more detail about her coffee-shop encounter with Bondurant as well as the foreclosure process and the hopes she had of winning the case.

Her purpose in the defense case was threefold. I needed her denial and explanations on record. I needed her personality to engender sympathy from the jury and put a human face on a case about murder. And finally, I needed to have the jurors start to wonder if this diminutive and seemingly fragile woman could lie in wait and then forcefully swing a hammer at a man’s head. Three times.

By the time I came to the end of the direct examination, I felt I had gone a long way toward accomplishing all three of these goals. I tried to go out with a little crescendo of my own.

“Did you hate Mitchell Bondurant?” I asked.

“I hated what he and his bank were doing to me and others like me. But I didn’t hate him personally. I didn’t even know him.”

“But you had lost your marriage and you had lost your job and now you were in danger of losing your house. Didn’t you wish to lash out at the forces you believed were hurting you?”

“I was already lashing out. I was protesting my mistreatment. I had hired a lawyer and was fighting the foreclosure. Yes, I was angry. But I wasn’t violent. I am not a violent person. I’m a schoolteacher. I was lashing out, if you have to use those words, in the only way I knew. Peacefully protesting something that was wrong. Very definitely wrong.”

I glanced at the jury and thought I caught a woman in the back row wiping away a tear. I hoped to God she was. I turned back to my client and moved in for the big closing.

“I ask you once again, Lisa, did you kill Mitchell Bondurant?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did you take a hammer and strike him with it in the garage at the bank?”

“No, I wasn’t there. It wasn’t me.”

“Then how was the hammer from your garage used to kill him?”

“I don’t know.”

“How was his blood found on your shoes?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t do it. I was set up!”

I paused for a moment and calmed my voice before finishing.

“One last question, Lisa. How tall are you?”

She looked confused, like a rag doll that had been pulled one way and then the other.

“What do you mean?”

“Just tell us how tall you are.”

“I’m five three.”

“Thank you, Lisa. I have nothing further.”

Freeman had her work cut out for her. Lisa Trammel had been a solid witness and the prosecutor wasn’t going to break her. She tried in a few places to get contradictory responses but Lisa more than held her own. After a half hour of Freeman trying to break down a door with a toothpick I began to think my client was going to sail through. But it never pays to think you’re safe until your client is off the stand and sitting next to you. Freeman had at least one card up her sleeve and she eventually played it.

“When Mr. Haller asked you a little while ago if you had committed this crime, you said you were not violent. You said you were a schoolteacher and that you weren’t violent, do you remember that?”

“Yes, it’s true.”

“But isn’t it true that you were forced to change schools and undergo anger-management treatment four years ago when you struck a student with a three-sided ruler?”

I quickly stood and objected and asked for a sidebar. The judge allowed us to approach.

“Judge,” I whispered before Perry even asked, “there’s nothing in any of the discovery about a three-sided ruler. Where’s this coming from?”

“Judge,” Freeman whispered before Perry even asked, “it’s new information that just came to us late last week. We had to verify it.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “You’re going to say you didn’t have her full teaching record from the get-go? You expect us to believe that?”

“You can believe whatever you want,” Freeman responded. “We didn’t offer it in discovery because I had no intention of bringing it up until your client started testifying about her nonviolent history. This obviously puts a lie to that and has become fair game.”

I turned my attention back to Perry.

“Judge, her excuse doesn’t matter. She’s not playing by the rules of discovery. The question should be stricken and she should not be allowed to pursue this line of questioning.”

“Judge, this is-”

“Counsel is right, Ms. Freeman. You can save it for rebuttal, provided you come up with the witnesses, but you’re not going to bring it in here. It should have been part of discovery.”

We returned to our positions. I would now have to put Cisco on the incident because no doubt Freeman would be bringing it up again later. This annoyed me because one of the first assignments I had given Cisco when we got the case was to completely vet our client. This event had somehow been missed.

The judge instructed the jury to disregard the prosecutor’s question and then told Freeman to proceed with a different line of questioning. But I knew that bell had been rung loud and clear for the jury. The question might have been wiped from the record but not from their minds.

Freeman went on with her cross-examination, potshotting Trammel here and there but not penetrating the armor of her direct testimony. My client could not be shaken from her contention that she was not walking near WestLand National on the morning of the murder. With the exception of the three-sided ruler, it was a damn good start because it put the jury on immediate notice that we were engaged in an affirmative defense. We would not be going down without a fight.

The prosecutor took it right on up to five o’clock, thus preserving the ability to come up with something overnight and hit Trammel with it in the morning. The judge recessed for the evening and everybody was sent home. Except for me. I was heading back to the office. There was still more to do.

Before leaving the courtroom I huddled with my client at the defense table and whispered angrily to her.

“Thanks for telling me about the three-sided ruler. What else don’t I know?”

“Nothing, that was stupid.”

“What was stupid? That you hit a kid with a ruler or that you didn’t tell me?”

“It was four years ago and he deserved it. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

“It’s not going to be your choice. Freeman can still bring it up on rebuttal, so you better start thinking about what you’re going to say.”

A look of concern creased her face.

“How can she? The judge told the jury to forget it was brought up.”

“She can’t bring it up on cross but she’ll find a way to bring it up later. There are different rules about rebuttal. So you’d better tell me all about it and anything else I should know but you’ve neglected to tell me.”

She glanced over my shoulder and I knew she was looking for Herb Dahl. She had no idea what Dahl had revealed to me or about the double-agent work he was doing.

“Dahl isn’t here,” I said. “Talk to me, Lisa. What else should I know?”

When I got back to the office I found Cisco in the reception area, hands in his pockets and chatting up Lorna, who was behind the front desk.

“What going on?” I demanded. “I thought you were going to the airport to get Shami.”

“I sent Bullocks,” Cisco said. “She got her and is on the way back.”

“She should have stayed here preparing for her testimony, which will probably come tomorrow. You’re the investigator, you should’ve gone to the airport. Both of them together probably can’t carry the dummy.”

“Relax, Boss, they got it covered. And they’re fine together. Bullocks just called from the road. So you keep your cool and we’ll do the rest.”

I stared hard at him. I didn’t care if he was six inches taller and seventy-five more pounds of muscle. I’d had it. I’d been carrying everything and I’d had it.

“You want me to relax? You want me to be cool? Fuck you, Cisco. We just started the defense and the problem is we don’t have a defense. I have a lot of talk and a dummy. The problem is, unless you get your hands out of your fucking pockets and find me something, I’m the one who is going to look like the dummy. So don’t tell me to be cool, okay? I’m the one who’s standing in front of the jury every fucking day.”

First Lorna burst out laughing and soon Cisco followed.

“You think this is funny?” I said in full outrage. “It’s not funny. What the fuck makes it so fucking funny?”

Cisco held up his hands in a calming gesture until he could contain himself.

“Sorry, Boss, it’s just that when you get yourself worked up… and that thing about the dummy.”

This made Lorna start another cycle of laughter. I made a mental note to fire her after the trial. In fact, I’d fire them both. That would really be funny.

“Look,” Cisco said, apparently sensing I wasn’t picking up on the humor of the situation. “Go into your office, take your tie off and sit down in the big chair. I’ll go get my stuff and I’ll show you what I’ve got working. I’ve been dealing with Sacramento all day so the going is slow but I’m getting close.”

“Sacramento? The state crime lab?”

“No, corporate records. Bureaucrats, Mickey. That’s why it’s taking forever. But you don’t have to worry. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

“Kind of hard to do my job when I’m waiting on you to do yours.”

I headed toward my office. I threw a baleful look at Lorna as I went by. It only served to make her laugh again.

Forty

I was uninvited and unexpected. But having not seen my daughter in a week-I’d had to cancel Wednesday night pancakes because of the trial-and leaving things last time on a rough note with Maggie, I felt compelled to drop by the home they shared in Sherman Oaks. Maggie opened the door with a frown, apparently after seeing me through the peephole.

“Bad night for surprise visitors, Haller,” she said.

“Well, I’ll just visit Hayley for a bit, if that’s okay.”

“She’s the one having the bad night.”

She stepped back and to the side to allow me to enter.

“Really?” I said. “What’s the problem?”

“She’s got a ton of homework and she doesn’t want to be bothered by anyone, even me.”

I looked from the entry area into the living room but didn’t see my daughter.

“She’s in her room with the door closed. Good luck. I’ll be cleaning up in the kitchen.”

She left me there and I looked up the stairs. Hayley’s bedroom was up there and all at once the climb looked forbidding. My daughter was a teenager and subject to all the mood swings that come with that designation. You never knew what you were going to get.

I made the journey anyway and my polite knock on her bedroom door was greeted with a “What?”

“It’s Dad. Can I come in?”

“Dad, I have a ton of homework!”

“So that means I can’t come in?”

“Whatever.”

I opened the door and stepped in. She was in the bed and under the covers. She was surrounded by binders, books and a laptop.

“And you can’t kiss me. I have zit cream on.”

I came to the side of the bed and leaned down. I managed to kiss her on the top of the head before the arm came up to push me away.

“How much more have you got?”

“I told you, tons.”

The math book was open and facedown so she wouldn’t lose her place. I picked it up to see what the lesson was.

“Don’t lose my spot!”

Sheer panic, end-of-the-world angst in her voice.

“Don’t worry. I’ve been handling books going on forty years now.”

As far as I could tell, the lesson was about equations assigning values to X and Y and I was completely lost. They were teaching her things beyond my reach. It was too bad it was stuff she’d never use.

“Boy, I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to.”

“I know, neither can Mom. I’m all alone in the world.”

“Aren’t we all.”

I realized that she hadn’t looked up at me once since I’d been in the room. It was depressing.

“Well, I just wanted to say hi. I’ll leave now.”

“Bye. I love you.”

Still no eye contact.

“Good night.”

I closed the door behind me and went down to the kitchen. The other female who seemed to be able to control my mood at her whim was sitting on a stool at the breakfast counter. She had a glass of chardonnay in front of her and an open file.

She at least looked up at me. She didn’t smile but she made eye contact and I took that as a victory in this home. Her eyes then went back to the file.

“What are you working on?”

“Oh, just refreshing. I have a prelim tomorrow on a strong arm and I haven’t really looked at it since I filed it.”

The usual grind of the justice system. She didn’t offer me a glass of wine because she knew I didn’t drink. I leaned against the counter opposite the breakfast bar.

“So I’m thinking of running for district attorney,” I said.

Her head shot up and she looked at me.

“What?”

“Nothing, just trying to get somebody’s attention around here.”

“Sorry, but it’s a busy night. I’ve got to work.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll go. Your pal Andy’s probably burning the oil, too.”

“I think so. I was supposed to meet her for a drink after work but she canceled. What did you do to her, Haller?”

“Oh, I clipped her wings a little bit at the end of her case, then came out on mine like gangbusters. She’s probably trying to figure out how to counter.”

“Probably.”

She went back to her file. I was clearly being wordlessly dismissed. First my daughter, now the ex-wife I still loved. I did not want to go gentle into that good night.

“So what about us?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You and me. Things didn’t end so good the other night at Dan Tana’s.”

She closed the file, slid it aside and looked up at me. Finally.

“Some nights are like that. It doesn’t change anything.”

I pushed off the counter and came to the breakfast bar. I leaned down on two elbows. We were eye to eye.

“So if nothing’s changed, then what about us? What are we doing?”

She shrugged.

“I want to try again. I still love you, Mags. You know that.”

“I also know that it didn’t work before. We are the kind of people who bring home what we do. It wasn’t good.”

“I’m beginning to think my client is innocent and that she was set up and that even with all of that I still might not be able to get her off. How would you like to bring that home with you?”

“If it bothers you so much then maybe you should run for DA. The job’s open, you know.”

“Yeah, maybe I just will.”

“Haller for the People.”

“Yeah.”

I hung around for a few minutes after that but could tell I wasn’t making any headway with Maggie. She had a skill for freezing you out and making you feel it.

I told her I was going and to tell Hayley I said good night. There was no rush to bar the door before I could exit. But Maggie did call one thing after me that made me feel good.

“Just give it time, Michael.”

I turned back to her.

“What are you talking about?”

“Not what, who. Hayley… and me.”

I nodded and said I would.

Driving back to my place I let the accomplishments of the court day boost my spirits. I started thinking about the next witness I planned to put on the stand after Lisa. The task ahead was still formidable but it didn’t help to think that far in advance. You start with a day’s momentum and go from there.

I took Beverly Glen up to the top, then drove Mulholland east toward Laurel Canyon. I got glimpses of the city lights both to the north and the south. Los Angeles spread out like a shimmering ocean. I kept the music off and the windows down. I let the chill air work like loneliness into my bones.

Forty-one

All that had been won the day before was lost in a span of twenty minutes Friday morning when Andrea Freeman continued her cross-examination of Lisa Trammel. Being sandbagged by the prosecution in the midst of trial is certainly never a good thing, but in many ways it is acceptable as part of the game. It’s one of the unknown unknowns. But being sandbagged by your own client is the worst thing that can happen. One of the unknown unknowns should never be the person you are defending.

With Trammel in place on the witness stand, Freeman went to the lectern carrying a thick document with crisp edges and one pink Post-it sticking out of the pages. I thought it was a prop, designed to distract me, and paid it no mind. She started things off with what I call setup questions. These were designed to get a witness’s answers on the record before they were proven false. I could see the trap forming but wasn’t sure where the net was going to fall.

“Now, you testified yesterday that you did not know Mitchell Bondurant, is that correct?”

“Yes, correct.”

“You never met him?”

“Never.”

“Never spoke to him?”

“Never.”

“But you tried to meet him and speak to him, right?”

“Yes, I went to the bank twice to try to meet him to talk about my home, but he wouldn’t see me.”

“Do you remember when you made those efforts?”

“They were last year. But I don’t remember the exact dates.”

Freeman then seemed to shift directions, but I knew it was all part of a careful plan.

She asked Trammel a series of seemingly innocuous questions about her FLAG organization and its purpose. Much of this had already been touched on during my direct examination. I still couldn’t see the play. I glanced over at the document with the bright pink Post-it and started to believe it was no prop. Maggie had told me yesterday that Freeman was working the night shift. Now I knew why. She had obviously found something. I leaned across the defense table in the direction of the witness stand, as if being closer to the source would speed the arrival of understanding.

“And you have a website that you use to support the efforts of FLAG, don’t you?” Freeman asked.

“Yes,” Trammel replied. “California Foreclosure Fighters dot com.”

“And you are also on Facebook, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

I could tell by the timid, cautious way in which my client said that one word that this was where the trap was set. It was the first I’d heard of Lisa on Facebook.

“For those on the jury who might not know, what exactly is Facebook, Ms. Trammel?”

I leaned back in my chair and surreptitiously pulled my phone. I quickly tapped out a text to Bullocks telling her to drop whatever she was doing and see what she could find out about Lisa’s Facebook page. See what’s there, I said.

“Well, it’s a networking site and it lets me stay in touch with people involved in FLAG. I post updates on what is happening. I tell them where we are going to meet or march, things like that. People can set it up so they get automatic notifications on their phone or computer whenever I put a post on there. It has been very useful in our organizing.”

“You can post on your Facebook page right from your phone, too, correct?”

“Yes, I can.”

“And this digital location where you make these posts is called your ‘wall,’ correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you have used your wall to do more than just send out messages about protest marches, haven’t you?”

“Sometimes.”

“You gave regular updates on your own foreclosure case as well, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I wanted it to be like a personal journal of a foreclosure.”

“Did you also use Facebook to alert the media to your activities?”

“Yes, that too.”

“So in order to receive this information someone would have to sign up as a friend, correct?”

“Yes, that’s how it works. People who want to friend me make the request, I accept them and then they have access to my wall.”

“How many friends do you have?”

I didn’t know where this was going but I knew it wasn’t going to be good. I stood and objected, telling the judge that it appeared we were on a fishing expedition with no defined purpose or relevance. Freeman promised that relevance would become clear very soon and Perry let her go on.

“You can answer the question,” he said to Trammel.

“Um, I think… well, last time I checked I had over a thousand.”

“When did you first join Facebook?”

“Last year. I think it was in July or August when I filed papers for FLAG and started the website. I did it all at once.”

“So let’s make this very clear. As far as the website goes, anybody with a computer and the Internet has access, correct?”

“Right.”

“But your Facebook page is a little more private and personal. To gain access a person has to be accepted by you as a friend. Is that correct?”

“Yes, but I generally friend anybody who asks. I don’t know them all because there are too many. I just assume they’ve heard about our good work and are interested. I don’t turn anybody down. That’s how I got to a thousand in less than a year.”

“Okay, and you have been making regular posts on your wall since you joined Facebook, correct?”

“Pretty regular, yes.”

“In fact you’ve posted updates on this trial, have you not?”

“Yes, just my opinion of things.”

I could feel my temperature rising. My suit was beginning to feel like it was made of plastic and was trapping my body heat inside. I wanted to loosen my tie but knew if a juror saw such a move during this questioning, it would send a disastrous signal.

“Now, can anyone go on the page and post a message under your name?”

“No, just me. People can respond and make their own posts, but not under my name.”

“How many posts would you say you’ve put on your wall since last summer?”

“I have no idea. A lot.”

Freeman held up the thick document with the Post-it sticking out.

“Would you believe that you have posted more than twelve hundred times on your wall?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I do. I have every one of your posts printed right here. Your Honor, may I approach the witness with this document?”

Before the judge could respond I asked for a sidebar. Perry waved us up. Freeman brought the thick document with her.

“Your Honor, what’s going on?” I said. “I have the same objection I did yesterday to the prosecution’s deliberate avoidance of discovery. There has been nothing about this previously, and now she wants to introduce twelve hundred Facebook posts? Come on, Judge, this isn’t right.”

“There has been nothing in discovery because this Facebook account was unknown until last night.”

“Judge, if you believe that, I have some property west of Malibu I’d like to sell you.”

“Judge, yesterday afternoon my office came into possession of a printout of all posts made by the defendant to her Facebook page. I was pointed to a set of posts from last September that are relevant to this case and the defendant’s own testimony. If I can be allowed to proceed this will become very obvious, even to counsel.”

“ ‘Came into possession’?” I said. “What’s that mean? Judge, you have to be an invited friend to see my client’s Facebook wall. If the government engaged in subter-”

“It was given to me by a member of the media who is friends with the defendant on Facebook,” Freeman interjected. “There was no subterfuge. But its source should not be at issue here. Res ipsa loquitur-the document speaks for itself, Judge, and I am sure the defendant can identify her own Facebook posts for the jury. Counsel is simply engaged in trying to prevent the jurors from seeing what he knows is evidence of his client’s-”

“Judge, I have no idea what she’s even talking about. The first I heard about a Facebook page was during her cross. Counsel’s view of-”

“Very well, Ms. Freeman,” Perry interrupted. “Give her the document but get to the point quickly.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

As I sat back down I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pulled it and read the text under the table and out of the judge’s view. It was from Bullocks and she simply said she had access to Lisa’s Facebook wall and was working on my request. I typed with one hand, telling her to check the posts from September, then pocketed the phone.

Freeman gave Trammel the printout and had her verify the most recent posts as coming from her Facebook wall.

“Thank you, Ms. Trammel. Could you now go to the page I have marked with the Post-it?”

Lisa reluctantly did as instructed.

“You will see that I have highlighted a series of three of your posts from last September seventh. Could you please read the first one to the jury, including the time of the posting?”

“Um, one forty-six. ‘I am heading into WestLand to see Bondurant. This time I’m not taking no for an answer.’ ”

“Now, you just pronounced the name Bondurant but it is misspelled, is it not, in the post?”

“Yes.”

“How is it spelled in your post?”

“B-O-N-D-U-R-U-N-T.”

“Bondurunt. I notice that the name is spelled that way on all posts in which he is mentioned. Was that intentional or a mistake?”

“He was taking away my house.”

“Could you please answer the question?”

“Yes, it was intentional. I called him Bondurunt because he was not a good man.”

I could feel the sweat moving through my hair. The hidden Lisa was about to come out.

“Could you please read the next highlighted post? With the time.”

“Two eighteen. ‘They wouldn’t let me see him again. So unfair.’ ”

“And now please read the next post and time?”

“Two twenty-one. ‘Found his spot. I’m going to wait for him in the garage.’ ”

The quiet in the courtroom was as loud as a train.

“Ms. Trammel, did you wait for Mitchell Bondurant in the parking garage at WestLand National on September seventh of last year?”

“Yes, but not that long. I realized it was dumb and he wouldn’t even be out until the end of the day. So I left.”

“Did you go back to that garage and wait for him on the morning of his murder?”

“No, I didn’t! I wasn’t there.”

“You saw him in the coffee shop, you became enraged and knew just where he would be, didn’t you? You went to the garage and waited for him and then-”

“Objection!” I yelled.

“-you killed him with the hammer, didn’t you?”

“No! No! No!” Trammel yelled. “I didn’t do it!”

She burst into tears, loudly moaning like some kind of cornered animal.

“Your Honor, objection! She’s badgering the-”

Perry seemed to snap out of some reverie as he watched Trammel.

“Sustained!”

Freeman stopped. The courtroom was again silent except for the sound of my client sobbing. The courtroom deputy came over with a box of tissues and Lisa’s tears finally subsided.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Freeman finally said. “I have no further questions.”

I asked for an early morning break so my client could compose herself and I’d have time to decide whether to continue on redirect. The judge granted the request, probably because he felt sorry for me.

Lisa’s tears did not undercut the fact that Freeman had been masterful in setting her trap. But all was not lost. The best thing about a setup defense is that almost every piece of damning evidence or testimony-even when it comes from your own client-can become part of the setup.

After the jury was led out I walked up to the witness stand to console my client. I pulled two tissues out of the box and handed them to her. She took them and started dabbing her eyes. I cupped my hand over the microphone to avoid broadcasting our conversation across the courtroom. I tried my best to control my tone.

“Lisa, why the hell am I finding out about Facebook now? Do you have any idea what this could do to our case?”

“I thought you knew! I friended Jennifer.”

“My Jennifer?”

“Yes!”

Nothing like having both your junior associate and your client know more than you.

“But what about these posts from September? Do you know how damaging they are?”

“I’m sorry! I totally forgot about them. They were so long ago.”

It looked like another cascade of tears was coming. I tried to head it off.

“Well, we’re lucky. We might be able to make this work for us.”

She stopped dabbing at her face with the tissue and looked at me.

“Really?”

“Maybe. But I need to go outside and call Bullocks.”

“Who’s Bullocks?”

“Sorry, it’s what we call Jennifer. You sit tight and pull yourself together.”

“Am I going to be asked more questions?”

“Yes. I want to do some redirect.”

“Then can I go fix my face?”

“That’s a good idea. Just don’t take long.”

I finally got out to the hallway and called Bullocks at the office.

“Did you see the entries on September seventh?” I asked by way of a greeting.

“Just saw them. If Freeman-”

“She already did.”

“Shit!”

“Yeah, well, it was bad but there might be a way out. Lisa said you’re her friend on Facebook?”

“Yes, and I’m sorry. I knew she had a page. It never occurred to me to go back and look at previous posts on her wall.”

“We’ll talk about it later. Right now, I need to know if you have access to her list of friends.”

“I’m looking at it right now.”

“Okay, first I want you to print out all the names, give them to Lorna and have Rojas drive her over here with them. Right away. Then I want you and Cisco to start working the names yourselves, find out who these people are.”

“There’s more than a thousand. You want us to run them all down?”

“If you have to. I’m looking for a connection to Opparizio.”

“Opparizio? Why would-”

“Trammel was a threat to him, just like she was a threat to the bank. She was protesting fraud in foreclosure. The fraud was being committed by Opparizio’s company. We know through Herb Dahl that she was on Opparizio’s radar. It stands to reason that somebody in that company was checking on her through Facebook. Lisa just testified that she accepted anybody who asked to friend her. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a name we know.”

There was a silence and then Bullocks tumbled to what I was thinking.

“By tracking her on Facebook they would know what she was up to.”

“And they could have known that at one time she waited for Bondurant in the garage.”

“And then they could have constructed his murder around that record.”

“Bullocks, I hate to tell you this but you’re thinking like a defense lawyer.”

“We’ll get right on this.”

I could hear the urgency in her voice.

“Good, but first print that list and get it over to me. I start redirect in about fifteen minutes. Tell Lorna to walk it right in to me. Then if you and Cisco find something, text it to me right away.”

“You got it.”

Forty-two

Freeman was still swelling with pride over her morning victory when I got back to the courtroom. She sauntered over, folded her arms and leaned her hip against the defense table.

“Haller, tell me that was just an act, you not knowing about the Facebook page.”

“Sorry, I can’t tell you that.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Uh-oh, sounds like somebody needs a client who isn’t hiding things… or maybe a new investigator who can find them.”

I ignored the taunt, hoping she would stop gloating and go back to her table. I started flipping through the pages of a legal pad, pretending I was looking for something.

“That was like manna from heaven last night when I got that printout and read those posts.”

“You must’ve been very pleased with yourself. Which asshole reporter gave it to you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I will know. Whichever one breaks out the next exclusive from the DA’s office will be the one who helped you out. They’ll never get so much as a ‘no comment’ from me.”

She chuckled. My threat had nothing to do with her. She had gotten the posts out before the jury and nothing else mattered. I finally looked up at her and squinted.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what? That the jury now knows your client was previously at the scene of the crime-proving that she had knowledge of where to find the victim? No, I completely get that.”

I looked away and shook my head.

“You’ll see. Excuse me.”

I stood up and headed toward the witness stand. Lisa Trammel had just returned from the restroom. She had redrawn the makeup on her eyes. When she started to speak, I cupped the microphone again.

“What were you doing talking to that bitch? She’s a horrible person,” she said.

A bit stunned by the unbridled anger, I looked back at Freeman, now sitting at the prosecution table.

“She’s not horrible and she’s not a bitch, okay? She’s just doing-”

“Yes, she is. You don’t know.”

I leaned close to her and whispered.

“And what, you do? Look, Lisa, don’t go bipolar on me. You’ve got less than a half hour of testimony still to go. Let’s just get through it without cluing the jury in to your issues. Okay?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about but it’s very hurtful.”

“Well, I’m sorry about that. I’m trying to defend you and it doesn’t help me to have to find out about things like Facebook when you’re being cross-examined by the prosecution.”

“I told you, I’m sorry. But your associate knew.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t.”

“Look, you said before that you might be able to make this work in our favor. How?”

“Simple. If someone was going to set you up, this Facebook page would have been a damn good place to start.”

Talk about manna from heaven. Her eyes looked upward and pure relief colored her face as she came to understand the tactic I was about to employ. The anger that had darkened her expression only a minute before was now completely gone. It was just then that the judge entered the courtroom, ready to go. I nodded to my client and went back to the defense table as the judge instructed the deputy to bring in the jury.

Once everyone was situated the judge asked if I wished to question my client on redirect examination. I jumped up from my seat like I had been waiting ten years for the opportunity. It cost me. A jolt of pain moved like lightning across my torso. The ribs may have mended but the wrong move still lit me up.

Just as I walked to the lectern the rear door of the courtroom opened and Lorna came in. Perfect timing. Carrying a file and a motorcycle helmet, she walked swiftly down the center aisle to the gate.

“Your Honor, could I have a moment with my associate?”

“Make it fast, please.”

I met Lorna at the gate and she handed over the file.

“That’s the list of all her Facebook friends, but as of when I left, Dennis and Jennifer hadn’t found any connection to you know who.”

It was strange hearing Cisco and Bullocks referred to by their real names. I looked down at the helmet she carried. I whispered.

“You rode Cisco’s motorcycle over here?”

“You wanted it quick and I knew I could park up close.”

“Where’s Rojas?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t answer his cell.”

“Great. Listen, I want you to leave Cisco’s bike where it is and walk back to the office. I don’t want you riding that suicide machine.”

“I’m not your wife anymore. I’m his.”

Just as she whispered this I looked over her shoulder and saw Maggie McPherson sitting in the gallery. I wondered if she was there for me or for Freeman.

“Look,” I said. “That’s got nothing to do with-”

“Mr. Haller?” the judge intoned from behind me. “We’re waiting.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said loudly without turning around. Then in a whisper to Lorna, I said, “Walk back.”

I returned to the lectern, opening the file. It contained nothing more than raw data-a thousand-plus names, listed in two columns per page-but I looked at it as if I had just been given the Holy Grail.

“Okay, Lisa, let’s talk about your Facebook page. You testified earlier that you have more than a thousand friends. Are all of these people personally known to you?”

“No, not at all. Because so many people know about me through FLAG, I just assume that when someone wants to friend me, they are supportive of that cause. I just accept them.”

“So then the posts on your wall are open to a significant number of people who are Facebook friends but in reality complete strangers to you. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.

“So any one of these strangers who was interested in your movements, past or present, could just go to your Facebook page and see the posts on your wall, am I right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“For example, someone could go to that page right now and scroll through your updates and see that back in September of last year you hung out in the garage at WestLand, waiting for Mitchell Bondurant, correct?”

“Yes, they could.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and, using the lectern as a blind, brought it up and put it down on the work surface. While leafing through the printout of names with one hand, I used the other to open the text I had just received. The message was from Bullocks.

3rd page, right column, 5th from bottom-Don Driscoll. We have a Donald Driscoll as former ALOFT in IT. We’re working it.

Bingo. Now I had something I could hit out of the park.

“Your Honor, I would like to show the witness this document. It is a printout of the names of people who have friended Lisa Trammel on Facebook.”

Freeman, seeing her victorious morning in jeopardy, objected but the judge overruled without argument from me, saying Freeman had opened this door herself. I gave my client the list and returned to the lectern.

“Can you please go to the third page of the printout and read the name that is fifth up from the bottom in the right-side column?”

Freeman objected again, stating that the list was unverified. The judge advised her to challenge it on re-cross if she thought I was introducing a bogus exhibit. I told Lisa she could read the name.

“Don Driscoll.”

“Thank you. Now is that name familiar to you?”

“Not really, no.”

“But he is one of your Facebook friends.”

“I know but like I said, I don’t know everybody who friends me. There are too many.”

“Well, do you recall if Don Driscoll ever contacted you directly and identified himself as working for a company called ALOFT?”

Freeman objected and asked for a sidebar. We were called to the bench.

“Judge, what’s going on here? Counsel can’t just throw names around. I want an offer of proof that he isn’t just throwing darts at the list and picking out a name.”

Perry nodded thoughtfully.

“I agree, Mr. Haller.”

My phone was still on the lectern. If I had gotten any updates from Bullocks they weren’t going to help me now.

“Judge, we could go into chambers and get my investigator on the phone, if you wish. But I would ask the court for some leeway here. The prosecution opened up this Facebook issue just this morning and I am trying to respond. We can hold things up for an offer of proof or we can wait until the defense calls Don Driscoll to the stand and Ms. Freeman can have at him and see if I am mischaracterizing who he is.”

“You are going to call him?”

“I don’t think I have any choice in light of the state’s decision to pursue my client’s old Facebook posts.”

“Very well, we’ll wait for Mr. Driscoll to testify. Don’t disappoint me, Mr. Haller, and come into court and say you changed your mind. I won’t be happy if that happens.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

We returned to our places and I asked Lisa the question again.

“Did Don Driscoll ever contact you on Facebook or anywhere else and say he worked for ALOFT?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Are you familiar with ALOFT?”

“Yes. That is the name of the foreclosure mill that banks like WestLand use to file all the paperwork on their foreclosures.”

“Was this company involved in the foreclosure of your home?”

“Yes, totally.”

“Is ALOFT an acronym? Do you know what it stands for?”

“A. Louis Opparizio Financial Technologies. That’s the name of the company.”

“Now, what would it mean to you if this person Donald Driscoll, who was one of your friends on Facebook, was employed by ALOFT?”

“It would mean that somebody from ALOFT was getting all my posts.”

“So, essentially, this person Driscoll would know where you’ve been and where you’re going, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“He would have been privy to your posts from last September that said you had found Mr. Bondurant’s parking spot at the bank and that you were going to wait for him, correct?”

“Yes, correct.”

“Thank you, Lisa. I have nothing further.”

On my way back to my seat I had to steal a glance at Freeman. She was no longer beaming. She was staring straight ahead. I then looked out into the gallery for Maggie, but she was gone.

Forty-three

The afternoon belonged to Shamiram Arslanian, my forensics expert from New York. I had used Shami to great effect in previous trials and that was again the plan here. She had degrees from Harvard, MIT and John Jay, was currently a research fellow at the latter, and had a winning and telegenic personality. On top of that she had an integrity that shone through on the witness stand with every word of testimony. She was a defense lawyer’s dream. No doubt, she was a gun for hire but she took the job only if she believed in the science and in what she was going to say on the stand. What’s more, there was a bonus for me in this case. She was the exact same height as my client.

During the lunch break Arslanian had set up a mannequin in front of the jury box. It was a male figure standing exactly six foot two and a half inches tall, the same height as Mitchell Bondurant in his shoes. It wore a suit similar to the one Bondurant was wearing on the morning of his murder and the exact same shoes. The mannequin had joints that allowed for a full range of natural human motion.

After court resumed and my witness took the stand, I took my time going through her voluminous bona fides. I wanted the jurors to understand this woman’s accomplishments and to like her offhand manner of answering questions. I also wanted them to realize that her skills and knowledge put her on a different plane than the state’s forensic witnesses. A higher plane.

Once the impression had been made I got down to the business of the mannequin.

“Now, Dr. Arslanian, I asked you to review aspects of the murder of Mitchell Bondurant, is that true?”

“Yes, you did.”

“And in particular I wanted to examine the physics of the crime, true?”

“Yes, you basically asked me to find out if your client could’ve actually done the crime in the way the police said she did.”

“And did you conclude that she could have?”

“Well, yes and no. I determined that yes, she could have done it but it wouldn’t have been in the manner the detectives out here were saying.”

“Can you explain your conclusion?”

“I would rather demonstrate, using myself in the place of your client.”

“How tall are you, Dr. Arslanian?”

“I’m five foot three in my stocking feet, same height that I was told Lisa Trammel is.”

“And did I send you a hammer that was a duplicate of the hammer recovered by police and declared to be the murder weapon?”

“Yes, you did. And I brought it with me.”

She held the duplicate hammer up from the shelf at the front of the witness box.

“And did you get photos from me depicting the gardening shoes that were seized from the defendant’s unlocked garage and later found to have the victim’s blood on them?”

“Yes, you did that, too, and I was able to procure an exact duplicate pair on the Internet. I’m wearing them now.”

She kicked one leg out from the side of the witness box, showing off the waterproof shoe. There was a polite round of laughter in the courtroom. I asked the judge to allow my witness to conduct the demonstration of her findings and he agreed over objection from the prosecution.

Arslanian left the witness box with the hammer and proceeded with her demonstration.

“The question I was asking myself was, could a woman the defendant’s height, which is five foot three like mine, have struck the fatal blow on the crown of the head of a man who is six foot two and a half in his work shoes? Now the hammer, which adds about an extra ten inches in reach, is helpful in this regard, but is it enough? That was my question.”

“Doctor, if I can interrupt, can you tell us about your mannequin and how you prepared it for your testimony?”

“Of course. Everybody, this is Manny and I use him all the time when I testify in trials and when I conduct tests in my lab back at John Jay. He has all the joints like a real human being and he comes apart if I need him to and the best thing is he never talks back or says I look fat in my jeans.”

Again she scored some polite laughter.

“Thank you, Doctor,” I said quickly before the judge could tell her to keep it serious. “If you could go on with your demonstration.”

“Sure. Well, what I did was use the autopsy report and the photos and drawings to exactly locate the spot on the skull of the mannequin where the fatal blow was struck. Now we know because of the notch in the striking face that Mr. Bondurant was struck from behind. We also know by the even depth of the depression fracture to the skull that he was struck evenly on the top of the head. So by attaching the hammer at a flush angle like so…”

Climbing onto a short stepladder next to Manny, she was able to place the strike face of the hammer against the crown of the skull and then hold it in place with two bands that went under the faceless mannequin’s chin. She then stepped down and gestured to the hammer and its handle, which was extending at a right angle and parallel to the floor.

“So as you can see, this doesn’t work. I’m five four in these shoes, the defendant is five four in these shoes, and the handle is way up here.”

She reached up to the hammer. It was impossible for her to grasp it properly.

“What this tells us is that the fatal blow could not have been struck by the defendant with the victim in this position-standing up straight, head level. Now, what other positions are available that do work with what we know? We know the attack was from behind so if the victim was leaning forward-say he dropped his keys or something-you see that it still doesn’t work because I can’t reach the hammer over his back.”

As she spoke she manipulated the mannequin, bending it over at the waist, and then reaching toward the hammer’s handle from the rear.

“No, doesn’t work. Now for two days, between classes, I looked for other ways to strike the blow, but the only way I could make it work was if the victim was on his knees or crouched down for some reason, or if he happened to be looking up at the ceiling.”

She manipulated the mannequin again and stood it up straight. She then bent the head back at the neck and the handle came down. She grasped it and the position looked comfortable, but the mannequin was looking almost straight up.

“Now, according to the autopsy there were significant abrasions on both knees and one even had a cracked patella. These were described as impact injuries coming from Mr. Bondurant’s fall to the ground after he was struck. He dropped to his knees first and then fell forward, face-first. What we call a dead fall. So with that kind of injury to the knees, I rule out that he was kneeling or crouched close to the ground. That leaves only this.”

She gestured toward the mannequin’s head, angled sharply back with the faceplate up. I checked the jury. Everybody was watching intently. It was like show-and-tell in first grade.

“Okay, Doctor, if you put the angle of the head back to even or just slightly elevated, did you come up with a range of heights for the real perpetrator of this crime?”

Freeman jumped up and objected in a tone of complete exasperation.

“Your Honor, this isn’t science. This is junk science. The whole thing is smoke and mirrors, and now he’s asking her to give the height of someone who could have done it? It is impossible to know exactly what posture or neck angle the victim of this horrible-”

“Your Honor, closing arguments are not till next week,” I interjected. “If the state has an objection then counsel should state it to the court instead of speaking to the jury and trying to sell-”

“All right,” the judge said. “Both of you, stop it. Mr. Haller, you’ve been given wide latitude with this witness. But I was beginning to agree with Ms. Freeman until she got on her soapbox. Objection sustained.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Freeman said as though she had just been rescued from abandonment in a desert.

I composed myself, looked at my witness and her mannequin, then checked my notes and finally nodded. I’d gotten what I could.

“I have no further questions,” I said.

Freeman did have questions but try as she might to shake Shami Arslanian from her direct testimony and conclusions, the veteran prosecutor never got the veteran witness to concede an inch. Freeman worked her on cross for nearly forty minutes but the closest she got to scoring a point for the prosecution was to get Arslanian to acknowledge that there was no way of knowing for sure what happened in the garage when Bondurant was murdered. The judge had announced earlier in the week that Friday would be a short day because of a districtwide judges’ meeting planned for late in the afternoon. So there was no afternoon break and we worked until almost four before Perry recessed the trial for the weekend. We moved into the two-day break with me feeling like I had the upper hand. We had weathered the state’s case by potshotting much of the evidence, then closed out the week with Lisa Trammel’s denial and claim to be the victim of a setup, and my forensic witness’s supposition that it was physically impossible for the defendant to commit the crime. Unless, of course, she happened to strike the fatal blow to the victim while he was looking straight up at the ceiling of the parking garage.

I believed these were powerful seeds of doubt. Things felt good to me and when I finished packing my briefcase, I lingered at the defense table, looking through a file for something that wasn’t really there. I was half expecting Freeman to come over and beg me to sell my client a plea bargain.

But it didn’t happen. When I looked up from my phony busywork she was gone.

I took the elevator down to two. The judges might all be getting off early for a meeting on the eroding rules of courtroom decorum, but I figured the DA’s office was still working until five. I asked at the counter for Maggie McPherson and was allowed back. She shared an office with another deputy DA but luckily he was on vacation. We were alone. I pulled the missing man’s chair away from his desk and sat down in front of Maggie.

“I came by court a couple times today,” she said. “Watched some of your direct with the lady from John Jay. She’s a good witness.”

“Yeah, she’s good. And I saw you there. I didn’t know who you were there for-me or Freeman.”

She smiled.

“Maybe I was there for myself. I still learn things from you, Haller.”

Now I smiled.

“Maggie McFierce learning from me? Really?”

“Well-”

“No, don’t answer that.”

We both laughed.

“Either way, I’m glad you came by,” I said. “What’s going on this weekend with you and Hay?”

“I don’t know. We’ll be around. You have to work, I guess.”

I nodded.

“We have to track somebody down, I think. And Monday and Tuesday are going to be the biggest days of the trial. But maybe we can do a movie or something.”

“Sure.”

We were silent for a few moments. I had just come off one of my best days in court ever, yet I felt pierced by a growing sense of loss and sadness. I looked at my ex-wife.

“We’re never going to get back together, are we, Maggie?”

“What?”

“It just kind of hit me. You want it the way it is now. There when one of us really needs it, but never what it was. You won’t ever give me that.”

“Why do you want to talk about this now, Michael? You’re in the middle of a trial. You have-”

“I’m in the middle of my life, Mags. I just wish there was a way to make you and Hayley proud of me.”

She leaned forward and reached out. She put her hand against my cheek for a moment and then pulled it back.

“I think Hayley is proud of you.”

“Yeah? What about you?”

She smiled but it was sort of in a sad way.

“I think you should go home and not think about this or the trial or anything else just for tonight. Let your mind clear of the clutter. Relax.”

I shook my head.

“Can’t. I have a meeting at five with a snitch.”

“On the Trammel case? What snitch?”

“Never mind, and you’re just trying to change the subject. You’ll never completely forgive and forget, will you? It’s not in you and maybe it’s what makes you such a good prosecutor.”

“Oh, I’m so good all right. That’s why I’m stuck out here in Van Nuys filing armed robberies.”

“That’s politics. Has nothing to do with skills and dedication.”

“It doesn’t matter and I can’t have this conversation now. I’m still on the clock and you need to go see your snitch. Why don’t you call me tomorrow if you want to take Hayley to a movie. I’ll probably let you take her while I run errands or something.”

I stood up. I knew a losing cause when I saw one.

“Okay, I’m leaving. I’ll call you tomorrow. But I hope you’ll come with us to the movie.”

“We’ll see.”

“Right.”

I took the stairs down for a quick exit. I crossed the plaza and headed north on Sylmar toward Victory. I soon came to a motorcycle parked at the curb. I recognized it as Cisco’s. A prized ’63 H-D panhead with a black pearl tank and matching fenders. I chuckled. Lorna, my second ex-wife, had actually done what I had told her to do. It was a first.

She had left the bike unlocked, probably figuring it was safe in front of the courthouse and adjoining police station. I steered it away from the curb and walked it down Sylmar. I must’ve been quite a sight, a man in his nicest Corneliani suit pushing a Harley down the street, briefcase propped on the handlebars.

When I finally got back to the office it was only four thirty, a half hour before Herb Dahl was scheduled to come in for a briefing. I called for a staff meeting and tried plugging back into the case as a means of pushing out thoughts about the conversation with Maggie. I told Cisco where I had parked his bike and I asked for an update on the list of our client’s Facebook friends.

“First of all, why the hell didn’t I know about her Facebook account?” I asked.

“It’s my fault,” Aronson said quickly. “Like I told you earlier, I knew about it and even accepted her friend request. I just didn’t realize the significance of it.”

“I missed it, too,” Cisco said. “She friended me, too. I looked and didn’t see anything. I should’ve looked harder.”

“Me, too,” Lorna added.

I looked at their faces. It was a unified front.

“Great,” I said. “I guess all four of us missed it and our client didn’t bother to tell us. So the bunch of us, I guess we’re all fired.”

I paused for effect.

“Now, what about this name you came up with? This Don Driscoll, where did that come from and do we know anything more? Freeman could’ve unwittingly dropped the key to the whole case in our laps this morning, people. What’ve we got?”

Bullocks looked at Cisco, deferring.

“As you know,” he said, “ALOFT was sold in February to the LeMure Fund with Opparizio still in place to run it. Because LeMure is a publicly traded company, everything about the deal was monitored by the Federal Trade Commission and made public to shareholders. Including a list of employees that would remain at ALOFT following the transition. I have the list, dated December fifteenth.”

“So we started cross-referencing the ALOFT employees to the list of Lisa’s Facebook friends,” Bullocks said. “Luckily Donald Driscoll was early in the alphabet. We came up with him pretty quickly.”

I nodded, impressed.

“So who is Driscoll?”

“In the FTC docs his name was in a group listed under information technology,” Cisco said. “So what the hell, I called IT at ALOFT and asked for him. I was told that Donald Driscoll used to work there but his employment contract expired on February first and it wasn’t extended. He’s gone.”

“You’ve started the trace?” I asked.

“We have. But it’s a common name and that’s slowing us down. As soon as we have something, you’ll be the first to know.”

Running names from the private sector always took time. It wasn’t as easy as being a cop and simply typing a name into one of the many law enforcement databases.

“Don’t let up,” I said. “This could be the whole game right here.”

“Don’t worry, Boss,” Cisco said. “Nobody’s letting up.”

Forty-four

Donald Driscoll, thirty-one, formerly employed by ALOFT, lived in the Belmont Shore area of Long Beach. On Sunday morning I rode down with Cisco to tag Driscoll with a subpoena, the hope being that he would talk to me before I had to put him on the witness stand blind.

Rojas agreed to work on his day off to help make up for his misdeeds. He drove the Lincoln and we sat in the back, Cisco updating me on his conclusions regarding his latest investigations of the Bondurant murder. There was no doubt that the defense case was coming together and Driscoll just might be the witness who could cap it all off.

“You know,” I said, “we could actually win this thing if Driscoll cooperates and says what I think he’s going to say.”

“That’s a big if,” Cisco replied. “And look, we have to be prepared for anything with this guy. For all we know, he could be the guy. Do you know how tall he is? Six four. Has it on his driver’s license.”

I looked over at him.

“Which I wasn’t supposed to see but happened to get access to,” he said.

“Don’t tell me about any crimes, Cisco.”

“I’m just saying I saw the info on his license, that’s all.”

“Fine. Leave it at that. So what do you suggest we do when we get down there? I thought we were just going to knock on the door.”

“We are. But you still have to be careful.”

“I’ll be standing behind you.”

“Yeah, you’re a true friend.”

“I am. And by the way, if I put you on the stand tomorrow you’re going to have to come up with a shirt that has sleeves and a collar. Make yourself presentable, man. I don’t know how Lorna puts up with your shit.”

“So far she’s put up with it longer than she ever put up with yours.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

I turned and looked out the window. I had two ex-wives who were probably also my two best friends. But it didn’t go past that. I’d had them but couldn’t hold them. What did that say about me? I lived in a daydream that one day Maggie, my daughter and I would live together again as a family. The reality was, it was never going to happen.

“You all right, Boss?”

I turned back to Cisco.

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know. You’re looking a little shaky there. Why don’t you let me go knock on the door and if he’ll talk I’ll give you a bump on the cell and you come in.”

“No, we do it together.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Yeah, I’m the boss.”

But I felt like the loser. I decided right at that moment that I was going to change things and find a way to redeem myself. Right after the trial.

Belmont Shore had the feel of a rustic beach town even though it was part of Long Beach. Driscoll’s residence was a two-story, 1950s-style apartment building of aqua blue and white off Bayshore near the pier.

Driscoll’s place was on the second floor where an exterior walkway ran along the front of the building. Apartment 24 was halfway down. Cisco knocked and then took a position to the side of the door, leaving me standing there.

“Are you kidding?” I asked.

He just looked at me. He wasn’t.

I took a step to the side. We waited but nobody answered even though it was before ten on a Sunday morning. Cisco looked at me and raised his eyes as if to ask What do you want to do?

I didn’t answer. I turned to the railing and looked down at the parking lot in front. I saw some empty spaces and they were numbered. I pointed.

“Let’s find twenty-four and see if his car is here.”

“You go,” Cisco said. “I’ll check around up here.”

“What?”

I didn’t see anything to check around for. We were on a five-foot-wide walkway that ran in front of every second-floor apartment. No furniture, no bikes, just concrete.

“Just go check the parking lot.”

I headed back downstairs. After ducking to look under the front of three cars to get the number painted on the curb, I realized that the parking slot numbers did not correspond to the apartment numbers. It was a twelve-unit building, apartments 1 through 6 on the bottom and 21 through 26 up top. But the parking lot spaces were numbered 1 through 16. I took a guess that under that number scheme Driscoll had number 10 if each apartment got one space, which stood to reason since there were only sixteen spots and I saw that two were labeled as guest parking and two were marked for handicapped parking.

I was in the middle of turning these numbers in my head and looking at the ten-year-old BMW parked in slot 10 when Cisco called my name from the walkway above. I looked and he waved me up.

When I got back up there he was standing in the open door of apartment 24. He waved me in.

“He was asleep but he finally answered.”

I walked in and saw a disheveled man sitting on a couch in a sparsely furnished living room. His hair was sticking up in frozen curls and knots on the right side. He huddled with a blanket around his shoulders. Even so, I could tell he matched a photo Cisco had pulled off Donald Driscoll’s own Facebook account.

“That’s a lie,” he said. “I didn’t invite him in. He broke in.”

“No, you invited me,” Cisco said. “I have a witness.”

He pointed to me. The bleary-eyed man followed the finger and looked at me for the first time. I could see recognition in his eyes. I knew then that it was Driscoll and that we were on to something here.

“Hey, look, I don’t know what this-”

“Are you Donald Driscoll?” I asked.

“I’m not telling you shit, man. You can’t just break-”

“Hey!” Cisco yelled loudly.

The man jumped in his seat. Even I startled, not having expected Cisco’s new interviewing tactic.

“Just answer the question,” Cisco continued in a calmer voice. “Are you Donald Driscoll?”

“Who wants to know?”

“You know who wants to know,” I said. “You recognized me the moment you looked at me. And you know why we’re here, Donald, don’t you?”

I walked across the room, pulling the subpoena out of my windbreaker. Driscoll was tall but slightly built and vampire white, which was strange for a guy living a block from the beach. I dropped the folded document in his lap.

“What is this?” he said, slapping it onto the floor without even unfolding it.

“It’s a subpoena and you can throw it on the floor and choose not to read it but that doesn’t matter. You’ve been served, Donald. I have a witness and I am an officer of the court. You don’t show up tomorrow at nine to testify and you’ll be in jail on a charge of contempt by lunchtime.”

Driscoll reached down and grabbed the subpoena.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re going to get me killed.”

I glanced over at Cisco. We were definitely on to something.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that I can’t testify! If I come anywhere near that courthouse they’ll kill me. They’re probably watching this place right fucking now!”

I looked again at Cisco and then back down at the man on the couch.

“Who is going to kill you, Donald?”

“I’m not saying. Who the fuck do you think?”

He threw the subpoena at me and it bounced off my chest and fluttered to the ground. He jumped from the couch and started to break for the open door. The blanket fell and I saw he was wearing only gym shorts and a T-shirt. Before he made it three strides Cisco hit him with his body like an outside linebacker. Driscoll caromed into the wall and fell to the floor. A framed poster of a girl on a surfboard slid down the wall and the frame broke on the floor next to him.

Cisco calmly bent down, pulled Driscoll up and walked him right back to the couch. I stepped over to the door and closed it, just in case the wall banging brought out a curious neighbor. I then came back to the living room.

“You can’t run from this, Donald,” I said. “You tell us what you know and what you did and we can help you.”

“Help me get killed, you assholes. And I think you fucking broke my shoulder.”

He started working his arm and shoulder like he was warming up to pitch nine innings. He grimaced.

“How’s it feel?” I said.

“I told you, it feels broken. I felt something give.”

“You wouldn’t be able to move it,” Cisco said.

Cisco’s voice had a threatening tone to it, as if there would be further consequences if the shoulder actually was broken. When I spoke, my voice was calm and welcoming.

“What do you know, Donald? What would make you a danger to Opparizio?”

“I don’t know anything and I didn’t say that name-you did.”

“You have to understand something. You have been served with a valid subpoena. You show up and you testify or you stay in jail until you do. But think about this, Donald. If you testify about what you know about ALOFT and what you did, then you’re protected. Nobody will make a move against you because it would be obvious where it came from. It’s your only move here.”

He shook his head.

“Yeah, obvious if they did it now. What about in ten years when nobody remembers your stupid-ass trial and they can still hide behind all the money in the world?”

I didn’t really have an answer to that one.

“Look, I’ve got a client on trial for what amounts to her life. She’s got a little boy and they’re trying to take everything away from her. I’m not going to-”

“Fuck off, man, she probably did it. We’re talking about two different things here. I can’t help her. I have no evidence. I’ve got nothing. Just leave me the hell alone, would you? What about my life? I want to have a life, too.”

I looked at him and sadly shook my head.

“I can’t leave you alone. I’m putting you on the stand tomorrow. You can refuse to answer questions. You can even take the Fifth if you’ve committed crimes. But you’ll be there and they’ll be there. They’ll know they’ve got a continuing problem with you. Your best bet is to spill it all, Donald. Put it out there and be protected. Five years, ten years, they’ll never be able to do a damn thing to you because there will be a record.”

Driscoll was staring at an ashtray full of coins on the coffee table, but he was seeing something else.

“Maybe I should get an attorney,” he said.

I gave Cisco a look. This was exactly what I didn’t want to have happen. A witness with his own attorney was never a good thing.

“Sure, fine, if you’ve got a lawyer, bring him. But a lawyer is not going to stop the forward progress of this trial. That subpoena is bulletproof, Donald. A lawyer will charge you a grand to try to knock it down but it won’t work. It will only make the judge mad at you for making him take time out of the trial.”

My phone started to buzz in my pocket. It was early enough on a Sunday to be unusual. I pulled it out to check the display. Maggie McPherson.

“Think about what I said, Donald. I have to take this but I’ll be quick.”

As I answered I walked into the kitchen.

“Maggie? Everything all right?”

“Sure, why not?”

“I don’t know. It’s kind of early for a Sunday. Is Hayley still asleep?”

Sunday was always my daughter’s catch-up day. She could easily sleep past noon if not roused.

“Of course. I’m just calling because we didn’t hear from you yesterday so I guess that makes today movie day.”

“Uh…”

I vaguely remembered promising a movie outing when I had been in Maggie’s office Friday afternoon.

“You’re busy.”

The Tone had entered her voice. The judgmental you-are-full-of-shit Tone.

“I am at the moment. I’m down in Long Beach talking to a wit.”

“So, no movie? Is that what I should tell her?”

I could hear both Cisco’s and Driscoll’s voices from the living room but was too distracted to hear what was said.

“No, Maggie, don’t tell her that. I’m just not sure when I’m going to be out of here. Let me finish here and I’ll call you back. Before she even wakes up, okay?”

“Fine, we’ll wait on you.”

Before I could respond she disconnected. I put the phone away and then looked around. It appeared that the kitchen was the least used room in the apartment.

I went back to the living room. Driscoll was still on the couch and Cisco was still standing close enough to prevent another escape attempt.

“Donald was just telling me how he wanted to testify,” Cisco said.

“Is that right? How come you changed your mind, Donald?”

I moved past Cisco so that I stood right in front of Driscoll. He looked up at me and shrugged, then nodded in Cisco’s direction.

“He said you’ve never lost a witness and that if it comes down to it he knows people who can handle their people without breaking a sweat. I kind of believe him.”

I nodded and momentarily had a vision from the dark room at the Saints’ clubhouse. I quickly shut it out.

“Yeah, well, he’s right,” I said. “So you are saying you want to cooperate?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“Good. Then why don’t we start right now?”

Forty-five

At the start of the trial Andrea Freeman had successfully kept my associate, Jennifer Aronson, off the defense table as my second chair by challenging her listing as a defense witness as well. On Monday morning, when it was time for Aronson to testify, the prosecutor sought to prevent her testimony, challenging it as irrelevant to the charges. I couldn’t prevent the first challenge from succeeding but felt I had the legal gods on my side for the second. I also had a judge who still owed me after toeing the prosecution’s line on two critical decisions earlier in the trial.

“Your Honor,” I said, “this can’t really be a sincere objection by counsel. The state has set before the jury a motive for the defendant’s supposedly having committed this crime. The victim was engaged in taking her house away. She was angry and frustrated, and she killed. That’s their case in its entirety. So now to object to a witness who will provide the details of that inciting action, the foreclosure, on grounds of relevance is specious at best and at worst pure hypocrisy.”

The judge wasted no time in his response and ruling.

“Objection to the witness is overruled. We will now bring in the jury.”

Once the jury was in place and Aronson was in the witness’s seat, I proceeded with my direct examination, starting with a clarification of why she was the defense expert on the foreclosure of Lisa Trammel’s home.

“Now Ms. Aronson, you were not counsel of record on the Trammel foreclosure, were you?”

“No, I was associate counsel to you.”

I nodded.

“As such, you really did all the work while my name was on the pleadings, correct?”

“Yes, correct. Most of the documents in the foreclosure file were prepared by me. I was intimately involved in the case.”

“Such is the life of a first-year associate, correct?”

“I guess so.”

We shared a smile. From there I walked her step by step through the foreclosure proceedings. I don’t ever say you have to talk down to a jury but you do have to talk in ways that are universally understandable. From stockbrokers to soccer moms, there are twelve minds on the jury and they’ve all been marinated in different life experiences. You have to tell them all the same story. And you only get one chance. That’s the trick. Twelve minds, one story. It’s got to be a story that speaks to each of them.

Once I established the financial and legal issues my client was facing, I moved on to how the game was played by WestLand and its representative, ALOFT.

“So when you were given the file on this matter, what was the first thing you did?”

“Well, you had told me to make a practice of checking all the dates and details. You said to make sure with every case that the petitioner actually has standing, meaning that we needed to make sure that the institution making the claim of foreclosure actually had standing to make such a claim.”

“But wouldn’t that have been obvious in this case since the Trammels had been making mortgage payments to WestLand for almost four years before their financial difficulties changed things?”

“Not necessarily, because what we were finding was that the mortgage business exploded in the middle of the decade. So many mortgages were made and then repackaged and resold that in many instances the conveyances were never completed. It didn’t really matter in this case who the Trammels made their mortgage payments to. What mattered was what entity legitimately held the mortgage.”

“Okay, so what did you find when you checked dates and details on the Trammel foreclosure?”

Freeman objected again on relevance and she was again overruled. I didn’t need to ask Aronson the question again.

“When I reviewed the dates and details I found discrepancies and indications of fraud.”

“Can you describe these indications?”

“Yes. There was irrefutable evidence that conveyance documents were forged, giving WestLand false standing to seek the foreclosure.”

“Do you have those documents, Ms. Aronson?”

“Yes, I do and we are able to display them in our PowerPoint presentation.”

“Please do.”

Aronson opened a laptop on the shelf in front of her and started the program. The document in question appeared on the overhead screens and I sought further explanation from Aronson.

“What are we looking at here, Ms. Aronson?”

“If I could explain, six years ago Lisa and Jeff Trammel bought their house, obtaining a mortgage through a broker called CityPro Home Loans. CityPro then grouped their mortgage in a portfolio with fifty-nine other mortgages of similar value. The entire portfolio was bought by WestLand. It was up to WestLand at that point to make sure the mortgage for each of those properties was properly conveyed through legal documentation to the bank. But that never happened. The assignment of mortgage in the case of the Trammel home was not done.”

“How do you know that? Isn’t this the conveyance right here in front of us?”

I stepped out from behind the lectern and gestured toward the overhead screens.

Aronson continued. “This document purports to be the assignment of mortgage but if you go to the last page…”

She hit the down arrow button on her computer and flipped through the document to the final page. It was the signing page, with the signatures of an officer of the bank and a notary as well as the notary’s required state seal.

“Two things here,” Aronson said. “According to the notarization you see that the document was purportedly signed on March sixth, two thousand seven. This would have been shortly after WestLand bought the mortgage portfolio from CityPro. The signing officer listed here is Michelle Monet. We have so far been unable to find a Michelle Monet who is or was an employee of WestLand National in any capacity at any bank branch or location. The second issue is if you look at the notary seal the expiration date is clearly seen here as two thousand fourteen.”

She stopped there, just as we had rehearsed, as if the fraud involving the notary seal was obvious to all. I held a long moment as if waiting for more.

“Okay, what’s wrong with the expiration being two thousand fourteen?”

“In the state of California notary licenses are awarded for five years. This would mean that this notary’s seal was issued in two thousand nine, yet the date being notarized on this document is March sixth, two thousand seven. This notary seal had not been issued in two thousand seven. This means that this document was created to falsely convey the mortgage note on the Trammel property to WestLand National.”

I stepped back to the lectern to check my notes and let Aronson’s testimony float in front of the jury a little longer. I stole a quick glance at the box and noticed several of the jurors were still staring up at the screens. This was good.

“So what did this tell you when you discovered this fraud?”

“That we could challenge WestLand’s right to foreclose on the Trammel property. WestLand was not the legitimate holder of the mortgage. It still remained with CityPro.”

“Did you inform Lisa Trammel of this discovery?”

“On December seventeenth of last year we had a client meeting which was attended by Lisa, you and myself. She was informed then that we had clear and convincing evidence of fraud in the foreclosure filing. We also told her that we would use the evidence as leverage to negotiate a positive outcome to her situation.”

“How did she react to this?”

Freeman objected, saying I was asking a question requiring a hearsay answer. I argued that I was allowed to establish the defendant’s state of mind at the time of the murder. The judge agreed and Aronson was allowed to answer.

“She was very happy and positive. She said it was an early Christmas present, knowing that she wasn’t going to lose her house anytime soon.”

“Thank you. Now did there come a time when you wrote a letter to WestLand National for my signature?”

“Yes, I wrote a letter for your signature that outlined these findings of fraud. It was addressed to Mitchell Bondurant.”

“And what was the purpose of this letter?”

“This was part of the negotiation we told Lisa Trammel about. The idea was to inform Mr. Bondurant of what ALOFT was doing in the bank’s name. We believed that if Mr. Bondurant was concerned about the bank’s exposure on this, it would help facilitate a negotiation beneficial to our client.”

“When you wrote that letter for my signature, did you know or intend that Mr. Bondurant would forward it to Louis Opparizio at ALOFT?”

“No, I did not.”

“Thank you, Ms. Aronson. I have no further questions.”

The judge called for the morning break and Aronson took the defendant’s seat when Lisa and Herb Dahl left to stretch their legs in the hallway.

“Finally, I get to sit here,” she said.

“Don’t worry, after today, you’re there. You did great, Bullocks. Now comes the hard part.”

I glanced over at Freeman, who was staying at the prosecution table during the break, finishing her plan for the cross-examination.

“Just remember, you are entitled to take your time. When she asks the tough ones, you just take a breath, compose yourself and then answer if you know the answer.”

She looked at me as if questioning whether I really meant it: You mean tell the truth?

I nodded.

“You’ll do fine.”

After the break, Freeman went to the lectern and spread open a file containing notes and her written questions. It was just a show for the most part. She did what she could but it is always a challenge to cross-examine an attorney, even a new one. For nearly an hour she tried to shake Aronson on her direct testimony but to no avail.

Eventually, she went in a different direction, using sarcasm whenever possible. A sure sign that she was frustrated.

“So, after that wonderful, happy client conference you had before Christmas, when was the next time you saw your client?”

Aronson had to think for a long moment before answering.

“It would have been after she was arrested.”

“Well, what about phone calls? After the client conference, when was the next time you talked to her on the phone?”

“I am pretty sure she spoke to Mr. Haller a number of times but I did not speak to her again until after her arrest.”

“So during the time between the meeting and the murder, you would have no idea what sort of state of mind your client was in?”

As instructed, my young associate took her time before answering.

“If there had been a change in her view of the case and how it was going I think I would have been informed of it by her directly or through Mr. Haller. But nothing like that occurred.”

“I’m sorry but I didn’t ask what you think. I asked what you directly know. Are you telling this jury that based on your meeting in December, you know what your client’s state of mind was a whole month later?”

“No, I’m not.”

“So you can’t sit there and tell us what Lisa Trammel’s state of mind was on the morning of the murder, can you?”

“I can tell you only what I know from our meeting.”

“And can you tell us what she was thinking when she saw Mitchell Bondurant, the man who was trying to take away her home, that morning at the coffee shop?”

“No, I can’t.”

Freeman looked down at her notes and seemed to hesitate. I knew why. She had a tough decision to make. She knew she had just scored some solid points with the jury and now had to decide whether to try to scrape up a few more or let it end on the high note.

She finally decided she’d gotten enough and folded her file.

“I have nothing further, Your Honor.”

Cisco was scheduled to come up next but the judge broke for an early lunch. I took my team over to Jerry’s Famous Deli in Studio City. Lorna was waiting there in a booth near the door that led to the bowling alley behind the restaurant. I sat next to Jennifer and across from Lorna and Cisco.

“So, how did it go this morning?” Lorna asked.

“Good, I think,” I answered. “Freeman scored some points on cross but I think overall we came out ahead. Jennifer did very well.”

I don’t know if anybody had noticed but I had decided I would no longer be calling her Bullocks. In my estimation she had outgrown the nickname with her performance on the witness stand. She was no longer the young lawyer from the department-store school. She had made her bones on this case with her work in and out of the courtroom.

“And now she gets to sit at the big table!” I added.

Lorna cheered and clapped.

“And now it’s Cisco’s turn,” Aronson said, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.

“Maybe not,” I said. “I think I need to go to Driscoll next.”

“How come?” Aronson said.

“Because this morning in chambers I informed the court and the prosecution of his existence and his addition to my wit list. Freeman objected but she was the one who brought up Facebook so the judge called Driscoll fair game. So now I’m thinking that the faster I get to him the less time Freeman will have to prepare. If I stick with the plan and put Cisco on, Freeman can work him all afternoon while her investigators are running down Driscoll.”

Only Lorna nodded at my reasoning. But that was good enough for me.

“Shit, and I got all dressed up,” Cisco exclaimed.

It was true. My investigator was wearing a long-sleeved collared shirt that looked like it would burst at the seams if he flexed his muscles. I had seen it before, though. It was his testifying shirt.

I ignored his complaint.

“Speaking of Driscoll, what’s his status, Cisco?”

“My guys picked him up this morning and brought him up. Last I heard, he was shooting pool at the club.”

I stared at my investigator.

“They’re not giving him alcohol, right?”

“Course not.”

“That’s all I need, a drunk witness on the stand.”

“Don’t worry. I told them no alcohol.”

“Well, call your guys. Have them deliver Driscoll to the courthouse by one. He’s next.”

It was too loud in the restaurant for a phone call. Cisco slipped out of the booth and headed toward the door while pulling his cell. We watched him go.

“You know, he looks good in a real shirt like that,” Aronson said.

“Really?” Lorna responded. “I don’t like the sleeves.”

Forty-six

I almost didn’t recognize Donald Driscoll with his hair combed and a suit on. Cisco had placed him in a witness room down the hall from the courtroom. When I stepped in he looked up at me from the table with scared eyes.

“How was the Saints club?” I asked.

“I would’ve rather been somewhere else,” he said.

I nodded in false sympathy.

“Are you ready for this?”

“No, but I’m here.”

“Okay, in a few minutes Cisco will come get you and bring you to the courtroom.”

“Whatever.”

“Look, I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you’re doing the right thing.”

“You’re right… about it not seeming like it now.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“All right, I’ll see you in there.”

I left the room and signaled to Cisco, who was standing in the hallway with the two men who had been minding Driscoll. I pointed down the hall toward the courtroom and Cisco nodded. I proceeded on and entered the courtroom to find Jennifer Aronson and Lisa Trammel at the defense table. I sat down but before I could say anything to either one of them, the judge entered the courtroom and took the bench. He called for the jury and we quickly went back on the record. I called Donald Driscoll to the stand. After he was sworn in, I got right down to business.

“Mr. Driscoll, what is your profession?”

“I’m in IT.”

“And what does IT mean?”

“Information technology. It means I work with computers, the Internet. I find the best way to use new technologies to gather information for the client or employer or whoever it may be.”

“You are a former employee of ALOFT, correct?”

“Yes, I worked there for ten months until earlier this year.”

“In IT?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly did you do in IT for ALOFT?”

“I had several duties. It’s a very computer-reliant business. A lot of employees and a great need for access to information through the Internet.”

“And you helped them get it.”

“Yes.”

“Now, do you know the defendant, Lisa Trammel?”

“I’ve never met her. I know of her.”

“You know of her from this case?”

“Yeah, but also from before.”

“From before. How so?”

“One of my duties at ALOFT was to try to keep tabs on Lisa Trammel.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. I was just told to do it and I did it.”

“Who told you to keep tabs on Lisa Trammel?”

“Mr. Borden, my supervisor.”

“Did he tell you to keep tabs on anybody else?”

“Yes, a bunch of other people.”

“How many is a bunch?”

“I guess there were about ten.”

“Who were they?”

“Other mortgage protestors like Trammel. Plus employees of some of the banks we did business with.”

“Like who?”

“The man who was killed. Mr. Bondurant.”

I checked my notes for a while and let that percolate with the jury.

“Now, by keeping tabs, what did that mean?”

“I was to look for whatever I could find on these people online.”

“Did Mr. Borden ever tell you why you had this assignment?”

“I asked him once and he said because Mr. Opparizio wants the information.”

“Is that Louis Opparizio, founder and president of ALOFT?”

“Yes.”

“Now were there any specific instructions from Mr. Borden in regard to Lisa Trammel?”

“No, it was just sort of see what you can find out there.”

“And when did this become your assignment?”

“It was last year. I started working at ALOFT in April and so it would have been a few months after that.”

“Could it have been July or August?”

“Yeah, right about then.”

“Did you give the information you got to Mr. Borden?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did there come a time that you became aware that Lisa Trammel was on Facebook?”

“Yes, it was sort of an obvious thing to check.”

“Did you become her friend on Facebook?”

“Yes.”

“And this put you in a position to monitor her posts about the FLAG organization and the foreclosure of her home, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell your supervisor about this specifically?”

“I told him that she was on Facebook and was fairly active, and that it was a good spot for monitoring what she was doing and planning for FLAG.”

“How did he respond?”

“He told me to monitor it and then summarize everything once a week in an e-mail. So that’s what I did.”

“And did you use your own name when you sent Lisa Trammel your friend request?”

“Yes. I was already on Facebook as, you know, myself. So I didn’t hide it. I mean, I doubted she knew who I was anyway.”

“What sort of reports did you give Mr. Borden?”

“You know, like if her group was planning a protest somewhere I would tell them the date and time, that sort of stuff.”

“You just said ‘them.’ Were you giving these reports to someone other than Mr. Borden?”

“No, but I knew he was forwarding them to Mr. Opparizio because Mr. O. would send me e-mails every now and then about the stuff I sent Mr. Borden. So I knew he was seeing the reports.”

“In all of this, did you do anything illegal while snooping around for Borden and Opparizio?”

“No, sir.”

“Now did one of your weekly summaries of Lisa Trammel’s activities ever include reference to her posts about being in the garage at WestLand National and waiting to talk to Mitchell Bondurant?”

“Yes, there was one. WestLand was one of the company’s biggest clients and I thought maybe Mr. Bondurant should know, if he didn’t already, that this woman had waited for him out there.”

“So you gave Mr. Borden the details of how Lisa Trammel had found Mr. Bondurant’s parking spot and waited for him?”

“Yes.”

“And he said thanks?”

“Yes.”

“And this was all in e-mails?”

“Yes.”

“Did you keep a copy of the e-mail you sent Mr. Borden?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why did you do that?”

“It’s just kind of a general practice of mine, to keep copies, especially when dealing with important people.”

“Did you happen to bring a copy of that e-mail with you today?”

“I did.”

Freeman objected and asked for a sidebar. At the bench she successfully argued that there was no way of legitimizing what purported to be a printout of an old e-mail. The judge wouldn’t let me introduce it, saying I would have to stick with Driscoll’s recollections.

Returning to the lectern, I decided I had made it clear to the jury that Borden knew Trammel had previously been in the garage and that Borden was a conduit to Opparizio. The elements of a setup were right there. The prosecution would have them believe that the first time Lisa was in the garage was a dry run for the murder she would later commit. I would have them believe that whoever set Trammel up had all he needed to know, thanks to Facebook.

I moved on.

“Mr. Driscoll, you said that Mitchell Bondurant was one of the people you were asked to gather information on, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“What information did you gather on him?”

“Mostly about his personal real estate holdings. What properties he owned, when he bought them and for how much. Who held the mortgages. That sort of thing.”

“So you supplied to Mr. Borden a financial snapshot.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you come across any liens against Mr. Bondurant or his properties?”

“Yes, there were several. He owed money around.”

“And all of this information went to Borden?”

“Yes, it did.”

I decided to leave it there on Bondurant. I didn’t want the jury straying too far from the main point of Driscoll’s testimony: that ALOFT had been watching Lisa and had all the information needed to set her up for murder. Driscoll had been effective and I would now close out his testimony with a bang.

“Mr. Driscoll, when did you leave your position at ALOFT?”

“February first.”

“Was it your choice or were you fired?”

“I told them I was quitting so they fired me.”

“Why did you want to quit?”

“Because Mr. Bondurant had gotten murdered in the parking garage and I didn’t know whether the lady who got arrested, Lisa Trammel, did it or if there was something else going on. I saw Mr. Opparizio in the elevator the day after it was in the news and everybody in the office knew about it. We were going up but when we got to my floor he held my arm while everybody else got off. We went up to his floor alone and he didn’t say anything until the doors opened. Then he said, ‘Keep your fucking mouth shut,’ and got off. And the doors closed.”

“Those were his words, ‘Keep your fucking mouth shut’?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No.”

“So this led you to quit your job?”

“Yes, about an hour later I gave two weeks’ notice. But about ten minutes after I did that Mr. Borden came to my desk and told me I was out. Fired. He had a box for my personal stuff and he had a security guard come watch me while I packed up. Then they walked me out.”

“Did they give you a severance package?”

“As I was leaving Mr. Borden gave me an envelope. It had a check in it for a year’s salary.”

“That was pretty generous, giving you a year’s salary, considering you hadn’t even worked there a full year and you had said you were quitting, don’t you think?”

Freeman objected on relevance and it was sustained.

“I have nothing further for this witness.”

Freeman took my place, arriving at the lectern with her trusty file, which she spread open. I had not put Driscoll on my witness list until that morning but his name had come up during Friday’s testimony. I was sure Freeman had done some prep work. I was about to find out how much.

“Mr. Driscoll, you don’t have a college degree, do you?”

“Uh, no.”

“But you attended UCLA, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you graduate?”

I stood and objected, saying her questions were going way outside the scope of Driscoll’s direct testimony. But the judge said I opened the door when I asked the witness about his credentials and experience in IT. He told Driscoll to answer the question.

“I didn’t graduate because I was expelled.”

“For what?”

“Cheating. I hacked into a teacher’s computer and downloaded an exam the night before it was given.”

Driscoll said it with an almost bored tone to his voice. Like he knew this was going to come out. I knew this was in his background. I told him that if it came out he had only one choice, to be absolutely honest. Otherwise, he would be inviting disaster.

“So you are a cheater and a thief, correct?”

“I was, and that was more than ten years ago. I don’t cheat anymore. There’s nothing to cheat for.”

“Really? And what about stealing?”

“Same thing. I don’t steal.”

“Isn’t it true that your employment at ALOFT was severed abruptly when it was discovered that you were systematically stealing from the company?”

“That is a lie. I told them I was quitting and then they canned me.”

“Aren’t you the one who is lying here?”

“No, I’m telling the truth. You think I could just make this stuff up?”

Driscoll made a desperate glance toward me and I wished he hadn’t. It could be interpreted as collusion between us. Driscoll was on his own up there. I couldn’t help him.

“As a matter of fact I do, Mr. Driscoll,” Freeman said. “Isn’t it true that you had quite a little business for yourself running out of ALOFT?”

“No.”

Driscoll demonstrably shook his head in support of his denial. I read him as lying right there and I realized I was in deep trouble. The severance package, I thought. The year’s pay. They don’t fire people and give them a year’s pay if they’ve been stealing. Bring up the severance package!

“Were you not using ALOFT as a front to order expensive software, then break the security codes and sell bootleg copies over the Internet?”

“That’s not true. I knew this would happen if I told anyone what I know.”

This time he did more than look at me. He pointed at me.

“I told you this would happen. I told you these people don’t-”

“Mr. Driscoll!” the judge boomed. “You answer the question posed to you by counsel. You do not talk to defense counsel or anyone else.”

Trying to keep her momentum, Freeman swooped in for the kill.

“Your Honor, may I approach the witness with a document?”

“You may. Are you going to mark it?”

“People’s Exhibit Nine, Your Honor.”

She had copies for everybody. I leaned close to Aronson so we could read it together. It was a copy of an internal investigation report from ALOFT.

“Did you know about any of this?” Aronson whispered.

“Of course not,” I whispered back.

I leaned forward to focus on the examination. I didn’t want a first-year lawyer tsk-tsking me over a gigantic vetting failure.

“What is that document, Mr. Driscoll?” Freeman asked.

“I don’t know,” the witness responded. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“It is an internal investigation summary from ALOFT, isn’t it?”

“If you say so.”

“When is it dated?”

“February first.”

“That was your last day of work at ALOFT, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was. That morning I gave my supervisor two weeks’ notice and then they erased my login and fired me.”

“For cause.”

“For no cause. Why do you think they gave me the big check at the door? I knew things and they were trying to shut me up.”

Freeman looked up at the judge.

“Your Honor, could you instruct the witness to refrain from answering my questions with his own questions.”

Perry nodded.

“The witness will answer questions, not pose them.”

It didn’t matter, I thought. He had gotten it out there.

“Mr. Driscoll, could you please read the paragraph of the report I have highlighted in yellow?”

I objected, stating that the report was not in evidence. The judge overruled, allowing the reading to proceed subject to a later evidentiary ruling.

Driscoll read the paragraph to himself and then shook his head.

“Out loud, Mr. Driscoll,” the judge prompted.

“But this is all complete lies. This is what they do to-”

“Mr. Driscoll,” the judge intoned grumpily. “Read the paragraph aloud, please.”

Driscoll hesitated one last time and then finally read.

“ ‘The employee admitted that he had purchased the software packages with a company requisition and then returned them after copying the copyrighted materials. The employee admitted he has been selling counterfeit copies of the software over the Internet, using company computers to facilitate this business. The employee admitted earning more than one hundred thousand-’ ”

Driscoll suddenly crushed the document with both hands into a ball and threw it across the courtroom.

Right at me.

“You did this!” he yelled at me, following his pitch with a pointed finger. “I was fine in the world till you showed up!”

Once again Judge Perry could’ve used a gavel. He called for order and for the jury to return to the deliberations room. They quickly filed out of the courtroom as if being chased by Driscoll himself. Once the door was closed the judge took further action, signaling the courtroom deputy forward.

“Jimmy, take the witness to the holding cell while counsel and I discuss this in chambers.”

He got up and stepped off the bench and quickly slipped through the door to his chambers before I could mount a protest over how my witness was being treated.

Freeman followed and I detoured to the witness stand.

“Just go and I’ll get this over. You’ll be right back out.”

“You fucking liar,” he said, anger jumping in his eyes. “You said it would be easy and safe and now look at this. The whole world thinks I’m a fucking software thief! You think I’ll ever find work again?”

“Well, if I had known you were hijacking software I probably wouldn’t have put you on the stand.”

“Fuck you, Haller. You better hope this is over because if I have to come back here, I’m going to make up some shit about you.”

The deputy was leading him toward the door that led to the holding cell next to the courtroom. As he went I noticed Aronson standing at the defense table. Her face told the story. All her good work of the morning possibly undone.

“Mr. Haller?” the court clerk said from her corral. “The judge is waiting.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m coming.”

I headed toward the door.

Forty-seven

Four Green Fields was always dead on Monday nights. It was a bar that catered to the legal crowd and it usually wasn’t until a few days into the week that lawyers started to need alcohol to dampen the burdens of conscience. We could’ve had our pick of the place but we took to the bar, Aronson sitting between me and Cisco.

We ordered a beer, a cosmo and a vodka tonic with lime and without the vodka. Still smarting from the Donald Driscoll fiasco, I had called the after-hours meeting to talk about Tuesday. And because I thought my two associates could use a drink.

There was a basketball game on the TV but I didn’t even bother to check who was playing or what the score was. I didn’t care and couldn’t see much further than the Driscoll disaster. His testimony had ended after the blowup and finger pointing. In chambers the judge had worked out a curative address to the jurors, telling them that both the prosecution and defense had agreed that he would be dismissed from giving further testimony. Driscoll at best had been a wash. His direct testimony certainly set up the defense contention that Louis Opparizio had brought about the demise of Mitchell Bondurant. But his credibility had been undermined during cross-examination and his volatile behavior and enmity toward me didn’t help. Plus, the judge was obviously holding me responsible for the spectacle and that would probably end up hurting the defense.

“So,” Aronson said after her first sip of cosmo. “What do we do now?”

“We keep fighting, is what we do. We had one bad witness, one fiasco. Every trial has a moment like this.”

I pointed up to the TV.

“You a football fan, Jennifer?”

I knew she had gone to UC-Santa Barbara for her undergraduate degree, then Southwestern. Not much in the way of collegiate football powers.

“That’s not football. That’s basketball.”

“Yeah, I know, but do you like football?”

“I like the Raiders.”

“I knew it!” Cisco said gleefully. “A girl after my own heart.”

“Well,” I said. “When you’re a defense lawyer you have to be like a cornerback. You know you’re going to get burned from time to time. It’s just part of the game. So when it happens you have to pick yourself up, dust yourself off and forget about it because they’re about to snap the ball again. We gave them a touchdown today-I gave them a touchdown. But the game’s not over, Jennifer. Not by a long shot.”

“Right, so what do we do?”

“What we’ve planned to do all along. Go after Opparizio. It comes down to him. I’ve got to push him to the edge. I think Cisco’s given me the firepower to do it and hopefully his guard will be down because we’ve had Dahl telling him it’s going to be a walk in the park. Realistically, right now, I think the score is tied. Even with Driscoll blowing up, I’d say we’re either tied or maybe the prosecution’s got a few points up on us. I’ve got to change that tomorrow. If I don’t, we lose.”

A somber silence followed until Aronson asked another question.

“What about Driscoll, Mickey?”

“What about him? We’re done with Driscoll.”

“Yeah, but did you believe him about all the software stuff? Do you think Opparizio’s people set him up? Was all of that about him stealing software made-up lies? Because now it’s out in front of the media.”

“I don’t know. Freeman did a smart thing. She coupled it with something he wouldn’t or couldn’t deny-stealing the test. So it all sort of flowed together. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s what the jury believes.”

“I think you’re wrong. I think that what you believe is always important.”

I nodded.

“Maybe so, Jennifer.”

I took a long sip of my anemic drink. Aronson then went in a new direction.

“How come you stopped calling me Bullocks?”

I looked at her and then looked back at my drink. I shrugged.

“Because you did so well today. It’s like you’re all grown up or something and you shouldn’t be called by a nickname.”

I looked past her at Cisco and pointed.

“But him? With a name like Wojciechowski, he’s got his nickname for life. And that’s just the way it is.”

We all laughed and it seemed to relieve some of the pressure. I knew alcohol could help with that but it had been two years now and I was strong. I wouldn’t slip.

“What did you tell Dahl to go back with today?” Cisco asked.

I shrugged again.

“The defense is in disarray, they lost their best shot with Driscoll when Freeman destroyed him. Then the usual, we don’t have anything on Opparizio and testifying will be like cutting butter left out on the counter. He’s supposed to call me after he talks to his handler.”

Cisco nodded. I continued in another direction.

“I’m thinking Opparizio is the way to end it. If I can get what Cisco has gotten for me to the jury in questions and his answers, and I push him to the nickel, then I think I’ll just end it there and Cisco, you won’t testify.”

Aronson frowned like she wasn’t sure that would be a good move.

“Good,” Cisco said. “I won’t have to wear the monkey suit tomorrow.”

He tugged at his collar like it was made of sandpaper.

“No, you have to wear it again, just in case. You have another shirt like that, don’t you?”

“Not really. I guess I’ll have to wash this tonight.”

“Are you kidding me? You only-”

Cisco made a low whistling sound and nodded toward the door behind me. I turned just as Maggie McPherson slipped onto the open stool next to me.

“There you are.”

“Maggie McFierce.”

She pointed to my drink.

“That better not be what I think it is.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not.”

“Good.”

She ordered a real vodka tonic from Randy the bartender, probably just to rub it in.

“So, drowning your sorrows without the drown. I did hear it was a good day for the good guys.”

Meaning the prosecution. Always.

“Maybe. You hired a sitter for a Monday night?”

“No, the sitter offered to sit tonight. I take it when I can get it because she’s got a boyfriend now so I’ve probably seen my last Friday and Saturday nights out on the town.”

“Okay, so you get her tonight and you go out to the bar by yourself?”

“Maybe I was looking for you, Haller. Ever think of that?”

I turned on my stool so my back was to Aronson and I was directly facing Maggie.

“Really?”

“Maybe. I thought you could use some company. You’re not answering your cell.”

“I forgot. It’s still off from court.”

I pulled the phone and turned it on. No wonder I hadn’t gotten the call from Herb Dahl.

“You want to go to your place?” she asked.

I looked at her for a long moment before answering.

“Tomorrow’s going to be the most important day of the trial. I should-”

“I have till midnight.”

I took a deep breath but more air went out than came in. I leaned toward her and then tilted so that our heads were touching, sort of like how they touch sabers before a fencing match. I whispered in her ear.

“I can’t keep doing things this way. We have to go forward or be done.”

She put her hand on my chest and pushed me back. I was afraid of what my life would be like with her completely gone from it. I regretted the ultimatum I had just set out because I knew that if forced to make a choice she would pick the latter.

“What do you say we just worry about tonight, Haller?”

“Okay,” I said so quickly that we both started laughing.

I had dodged a bullet I had fired at myself. For now.

“I still have to get some work done at some point.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

She reached to the bar for her drink but took mine by mistake. Or maybe not by mistake. She sipped and then screwed up her face in disgust.

“That tastes just awful without vodka. What’s the point?”

“I know. Was that some sort of test?”

“No, just a mistake.”

“Sure.”

She drank from her own glass now. I turned slightly and looked back at Cisco and Aronson. They were leaning toward each other, engaged in a conversation and ignoring me. I turned back to Maggie.

“Marry me again, Maggie. I’m going to change everything after this case.”

“I’ve heard that before. The second part.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s going to happen. It already is.”

“Do I have to answer right now? Is it a one-time thing or can I think about it?”

“Sure, take a few minutes. I’m going to hit the head and then I’ll be back.”

We laughed again and then I leaned forward and kissed her and held my face in her hair. I whispered again.

“I can’t think of being with anybody else.”

She turned in to me and kissed my neck, then pulled back.

“I hate public displays of affection, especially in bars. Seems so cheap.”

“Sorry.”

“Let’s go now.”

She slid off the stool. And took a last sip of her drink while standing. I pulled my cash and peeled off enough to cover everybody, including the bartender. I told Cisco and Aronson I was going.

“I thought we were still talking about Opparizio,” Aronson protested.

I saw Cisco surreptitiously touch her arm in a not now signal. I appreciated that.

“You know what?” I said. “It’s been a long day. Sometimes not thinking about something is the best way to prepare for it. I’ll be in the office early tomorrow before going to court. If you want to come by. Otherwise, I’ll see you in court at nine.”

We said our goodbyes and I walked out with my ex-wife.

“You want to leave a car here or what?” I asked.

“No, too dangerous to come back here after dinner and being in bed with you. I’ll want to go in for one last drink and then it might not be the last. I have the sitter to relieve and work tomorrow, too.”

“Is that how you view it? Just dinner and sex and getting home by midnight?”

She could’ve really hurt me then, said I was whining like a woman complaining about men. But she didn’t.

“No,” she said. “I actually view it as the best night of the week.”

I raised my hand and clasped the back of her neck as we walked to our cars. She always liked that. Even if it was a public display of affection.

Forty-eight

You could feel the tension rise with each step as Louis Opparizio made his way to the witness stand on Tuesday morning. He wore a light tan suit with a blue shirt and maroon tie. He looked dignified in a way that bespoke money and power. And it was clear that he looked at me through contemptuous eyes. He was my witness but obviously there was no love lost here. Since the start of the trial I had pointed the finger of guilt at someone other than my client. I had pointed at Opparizio and now he sat before me. This was the main event and as such it had drawn the biggest crowd-both media and onlookers-of the trial.

I started things out cordially but wasn’t planning to continue that way. I had one goal here and the verdict was riding on whether I achieved it. I had to push the man in the witness box to the limit. He was there only because he had been cornered by his own avarice and vanity. He had ignored legal counsel, declined to hide behind the Fifth Amendment and accepted the challenge of going one-on-one with me in front of a packed house. My job was to make him regret those decisions. My job was to make him take the Fifth in front of the jury. If he did that, then Lisa Trammel would walk. There could be no stronger reasonable doubt than to have the straw man you’ve been pointing at all trial long hide behind the Fifth, to refuse to answer questions on the grounds that he would incriminate himself. How could any honest juror vote guilty beyond a reasonable doubt after that?

“Good morning, Mr. Opparizio. How are you?”

“I’d rather be somewhere else. How are you?”

I smiled. He was feisty from the start.

“I’ll tell you that in a few hours,” I answered. “Thank you for being here today. I noticed a bit of a northeastern accent. Are you not from Los Angeles?”

“I was born in Brooklyn fifty-one years ago. I moved out here for law school and never left.”

“You and your company have been mentioned here during the trial more than a few times. It seems to hold the lion’s share of foreclosure work in at least this county. I was-”

“Your Honor?” Freeman interrupted from her seat. “Is there going to be a question here?”

Perry looked down at her for a moment.

“Is that an objection, Ms. Freeman?”

She realized she had not stood. The judge had instructed us in pretrial meetings that we must stand to make an objection. She quickly stood up.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Ask a question, Mr. Haller.”

“I was about to, Your Honor. Mr. Opparizio, could you tell us in your words what it is that ALOFT does?”

Opparizio cleared his throat and turned directly toward the jurors when he answered. He was a polished and proficient witness. I had my work cut out for me.

“I’d be happy to. Essentially, ALOFT is a processing firm. Large loan servicers such as WestLand National pay my company to handle property foreclosures from start to finish. We handle everything from drawing up the paperwork to serving notices to appearing in court as necessary. All for one all-inclusive fee. Nobody likes to hear about foreclosures. We all struggle on some level to pay our bills and try to keep our homes. But sometimes it doesn’t work out and foreclosure is required. That’s where we come in.”

“You say ‘but sometimes it doesn’t work out.’ Over the past few years it has been working out pretty good for you, though, hasn’t it?”

“Our business has seen tremendous growth in the past four years and it has only now finally started to level off.”

“You mentioned WestLand National as a client. WestLand was a significant client, correct?”

“It was and still is.”

“About how many foreclosures do you handle for WestLand in a year?”

“I wouldn’t know off the top of my head. But I think it’s safe to say that with all of their locations in the western United States, we get close to ten thousand files from them in a year.”

“Would you believe that over the past four years you have averaged over sixteen thousand cases a year referred by WestLand? It’s in the bank’s annual report.”

I held it up for all to see.

“Yes, I would believe that. Annual reports don’t lie.”

“What is the fee that ALOFT charges per foreclosure?”

“On residential we charge twenty-five hundred dollars and that’s for everything, even if we have to go to court on the matter.”

“So doing the math, your company takes in forty million dollars a year from WestLand alone, correct?”

“If the figures you used are correct, that sounds right.”

“I take it, then, that the WestLand account was very big at ALOFT.”

“Yes, but all our clients are important.”

“So you must have known Mitchell Bondurant, the victim in this case, pretty well, correct?”

“Of course I knew him well and I think it’s a terrible shame about what happened to him. He was a good man, trying to do a good job.”

“I am sure we all appreciate your sympathy. But at the time of his death, you weren’t very happy with Mr. Bondurant, were you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean. We were business associates. We had minor disputes from time to time but that always happens in the natural course of business.”

“Well, I’m not talking about minor disputes or the natural course of business. I’m asking you about a letter Mr. Bondurant sent to you shortly before his murder that threatened to expose fraudulent practices within your company. The certified letter was signed for by your personal secretary. Did you read it?”

“I skimmed it. It indicated to me that one of my hundred eighty-five employees had taken a shortcut. This was a minor dispute and nothing about it was threatening, as you say. I told the person who had that particular file to fix it. That’s all, Mr. Haller.”

But that wasn’t all I had to say about the letter. I made Opparizio read it to the jury and for the next half hour I asked increasingly specific and uncomfortable questions about its allegations. I then moved on to the federal target letter and made the witness read that as well. But again Opparizio was unflappable, dismissing the federal letter as a shot in the dark.

“I welcomed them with open arms,” he said. “But you know what? Nobody’s come in. All this time later and not a word from Mr. Lattimore or Agent Vasquez or any other federal agent. Because their letter didn’t pay off. I didn’t run, I didn’t sweat, I didn’t cry foul or hide behind a lawyer. I said I know you’ve got a job to do, come on in and check us out. Our doors are open and we’ve got absolutely nothing to hide.”

It was a good and well-rehearsed answer and Opparizio was clearly winning the early rounds. But that was okay because I was saving my best punches. I wanted him to feel confident and in control. Through Herb Dahl he had been fed a steady diet of no worries. He had been led to believe I had nothing but a few desperate hints of conspiracy that he could easily swat away as he was doing right now. His confidence was growing. But when he got too confident and complacent, I was going to move in and go for the knockout. This fight wouldn’t go fifteen rounds. It couldn’t.

“Now at the time these letters were coming in you were engaged in a secret negotiation, were you not?”

Opparizio paused for the first time since I had begun asking him questions.

“I was engaged at the time in private business discussions, as I am at almost all times. I would not use the word ‘secret’ because of the connotation. Secrecy being wrong when in fact keeping one’s business private is a matter of course.”

“Okay, then this private discussion was actually a negotiation to sell your company ALOFT to a publicly traded company, correct?”

“Yes, that is so.”

“A company called LeMure?”

“Yes, correct.”

“This deal would be worth a lot of money to you, would it not?”

Freeman stood and asked for a sidebar. We approached and she stated her objection in a forceful whisper.

“How is this relevant? Where are we going with this? He now has us on Wall Street and that has nothing to do with Lisa Trammel and the evidence against her.”

“Your Honor,” I said quickly, before he could cut me off. “The relevance will become apparent soon. Ms. Freeman knows exactly where this is headed and she just doesn’t want to go there. But the court has given me the latitude to put forth a defense involving third-party guilt. Well, this is it, Judge. This is where it comes together and so I ask for the court’s continued indulgence.”

Perry didn’t have to think too long before answering.

“Mr. Haller, you may proceed but I want you to land this plane soon.”

“Thank you, Judge.”

We returned to our positions and I decided to move things along at a quicker pace.

“Mr. Opparizio, back in January, when you were in the midst of these negotiations with LeMure, you knew you stood to make a great deal of money if this deal went through, did you not?”

“I would be generously compensated for the years I spent growing the company.”

“But if you lost one of your biggest clients-to the tune of forty million in annual revenues-that deal would have been in peril, correct?”

“There was no threat from any client to leave.”

“I draw your attention back to the letter Mr. Bondurant sent you, sir. Wouldn’t you say that there is a clear threat from Mr. Bondurant to take WestLand’s business away from you? I believe you still have a copy of the letter there in front of you, if you want to refer to it.”

“I don’t need to look at the letter. There was no threat to me whatsoever. Mitch sent me the letter and I took care of the problem.”

“Like the way you took care of Donald Driscoll?”

“Objection,” Freeman said. “Argumentative.”

“I’ll withdraw it. Mr. Opparizio, you received this letter smack-dab in the middle of your deal making with LeMure, correct?”

“It was during negotiations, yes.”

“And at the time you received this letter from Mr. Bondurant, you knew he was in financial straits himself, correct?”

“I knew nothing about Mr. Bondurant’s personal financial situation.”

“Did you not have an employee of your company do financial background searches on Mr. Bondurant and other bankers you dealt with?”

“No, that’s ridiculous. Whoever said that is a liar.”

It was time for me to test Herb Dahl’s work as a double agent.

“At the time Mr. Bondurant sent you that letter, was he aware of your secret dealings with LeMure?”

Opparizio’s answer should have been “I don’t know.” But I had told Dahl to send back word through his handler that the Trammel legal team had found nothing on this key part of the defense strategy.

“He knew nothing about it,” Opparizio said. “I had kept all of our client banks in the dark while negotiations were ongoing.”

“Who is LeMure’s chief financial officer?”

Opparizio seemed momentarily nonplussed by the question and the seeming change in direction.

“That would be Syd Jenkins. Sydney Jenkins.”

“And was he the leader of the acquisition team you dealt with on the LeMure deal?”

Freeman objected and asked where this was going. I told the judge he would know shortly and he allowed me to continue, telling Opparizio to answer the question.

“Yes, I dealt with Syd Jenkins on the acquisition.”

I opened a file and removed a document while asking the judge for permission to approach the witness with it. As expected, Freeman objected and we had a spirited sidebar over the admissibility of the document. But just as Freeman had won the battle over presenting Driscoll with the internal investigation report from ALOFT, Judge Perry evened the score, allowing me to introduce the document subject to his later ruling.

Permission granted, I handed a copy to the witness.

“Mr. Opparizio, can you tell the jury what that document is?”

“I can’t tell for sure.”

“Is it not a printout from a digital daybook?”

“If you say so.”

“And what name is on the top of the sheet there.”

“Mitchell Bondurant.”

“And what is the date on the page?”

“December thirteenth.”

“Can you read the appointment entry for ten o’clock?”

Freeman asked for a sidebar and once more we stood in front of the judge.

“Your Honor, Lisa Trammel is on trial here. Not Louis Opparizio or Mitchell Bondurant. This is what happens when someone takes advantage of the court’s goodwill when given leeway. I object to this line of questioning. Counsel is taking us far afield of the matter this jury must decide.”

“Judge,” I said. “Again this goes to third-party guilt. This is a page from the digital diary turned over to the defense in discovery. The answer to this question will make it clear to the jury that the victim in this case was involved in subtly extorting the witness. And that is a motive for murder.”

“Judge, this-”

“That’s enough, Ms. Freeman. I will allow it.”

We returned to our places and the judge told Opparizio to answer the question. I repeated it for the sake of the jury.

“What is listed on Mr. Bondurant’s calendar for ten o’clock on December thirteenth?”

“It says ‘Sydney Jenkins, LeMure.’ ”

“So would you not take from that log line that Mr. Bondurant became aware of the ALOFT-LeMure deal in December of last year?”

“I couldn’t begin to know what was said at that meeting or if it even took place.”

“What reason would the man leading the acquisition of ALOFT have for meeting with one of ALOFT’s most important bank clients?”

“You would have to ask Mr. Jenkins that.”

“Perhaps I will.”

Opparizio had developed a scowl in the course of the questioning. The Herb Dahl plant had worked well. I moved on.

“When did the deal on the sale of ALOFT to LeMure close?”

“The deal closed in late February.”

“How much was it sold for?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“LeMure is a publicly traded company, sir. The information is out there. Could you save us the time and-”

“Ninety-six million dollars.”

“Most of which, as sole owner, went to you, correct?”

“A good portion of it, yes.”

“And you got stock in LeMure as well, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And you remain president of ALOFT, don’t you?”

“Yes. I still run the company. I just have bosses now.”

He tried a smile but most of the working stiffs in the courtroom didn’t see the humor in the comment, considering the millions he had taken out of the deal.

“So you are still intimately involved in the day-to-day operations of the company?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Mr. Opparizio, was your personal take in the sale of ALOFT sixty-one million dollars, as reported by the Wall Street Journal?”

“They got that wrong.”

“How so?”

“My deal was worth that amount, but it didn’t come to me all at once.”

“You get deferred payments?”

“Something along those lines but I don’t really see what this has to do with who killed Mitch Bondurant, Mr. Haller. Why am I here? I had nothing to-”

“Your Honor?”

“Hold on a moment, Mr. Opparizio,” the judge said.

He then leaned forward over the bench and paused as if to contemplate something.

“We’re going to take our morning break now and counsel will join me in chambers. The court is in recess.”

Once more we followed the judge back into chambers. Once more I was going to be the one put on the spot. But I was so angry at Perry that I went on the offensive. I stayed standing while both he and Freeman took seats.

“Your Honor, with all due respect, I had a certain momentum going out there and taking the morning break early is killing it.”

“Mr. Haller, you may have had plenty of momentum but it was taking you far away from this case. I have bent over backward to allow you to present a third-party defense but I am beginning to feel I’ve been had.”

“Judge, I was four questions away from bringing it all back home to this case but you just stopped me.”

“You stopped yourself, Counsel. I can’t sit up there and let this go on. Ms. Freeman’s been objecting, now even the witness is objecting. And I’m looking like a fool. You’re fishing. You told me and you told those jurors that you would not only prove that your client didn’t commit the crime, but that you would prove who did. But we are now five witnesses into the defense case and you are still fishing.”

“Your Honor, I can’t believe-look, I am not fishing here. I am proving. Bondurant had threatened to cost that man out there sixty-one million dollars. It is obvious and anyone with common sense sees this. And if that is not motive for a murder then I guess I-”

“Motive isn’t proof,” Freeman said. “It’s not evidence and you obviously don’t have any. The defense’s whole case is a charade. What’s next, you name everybody Bondurant was foreclosing on as a suspect?”

I pointed down at her in the chair.

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea. But the fact is the defense case is not a charade and if allowed to continue my examination of the witness I will get to the evidence very quickly.”

“Sit down, Mr. Haller, and please watch your tone when you are addressing me.”

“Yes, Your Honor. I apologize.”

I sat down and waited while Perry brooded over the situation. Finally, he spoke.

“Ms. Freeman, anything else?”

“I think the court is well aware of how the prosecution views what Mr. Haller has been allowed to do. I warned early and often that he would create a sideshow that had nothing to do with the case at hand. We are well past that point now and I have to agree with the court’s assessment that all of this makes the court look foolish and manipulated.”

She had gone too far. I could see the skin around Perry’s eyes tighten as she stated that he looked like a fool. I think she’d had him in her hand but then lost him.

“Well, thank you very much, Ms. Freeman. I think at this time I’m inclined to go back out and give Mr. Haller one final chance to tie it all in. Do you understand what I mean by final chance, Mr. Haller?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I will comply.”

“You’d better, sir, because the court’s patience has drawn thin. Let’s go back now.”

Out at the defense table I saw Aronson waiting by herself and realized she hadn’t followed me into chambers. I sat down wearily.

“Where’s Lisa?”

“In the hallway with Dahl. What happened?”

“I’ve got one more chance. I have to move things up and go in for the kill now.”

“Can you do it?”

“We’ll see. I’ve got to run out to the facilities before we start again. Why didn’t you come into chambers?”

“No one asked me to, and I didn’t know if I should just follow you in.”

“Next time follow me in.”

Courthouse designs are good at separating parties. Jurors have their own assembly and deliberation rooms, and there are aisles and gates to separate opposing parties and supporters. But the restrooms are the great equalizers. You step into one of these and you never know who you will encounter. I pushed through the inner door of the men’s room and almost walked right into Opparizio, who was washing his hands at the sink. He was bent over and looked up at me in the mirror.

“Well, Counselor, did the judge slap your hands a little bit?”

“That’s none of your business. I’ll find another restroom.”

I turned around to leave but Opparizio stopped me.

“Don’t bother. I’m leaving.”

He shook his wet hands off and moved toward the door, coming very close to me and then suddenly stopping.

“You are despicable, Haller,” he said. “Your client is a murderer and you have the balls to try to cast the blame on me. How do you look at yourself in the mirror?”

He turned and gestured toward the line of urinals.

“This is where you belong,” he said. “In the toilet.”

Forty-nine

It all came down to the next half hour-maybe an hour at the most. I sat at the defense table, composing my thoughts and waiting. Everyone was in place except for the judge, who remained in chambers, and Opparizio, who was smugly conferring with his two attorneys in the first row of the gallery where they had reserved seats. My client leaned toward me and whispered, so that not even Aronson could hear.

“You have more, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“You have more, don’t you, Mickey? More to go after him with?”

Even she knew that what I had already trotted out was not enough. I whispered back.

“We’ll know before lunch. We’ll either be drinking champagne or crying in our soup.”

The door to the judge’s chambers opened and Perry emerged. He called for the jury and the witness to return to the stand before he was even seated on the bench. A few minutes later I was back at the lectern, staring down Opparizio. The restroom confrontation seemed to give him renewed confidence. He adopted a relaxed posture that announced to the world that he was home free. I decided that there was no sense in waiting. It was time to start swinging.

“Now then, Mr. Opparizio, continuing our discussion from before, you have not been completely truthful in your testimony today, have you?”

“I have been completely honest and I resent the question.”

“You lied from the start, didn’t you, sir? Giving a false name when sworn in by the clerk.”

“My name was legally changed thirty-one years ago. I did not lie and it has nothing to do with this.”

“What is the name that is on your birth certificate?”

Opparizio paused and I think I saw the first inkling or recognition of where I was going with this.

“My birth name was Antonio Luigi Apparizio. Like now but spelled with an A. Growing up, people called me Lou or Louie because there were a lot of Anthonys and Antonios in the neighborhood. I decided to go with Louis. I legally changed my name to Anthony Louis Opparizio. I Americanized it. That’s it.”

“But why did you change the spelling of your last name too?”

“There was a professional baseball player at the time named Luis Aparicio. I thought the names were too close. Louis Apparizio and Luis Aparicio. I didn’t want to have a name so close to a famous person’s so I changed the spelling. Is that okay with you, Mr. Haller?”

The judge admonished Opparizio to simply answer the questions and not ask them.

“Do you know when Luis Aparicio retired from professional baseball?” I asked.

I glanced at the judge after asking the question. If his patience was being stretched before, it was now probably as thin as the piece of paper a contempt citation would be printed on.

“No, I don’t know when he retired.”

“Does it surprise you to learn that it was eight years before you changed your name?”

“No, it doesn’t surprise me.”

“But you expect the jury to believe that you changed your name to avoid a match to a baseball player long out of the game?”

Opparizio shrugged.

“It’s what happened.”

“Isn’t it true that you changed your name from Apparizio to Opparizio because you were an ambitious young man and wanted to at least outwardly distance yourself from your family?”

“No, untrue. I did want to have a more American-sounding name, but I wasn’t distancing myself from anyone.”

I saw Opparizio’s eyes make a quick dart in the direction of his attorneys.

“You were originally named after your uncle, were you not?” I asked.

“No, that’s not true,” Opparizio answered quickly. “I wasn’t named after anyone.”

“You had an uncle named Antonio Luigi Apparizio, the same name as on your birth certificate, and you are saying it was just coincidence?”

Realizing his mistake in lying, Opparizio tried to recover but only made it worse.

“My parents never told me who I was named after or even if I was named after someone.”

“And a bright person like you didn’t put it together?”

“I never thought about it. When I was twenty-one I came west and was not close to my family anymore.”

“You mean geographically?”

“In any way. I started a new life. I stayed out here.”

“Your father and your uncle were involved in organized crime, were they not?”

Freeman quickly objected and asked for a sidebar. When we got there she did everything but roll her eyes back into her head as she tried to communicate her frustration.

“Your Honor, enough is enough. Counsel may show no shame in besmirching the reputations of his own witnesses, but this has to end. This is a trial, Judge, not a deep-sea fishing trip.”

“Your Honor, you told me to move quickly and that is what I am doing. I have an offer of proof that clearly shows this is no fishing trip.”

“Well, what is it, Mr. Haller?”

I handed the judge a thick bound document I had carried to the sidebar. There were several Post-its of different colors protruding from its pages.

“That is the U.S. Attorney General’s ‘Report to Congress on Organized Crime.’ It’s dated nineteen eighty-six and the AG at the time was Edwin Meese. If you go to the yellow Post-it and open the page, the highlighted paragraph is my offer of proof.”

The judge read the passage and then turned the book around so Freeman could read it. Before she was finished he ruled on the objection.

“Ask your questions, Mr. Haller, but I’m giving you about ten minutes to connect the dots. If you don’t do it by then, I’m going to shut you down.”

“Thank you, Judge.”

I went back to the lectern and asked the question again, but in a different way.

“Mr. Opparizio, were you aware that your father and your uncle were members of an organized crime group known as the Gambino family?”

Opparizio had seen me offer the bound book to the judge. He knew I had something to back my question. Rather than throw out a full denial he went with the vague response.

“As I said, I left my family behind when I went off to school. I didn’t know about them after that. And I was told nothing before.”

It was time to be relentless, to back Opparizio to the edge of the cliff.

“Wasn’t your uncle known as Anthony ‘The Ape’ Apparizio because of his reputation for brutality and violence?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Didn’t your uncle act as a father figure in your life while your own father spent most of your teenage years in prison for extortion?”

“My uncle took care of us financially but he was not a father figure.”

“When you moved out west at age twenty-one was it to distance yourself from your family or to extend your family’s business opportunities to the west coast?”

“Now that’s a lie! I came out here for law school. I had nothing and brought nothing with me. Including family connections.”

“Are you familiar with the term ‘sleeper’ as it is applied in organized crime investigations?”

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

“Would it surprise you to learn that the FBI, starting in the 1980s, believed that the mob was attempting to move into legitimate areas of business by sending its next generation of members to schools and other locales so that they could sink roots and start businesses, and that these people were called sleepers?”

“I am a legitimate businessman. No one sent me anywhere and I put myself through law school working for a process server.”

I nodded as though I expected the answer.

“Speaking of process servers, you own several companies, don’t you, sir?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let me rephrase. When you sold ALOFT to the LeMure Fund you kept ownership of a variety of companies that contracted with ALOFT, correct?”

Opparizio took his time thinking about an answer. He made another furtive glance toward his attorneys. It was a Get me out of this look. He knew where I was going and he knew I couldn’t be allowed to get there. But he was on the witness stand and there was only one way out.

“I have ownership and part ownership in a variety of different enterprises. All of them legal, all of them aboveboard and legitimate.”

It was a good answer but it was not going to be good enough.

“What kind of companies? What services do they provide?”

“You mentioned process serving, that’s one of them. I have a paralegal referral and placement company. There’s an office staffing company and an office furniture supply entity. There’s-”

“Do you own a courier service?”

The witness paused before answering. He was trying to think two questions ahead and I wasn’t staying in a rhythm he could pick up on.

“I’m an investor. I’m not the sole owner.”

“Let’s talk about the courier service. First of all, what’s it called?”

“Wing Nuts Courier Services.”

“And is that a Los Angeles-based company?”

“Based here but with offices in seven cities. It operates all over this state and Nevada.”

“Exactly how much of Wing Nuts do you own?”

“I am a partial participant. I believe I own forty percent of it.”

“And who are some of the other participants?”

“Well, there are several. Some aren’t people, they’re other companies.”

“Like AA-Best Consultants of Brooklyn, New York, which is listed on corporate records in Sacramento as part owner of Wing Nuts?”

Opparizio was again slow to answer. This time he seemed lost in a dark thought until the judge prompted him.

“Yes, I believe that is one of the investors.”

“Now, corporation documents held by the state of New York show that the majority owner of AA-Best is one Dominic Capelli. Are you familiar with him?”

“No, I am not.”

“You are saying that you are unfamiliar with one of your partners in Wing Nuts, sir?”

“AA-Best invested. I invested. I don’t know all the individuals involved.”

Freeman stood. It was about time. I had been waiting for her to object for at least four questions. I was spinning my wheels waiting.

“Your Honor, is there a point to all of this?” she asked.

“I was beginning to wonder about that myself,” Perry said. “You want to enlighten us, Mr. Haller?”

“Three more questions, Your Honor, and I think the relevance here will be crystal clear to everyone,” I said. “I beg the court’s indulgence for just three more questions.”

I had stared at Opparizio the whole time I’d said it. I was sending the message. Pull the plug now or your secrets will be put out there in the world. LeMure will know. Your stockholders will know. The U.S. Attorney’s Office will know. Everyone will know.

“Very well, Mr. Haller.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

I looked down at my notes. Now was the time. If I had Opparizio right, now was the time. I looked back up at him.

“Mr. Opparizio, would it surprise you to learn that Dominic Capelli, the partner you claim not to know, is listed by the New York-”

“Your Honor?”

It was Opparizio. He had cut me off.

“On advice of counsel and pursuant to my Fifth Amendment rights and privileges granted by the Constitution of the United States and the state of California, I respectfully decline to answer this or further questions.”

There.

I stood totally still but that was only on the outside. Energy flooded through me like a scream. I was barely aware of the rumble of whispers that went through the courtroom. Then from behind me a voice firmly addressed the court.

“Your Honor, may I address the court please?”

I turned and saw it was one of Opparizio’s attorneys, Martin Zimmer.

Then I heard Freeman, her voice high and tight, calling an objection and asking for a sidebar.

But I knew a sidebar wasn’t going to do it this time. And so did Perry.

“Mr. Zimmer, you may sit down. We are going to break now for lunch and I expect all parties to be back in court at one o’clock this afternoon. The jury is directed not to discuss the case with one another or to draw any conclusions from the testimony and request of this witness.”

Court broke loudly after that, with the members of the media talking among themselves. As the last juror was going through the door I stepped away from the lectern and leaned down to the defense table to whisper in Aronson’s ear.

“You might want to come back to chambers this time.”

She was about to ask what I meant when Perry made it official.

“I want counsel to join me in chambers. Immediately. Mr. Opparizio, I want you to stay right there. You can consult with your counsel, but don’t leave the courtroom.”

With that the judge got up and headed back.

I followed.

Fifty

By now I was intimately getting to know the wall hangings and furnishings and everything else in the judge’s chambers. But I expected that this would be my last visit, and probably the most difficult. As we entered, the judge stripped off his robe and threw it haphazardly over the hat rack in the corner rather than carefully put it on a hanger as he had for prior in camera meetings. He then dropped into his seat and loudly exhaled. He leaned far back and looked up at the ceiling. He had a petulant look on his face, as though his concerns over what would be decided here were more about his own reputation as a jurist than about justice for a murder victim.

“Mr. Haller,” he said as though he was releasing a great burden.

“Yes, Your Honor?”

The judge rubbed his face.

“Please tell me that it was not your plan all along, and from the beginning, to force Mr. Opparizio into taking the Fifth in front of the jury.”

“Judge,” I said, “I had no idea he was going to take the Fifth. After the motion to quash hearing we had, I thought there was no way he would. I was pushing him, sure, but I wanted the answers to my questions.”

Freeman shook her head.

“You have something to add, Ms. Freeman?”

“Your Honor, I think defense counsel has treated the court and the justice system with nothing but contempt from the start of this trial. He didn’t even answer your question just now. He didn’t say it wasn’t his plan, Your Honor. He just said he had no idea. Those are two separate things and they underline the fact that defense counsel is sneaky and has tried to sabotage this trial from the start. He has now succeeded. All along Opparizio was a Fifth witness-a straw man he could set up in front of the jury and then knock down when he took the Fifth. That was the plan and if that is not a subverting of the adversarial system, then I don’t know what is.”

I glanced at Aronson. She looked mortified and maybe even swayed by Freeman’s statement.

“Judge,” I said calmly, “I can only say one thing to Ms. Freeman. Prove it. If she’s so sure this was some kind of master plan then she can try to prove it. The truth is, and my young, idealistic colleague here can back me on this, we did not even become aware of Opparizio’s organized crime connections until just recently. My investigator literally stumbled across them while tracking back all of Opparizio’s holdings as listed in his SEC filings. The police and prosecution had the opportunity to do this but either chose to ignore it or came up short of the mark. I think counsel’s upset largely extends from that, not what tactics I employ in court.”

The judge, who was still leaning back and looking at the ceiling, made a waving gesture with his hand. I didn’t know what it meant.

“Judge?”

Perry swung the chair around and leaned forward, addressing all three of us.

“So what do we do about this?”

He looked at me first. I glanced at Aronson to see if she had something to offer but she looked frozen in place. I turned back to the judge.

“I don’t think there is anything that can be done. The witness invoked the Fifth. He’s done testifying. We can’t go on with him selectively using the Fifth whenever or wherever he wants. He invoked, he’s done. Next witness. I have one more and then I’m done, too. I’ll be ready to give my closing tomorrow morning.”

Freeman could no longer take it sitting down. She stood up and started pacing a short pattern near the window.

“This is so unfair and so much a part of Mr. Haller’s plan. He brings out the testimony he wants on direct, then pushes Opparizio into the Fifth, and then the state gets no cross, no redress at all. Is that even remotely fair, Your Honor?”

Perry didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Everybody in the room knew the situation was unfair to the state. Freeman now had no opportunity to question Opparizio.

“I’m going to strike his entire testimony,” Perry declared. “I’ll tell the jury not to consider it.”

Freeman folded her arms across her chest and shook her head in frustration.

“That’s a helluva big bell to un-ring,” she said. “This is a disaster for the prosecution, Judge. It’s completely unfair.”

I said nothing because Freeman was right. The judge could tell the jurors not to consider anything Opparizio had said but it was too late. The message was delivered and was floating around in all their heads. Just as I had intended.

“Sadly, I see no alternative,” Perry said. “We’ll take lunch now and I’ll be thinking further on the issue. I suggest you three do the same. If you come up with something else before one, I will certainly entertain it.”

No one said anything. It was hard to believe it had come to this. The end of the case in sight. And things falling just as planned.

“That means you can all leave now,” Perry added. “I’ll tell the deputy that Mr. Opparizio is relieved as a witness. He probably has the whole media throng in the hallway waiting to devour him. And he probably blames you for that, Mr. Haller. You might want to steer clear of him while he’s in the courthouse.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Perry picked up the phone to call the deputy as we headed toward the door. I followed Freeman out and down the hallway to the courtroom. I was expecting it when she turned on me with nothing but pure and piercing anger in her eyes.

“Now I know, Haller.”

“Now you know what?”

“Why you and Maggie will never get back together again.”

That put a pause in my step and Aronson walked right into me from behind. Freeman turned back around and kept going.

“That was a low blow, Mickey,” Aronson said.

I watched Freeman go through the door to the courtroom.

“No,” I said. “It wasn’t.”

Fifty-one

My last witness was my trusty investigator. Dennis “Cisco” Wojciechowski took the witness stand after lunch, after the judge told the jurors that all of Louis Opparizio’s testimony was stricken from the record. Cisco had to spell his last name twice for the clerk but that was expected. He was indeed wearing the same shirt from the day before, but no jacket and no tie. The fluorescent lighting in the courtroom made the black ink chains that wrapped his biceps clearly visible through the stretched sleeves of the pale blue shirt.

“I’m just going to call you Dennis, if that is okay,” I said. “It will be easier on the court reporter.”

Polite laughter rolled through the courtroom.

“That’s fine with me,” the witness said.

“Okay, now, you work for me handling investigations for the defense, is that correct, Dennis?”

“Yes, that’s what I do.”

“And you worked extensively for the defense on the Mitchell Bondurant murder investigation, correct?”

“Correct. You could say that I piggybacked my investigation on the police investigation, checking to see if they missed anything or maybe got something wrong.”

“Did you work from investigative materials that were turned over to the defense by the prosecution?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Included in that material was a list of license plate numbers, correct?”

“Yes, the garage at WestLand National had a camera positioned over the drive-in entrance. Detectives Kurlen and Longstreth studied the recording from the camera and wrote down the plate number of every car that entered the garage between seven, when the garage opened, and nine, when it was determined that Mr. Bondurant was already dead. They then ran the plates through the law enforcement computer to see if any of the owners had criminal records or should be further investigated for other reasons.”

“And were any further investigations generated from this list?”

“According to their investigative records, no.”

“Now, Dennis, you mentioned you piggybacked on their investigation. Did you take this list and check these plate numbers out yourself?”

“I did. All seventy-eight of them. As best I could without access to law enforcement computers.”

“And did any merit further attention or did you reach the same conclusion as detectives Kurlen and Longstreth?”

“Yes, one car merited more attention, in my opinion, and so I followed up on it.”

I asked permission to give the witness a copy of the seventy-eight license plate numbers. The judge allowed it. Cisco pulled his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on.

“Which license plate did you want to further check out?”

“W-N-U-T-Z-nine.”

“Why were you interested in that one?”

“Because at the time I looked at this list we were already far down the road in our other avenues of investigation. I knew that Louis Opparizio was part owner in a business called Wing Nuts. I thought maybe there was a connection to the vehicle that carried that plate.”

“So what did you find out?”

“That the car was registered to Wing Nuts, a courier service that is partially owned by Louis Opparizio.”

“And, again, why was that worthy of attention?”

“Well, as I said, I had the benefit of time. Kurlen and Longstreth put this list together on the day of the murder. They did not know all the key factors or individuals involved. I was looking at this several weeks down the road. And at that point I knew that the victim, Mr. Bondurant, had sent an incendiary letter to Mr. Opparizio and-”

Freeman objected to his description of the letter and the judge struck the word incendiary from the record. I then told Cisco to continue.

“From our viewpoint, that letter cut Opparizio in as a person of interest and so I was doing a lot of background work on him. I connected him through Wing Nuts to a partner named Dominic Capelli. Capelli is known to law enforcement in New York as an associate of an organized crime family run by a man named Joey Giordano. Capelli has various connections to other unsavory-”

Freeman objected again and the judge sustained it. I put on my best show of frustration, acting as though both the judge and prosecutor were keeping the truth from the jury.

“Okay, let’s go back to the list and what it means. What did it show occurred at the garage involving a car owned by Wing Nuts?”

“It showed that the car entered the garage at eight oh-five.”

“And what time did it leave?”

“The exit camera showed it leaving at eight fifty.”

“So this vehicle entered the garage before the murder and left after the murder. Do I have that right?”

“That’s correct.”

“And the vehicle was owned by a company that was owned by a man with direct ties to organized crime. Is that also right?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Okay, did you determine if there was a legitimate business reason for a vehicle belonging to Wing Nuts to be in that garage?”

“Of course, the business is a courier service. It is used regularly by ALOFT to deliver documents to WestLand National. But what was curious to me is why the car entered at eight oh-five and then left before the bank even opened at nine.”

I looked at Cisco for a long moment. My gut said I had gotten all I needed to get. There was still chicken on the bone but sometimes you just have to push the plate away. Sometimes leaving the jury with a question is the best way to go.

“I have nothing further,” I said.

My direct examination had been very precise in scope to include only testimony about the license plates. This left Freeman little to work with on cross. However, she did score one point when she elicited from Cisco a reminder to the jury that WestLand National occupied only three floors of a ten-story building. The courier from Wing Nuts could have been going somewhere other than the bank, thus explaining his early arrival in the garage.

I was sure that if there was a record of a courier delivery to an office in the building other than the bank, then she would produce it-or Opparizio’s people would magically produce it for her-by the time she could put on rebuttal witnesses.

After a half hour, Freeman threw in the towel and sat down. That was when the judge asked if I had another witness to call.

“No, Your Honor,” I said. “The defense rests.”

The judge dismissed the jury for the day and instructed them to be in the assembly room by nine the next morning. Once they were gone Perry set the stage for the end of the trial, asking the attorneys if they would have rebuttal witnesses. I said no. Freeman said she wanted to reserve the right to call rebuttal witnesses in the morning.

“Okay, then we will reserve the morning session for rebuttal, if there is any rebuttal,” Perry said. “Closing arguments will begin first thing after the lunch break and each side will be limited to one hour. With any luck and no more surprises, our jury will go into deliberations by this time tomorrow.”

Perry left the bench then and I was left at the defense table with Aronson and Trammel. Lisa reached over and put her hand on top of mine.

“That was brilliant,” she said. “The whole morning was brilliant. I think that the jurors finally get it as well. I was watching them. I think they know the truth.”

I looked back at Trammel and then at Aronson, two different expressions on their faces.

“Thank you, Lisa. I guess it won’t be long before we find out.”

Fifty-two

In the morning Andrea Freeman surprised me by not surprising me. She stood before the judge and said she had no rebuttal witnesses. She then rested the state’s case.

This gave me pause. I had come to court fully prepared to face at least one final tilt with her. Testimony explaining the Wing Nuts car in the bank garage, or maybe Driscoll’s supervisor putting the boots to him, even a prosecution foreclosure expert to contradict Aronson’s assertions. But nothing. She folded the tent.

She was going with the blood. Whether I had robbed her of her Boléro crescendo or not, she was going to make her stand on the one incontrovertible aspect of the entire trial: the blood.

Judge Perry recessed court for the morning so the attorneys could work on their closing arguments and he could retreat to chambers to work on the jury charge-the final set of instructions jurors would take with them into deliberations.

I called Rojas and had him pick me up on Delano. I didn’t want to go back to the office. Too many distractions. I told Rojas just to drive and I spread my files and notes out in the backseat of the Lincoln. This was where I did my best thinking, my best prep work.

At one o’clock sharp, court reconvened. Like everything else in the criminal justice system, closing arguments were tipped toward the state. The prosecution got to speak first and last. The defense got the middle.

It looked to me like Freeman was going with the standard prosecutorial format. Build the house with the facts on the first swing and then pull their emotional strings on the second.

Block by block she outlined the evidence against Lisa Trammel, seemingly leaving out nothing presented since the start of the trial. The discourse was dry but cumulative. She covered means and motive, and she brought it all home with the blood. The hammer, the shoes, the uncontested DNA findings.

“I told you at the beginning of this trial that blood would tell the tale,” she said. “And here we are. You can discount everything else, but the blood evidence alone warrants a vote of guilty as charged. I am sure you will follow your conscience and do just that.”

She sat down and then it was my turn. I stood in the opening in front of the jury box and addressed the twelve directly. But I wasn’t alone in the well. As previously approved by the judge, I brought Manny out to stand with me. Dr. Shamiram Arslanian’s erstwhile companion stood upright, with the hammer attached to the crown of his head, his head snapped back at the unusual angle that would have been necessary if Lisa Trammel had struck the fatal blow.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I began, “I’ve got good news. We should all be out of here and back to our normal lives by the end of the day. I appreciate your patience and your attentiveness during this trial. I appreciate your consideration of the evidence. I am not going to take a lot of time up here because I want to get you home as soon as possible. Today should be easy. This is a quick one. This case comes down to what I call a five-minute verdict. A case where reasonable doubt is so pervasive that a unanimous verdict will undoubtedly be reached on your very first ballot.”

From there I highlighted the evidence the defense had brought forth and the contradictions and deficiencies in the state’s case. I asked the unanswered questions. Why was the briefcase open? Why did the hammer go so long without being found? Why was Lisa Trammel’s garage found unlocked and why would someone who was clearly going to succeed in defending her foreclosure case lash out against Bondurant?

It eventually brought me to the centerpiece of my closing-the mannequin.

“The demonstration by Dr. Arslanian alone puts the lie to the state’s case. Without considering another single part of the defense case, Manny here gives you reasonable doubt. We know from the injuries to the knees of the victim that he was standing when struck with the fatal blow. And if he was standing, then this is the only position that he could have been in for Lisa Trammel to have been the killer. Head back, face to the ceiling. Is that possible, you must ask yourself. Is that likely? What would make Mitchell Bondurant look up? What was he looking up at?”

I paused there, hand in one pocket, adopting a casual and confident pose. I checked their eyes. All twelve of them were locked in on the mannequin. I then reached up to the handle of the hammer and slowly pushed it up, until the plastic face came down to a normal level and the handle stood out at a ninety-degree angle, too high for Lisa Trammel to grasp.

“The answer, ladies and gentlemen, is that he wasn’t looking up because Lisa Trammel didn’t do this. Lisa Trammel was driving home with her coffee while someone else carried out the plan to eliminate the threat that Mitchell Bondurant had become.”

Another pause to let it sink in.

“Mitchell Bondurant had poked the sleeping tiger with his letter to Louis Opparizio. Whether intended or not, the letter was a threat to the two things that give the tiger its strength and fierceness. Money and power. It threatened a deal that was bigger than Louis Opparizio and Mitchell Bondurant. It threatened commerce and therefore it had to be dealt with.

“And it was. Lisa Trammel was chosen as the fall guy. She was known to the perpetrators of this crime, her movements had been monitored by them and she came with what appeared to be a credible motive. She was the perfect patsy. No one would believe her when she said, ‘I didn’t do this.’ No one would give it a second thought. A plan was set in motion and carried out brazenly and efficiently. Mitchell Bondurant was left dead on the concrete floor of a garage, his briefcase pilfered on the floor right next to him. And the police showed up and went right along for the ride.”

I shook my head in dismay, as though I carried the disgust of all society.

“The police had blinders on. Like those blinders put on horses so they stay on track. The police were on a track that led to Lisa Trammel and they would look at nothing else. Lisa Trammel, Lisa Trammel, Lisa Trammel… Well, what about ALOFT and the tens of millions of dollars that Mitchell Bondurant was threatening? Nope, not interested. Lisa Trammel, Lisa Trammel, Lisa Trammel. The train was on the track and they rode it home.”

I paused and paced in front of the jury. For the first time I looked about the courtroom. It was filled to capacity, with even some people standing in the back. I saw Maggie McPherson standing back there and next to her was my daughter. I froze in midstep but then quickly recovered. It made my heart feel good as I turned to the jury and brought my case to an end.

“But you see what they didn’t see or refused to see. You see that they got on the wrong track. You see that they were cleverly manipulated. You see the truth.”

I gestured to the mannequin.

“The physical evidence doesn’t work. The circumstantial evidence doesn’t work. The case doesn’t bear scrutiny in the light of day. The only thing this case adds up to is reasonable doubt. Common sense tells you this. Your instincts tell you this. I urge you to set Lisa Trammel free. Let her go. It is the right thing to do.”

I said thank you and returned to my seat, patting Manny on the shoulder as I passed. As we had previously planned, Lisa Trammel grabbed and squeezed my arm once I sat down. She mouthed the words Thank you for all on the jury to see.

I checked my watch under the defense table and saw I had taken only twenty-five minutes. I started to settle in for the second part of the state’s closer when Freeman asked the judge to have me remove the mannequin from the courtroom. The judge told me to do so and I got back up.

I carried the mannequin to the gate, where I was met by Cisco, who had been in the audience.

“I got it, Boss,” he whispered. “I’ll take him outside.”

“Thanks.”

“You did good.”

“Thanks.”

Freeman moved to the well to deliver the second part of her summation. She wasted no time in attacking the contentions of the defense.

“I don’t need any props to try to mislead you. I don’t need any conspiracies or unnamed or unknown killers. I have the facts and the evidence that prove well beyond any reasonable doubt that Lisa Trammel murdered Mitchell Bondurant.”

And it went from there. Freeman used her entire allotment of time hammering the defense case while bolstering the evidence the state had shown. It was a fairly routine Joe Friday closing. Just the facts, or the supposed facts, delivered like a steady drumbeat. Not bad but not all that good either. I saw the attention of some of the jurors wandering through parts of it, which could be taken two ways. One, they weren’t buying it, or two, they had already bought it and didn’t need to hear it again.

Freeman steadily amped it up until her big finish, a standard summing of the power and might of the state to cast judgment and exact justice.

“The facts of this case are unalterable. The facts do not lie. The evidence clearly shows that the defendant waited behind the pillar in the garage for Mitchell Bondurant. The evidence clearly shows that when he stepped out of his car, the defendant attacked. It was his blood on her hammer and his blood on her shoe. These are facts, ladies and gentlemen. These are undisputed facts. These are the building blocks of evidence. Evidence that proves beyond a reasonable doubt that Lisa Trammel killed Mitchell Bondurant. That she came up behind him and brutally struck him with her hammer. That she even hit him again and again after he was down and dead. We don’t know exactly what position he was in or she was in. She is the only one who knows that. But we do know that she did it. The evidence in this case points to one person.”

And of course Freeman had to point the finger at my client.

“Her. Lisa Trammel. She did it and now through the tricks of her attorney she asks you to let her go. Don’t do it. Give Mitchell Bondurant justice. Find his killer guilty of this crime. Thank you.”

Freeman took her seat. I gave her closing a B but I had already awarded myself an A-egotist that I am. Still, usually all it took was a C for the prosecution to triumph. It’s always a stacked deck for the state and often the defense attorney’s very best work is simply not good enough to overcome the power and the might.

Judge Perry moved directly into the jury charge, reading his final instructions to them. These were not only the rules of deliberations but also instructions specific to the case. He gave great attention to Louis Opparizio and warned again that his testimony was not to be considered during the deliberations.

The charge ended up being nearly as long as my closing but finally, just after three, the judge sent the twelve jurors back to the assembly room to begin their task. As I watched them file through the door I was at least relaxed, if not confident. I had put the best case forward that I could. I had certainly bent some rules and pushed some boundaries. I had even put myself at risk. At risk based on the law but also something more dangerous. I had risked myself by believing in the possibility of my client’s innocence.

I looked over at Lisa as the door to the deliberations room closed. I saw no fear in her eyes and once again I bought in. She was already sure of the verdict. There wasn’t a doubt on her face.

“What do you think?” Aronson whispered to me.

“I think we’ve got a fifty-fifty shot at this and that’s better than we usually get, especially on a murder. We’ll see.”

The judge recessed court after making sure the clerk had contact numbers for all parties and urging us to stay somewhere no more than fifteen minutes away, should a verdict come in. My office was in that range so we decided to head back there. Feeling optimistic and magnanimous, I even told Lisa she could invite Herb Dahl along. I felt it would be my obligation to eventually inform her of her guardian angel’s treachery, but that conversation would be saved for another day.

As the defense party walked out into the hallway the media started to gather around us, clamoring for a statement from Lisa or at least me. Behind the crowd I saw Maggie leaning against a wall, my daughter sitting on a bench next to her while texting away on her phone. I told Aronson to handle the reporters and I started to slip away.

“Me?” Aronson said.

“You know what to say. Just don’t let Lisa talk. Not till we have a verdict.”

I waved off a couple of trailing reporters and got to Maggie and Hayley. I made a quick feint one way and then went the other, kissing my daughter on the cheek before she could duck.

“Daaaaddd!”

I straightened up and looked at Maggie. She had a small smile on her face.

“You pulled her out of school for me?”

“I thought she should be here.”

It was a major concession.

“Thank you,” I said. “So what did you think?”

“I think you could sell ice in Antarctica,” she said.

I smiled.

“But that doesn’t mean you’re going to win,” she added.

I frowned.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Well, what do you want from me? I’m a prosecutor. I don’t like to see the guilty go free.”

“Well, that won’t be a problem in this case.”

“I guess you have to believe what you have to believe.”

I was back to smiling. I checked my daughter and saw she was back to texting, oblivious to our conversation as usual.

“Did Freeman talk to you yesterday?”

“You mean about you pulling the Fifth witness move? Yes. You don’t play fair, Haller.”

“It’s not a fair game. Did she tell you what she said to me after?”

“No, what did she say?”

“Never mind. She was wrong.”

She knitted her eyebrows. She was intrigued.

“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “We’re all going to walk over to my office to wait. You two want to come?”

“No, I think I need to get Hayley home. She’s got homework.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it and took a look. The screen said

L.A. Superior Court

I took the call. It was Judge Perry’s clerk. I listened and then hung up. I looked around to make sure Lisa Trammel was still nearby.

“What is it?” Maggie asked.

I looked back at her.

“We already have a verdict. A five-minute verdict.”

PART FIVE.The Hypocrisy of Innocence

Fifty-three

They came in droves, pouring in from all over Southern California, all brought by the siren song of Facebook. Lisa Trammel had announced the party the morning after the verdict and now on Saturday afternoon they were ten deep at the cash bars. They waved the Stars and Stripes and wore red, white and blue. Fighting foreclosure with the nearly martyred leader of the cause was now more American than ever before. At every door to the house and spaced at intervals in the front and back yards were ten-gallon buckets for donations to defray Trammel’s expenses and keep the fight going. FLAG pins for a buck, cheap cotton T-shirts for ten. And posing with Lisa for a photo required a minimum twenty-dollar donation.

But nobody complained. Fired in the kiln of false accusation, Lisa Trammel had emerged unscathed and appeared to be about to make the jump from activist to icon. And she wasn’t unhappy about it. The rumor was that Julia Roberts was in talks to play the part in the movie.

My crew and I were stationed in the backyard at a picnic table with an umbrella. We had come early and gotten the spot. Cisco and Lorna were drinking canned beer and Aronson and I were on bottled water. There was a slight tension at the table and I picked up enough innuendo to understand that it had something to do with how late Cisco had stayed at Four Green Fields with Aronson back on Monday night after I’d left with Maggie McFierce.

“Jeez, look at all of these people,” Lorna said. “Don’t they know that a not-guilty verdict doesn’t mean she’s innocent?”

“That’s bad etiquette, Lorna,” I said. “You’re never supposed to say that, especially when it’s your own client you’re talking about.”

“I know.”

She frowned and shook her head.

“You’re not a believer, Lorna?”

“Well, don’t tell me you are.”

I was glad I was wearing sunglasses. I didn’t want to reveal myself on this one. I shrugged like I didn’t know or it didn’t matter.

But it did. You have to live with yourself. Knowing that there was a solid chance that Lisa Trammel actually deserved the verdict she got made things a whole lot better when I looked in the mirror.

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” Lorna said. “Our phone hasn’t stopped ringing since the verdict came in. We’re back in business big time.”

Cisco nodded approvingly. It was true. It seemed as though every accused criminal in the city wanted to hire me now. This would’ve been great if I had wanted things to continue the way they were going.

“Did you check out the closing price on LeMure yesterday on NASDAQ?” Cisco asked.

I gave him a look.

“You following the Street now?”

“Just wanted to see if anybody was paying attention and it looks like they were. LeMure dropped thirty percent of its value in two days. Didn’t help that the Wall Street Journal ran a story connecting Opparizio to Joey Giordano and questioning how much of that sixty-one mill he got went into the mob’s pocket.”

“Probably all of it,” Lorna said.

“So Mickey,” Aronson said. “How’d you know?”

“Know what?”

“That Opparizio would take the nickel.”

I shrugged again.

“I didn’t. I just figured that once it became apparent that his connections were going to come out in open court, he would do what he had to do to stop it. He had one choice. The Fifth.”

Aronson didn’t look as though my answer appeased her. I turned away and looked across the crowded yard. My client’s son was at a nearby table with her sister. They both looked bored, as if forced to be there. A large group of children had gathered near the terraced herb garden. A woman in the middle of the circle was handing out candy from a bag. She was wearing a red, white and blue top hat like Uncle Sam’s.

“How long do we need to stay, Boss?” Cisco asked.

“You’re not on the clock,” I said. “I just thought we should put in an appearance.”

“I want to stay,” Lorna said, probably just to spite him. “Maybe some Hollywood people will show up.”

A few minutes later the main attraction of the day came out the back door, followed by a reporter and a cameraman. They picked a location with the crowd in the background and Lisa Trammel stood for a quick interview. I didn’t bother to try to listen. I’d heard and seen the same interview enough over the past two days.

After Lisa finished the interview she broke away from the media, shook some hands and posed for some photos. Eventually, she made her way to our table, stopping to ruffle her son’s hair on the way.

“There they are. The victors! How’s my team doing today?”

I managed to smile.

“We’re good, Lisa. And you look fine, too. Where’s Herb?”

She looked around as if searching for Dahl in the crowd.

“I don’t know. He was supposed to be here.”

“Too bad,” Cisco said. “We’ll miss him.”

Lisa didn’t seem to register the sarcasm.

“You know I need to talk to you later, Mickey,” she said. “I need your advice on which show to do. Good Morning America or Today? They both want me next week but I have to pick one because neither will take seconds.”

I flipped my hand as if the answer didn’t matter.

“I don’t know. Herb can probably help you with that. He’s the media guy.”

Lisa looked back at the gathering of children and started to smile.

“Oh, I have just the thing for those children. Excuse me, everybody.”

She hurried off and went around the corner of the house.

“She’s sure loving it, isn’t she?” Cisco said.

“I would be, too,” Lorna said.

I looked at Aronson.

“Why so quiet?”

She shrugged.

“I don’t know. I’m not so sure I like criminal defense anymore. I think if you take on some of those people who have been calling, I’ll stick with the foreclosures. If you don’t mind.”

I nodded.

“I think I know what you’re feeling. You can do the foreclosure work if you want to. There’s going to be plenty of that for a while, especially with guys like Opparizio still in business. But that feeling you’ve got does go away. Believe me, Bullocks, it does.”

She didn’t respond to the return of her nickname or anything else I had said. I turned to look across the yard. Lisa was back and she had rolled out the helium tank from the garage. She told the children to gather around and started filling balloons. The TV cameraman moved in to get the shot. It would be perfect for the six o’clock news.

“Now, is she doing that for the kids or for the camera?” Cisco asked.

“You really have to ask?” Lorna responded.

Lisa pulled a blue balloon off the tank and expertly tied it off with a string. She handed it to a girl of about six, who grabbed the string and let the balloon shoot six feet above her head. The girl smiled and turned her face up to gaze at her new toy. And in that moment I knew what Mitchell Bondurant was looking up at when Lisa hit him with the hammer.

“She did it,” I whispered under my breath.

I felt the burn of a million synapses firing down my neck and across my shoulders.

“What did you say?” Aronson asked me.

I looked at her but didn’t answer and then looked back at my client. She filled another balloon with gas, tied the knot and handed it to a boy. The same thing happened again. The boy held the string and turned his cheery face up to look at the red balloon. An instinctive, natural response. To look up at the balloon.

“Oh, my God,” Aronson said.

She had put it together, too.

“That’s how she did it.”

Now Cisco and Lorna had turned.

“The witness said she was carrying a big shopping bag on the sidewalk,” Aronson said. “Big enough to hold a hammer, yes, but also big enough to hold balloons.”

I took it from there.

“She sneaks into the garage and puts the balloons up over Bondurant’s parking space. Maybe there’s a note on the end of each string so he’s sure to see them.”

“Yeah,” Cisco said. “Like, here’s your balloon payment.”

“She hides behind the pillar and waits,” I said.

“And when Bondurant looks up at the balloons,” Cisco concluded, “bang, right on the back of the head.”

I nodded.

“And the two pops somebody thought were gunshots but were dismissed as backfire were neither,” I said. “She popped the balloons on the way out.”

A dreadful silence fell over the table. Until Lorna spoke.

“Wait a minute. You’re saying she planned it that way? Like she knew if she hit him on the top of the head it would throw the jury?”

I shook my head.

“No, that was just luck. She just wanted to stop him. She used the balloons to make sure he paused and she could come up behind him. The rest was just dumb luck… something that a defense lawyer knew how to use.”

I couldn’t look at my colleagues. I stared off at Lisa filling balloons.

“So… we helped her get away with it.”

It was a statement from Lorna. Not a question.

“Double jeopardy,” Aronson said. “She can never be tried again.”

As if on cue Lisa looked over at us while she tied off the end of a white balloon. She handed it to another child.

And she smiled at me.

“Cisco, how much are they charging for the beer?”

“Five bucks a can. It’s a rip-off.”

“Mickey, don’t,” Lorna said. “It’s not worth it. You’ve been so good.”

I pulled my eyes away from my client and looked at Lorna.

“Good? Are you saying I’m one of the good guys?”

I got up and left them there and headed toward the backyard bar, where I took my place in line. I expected Lorna to follow me but it was Aronson who came up next to me. She spoke in a very low voice.

“Look, what are you doing? You told me not to grow a conscience. Are you telling me you did?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “All I know is that she played me like a fucking fiddle and you know what? She knows I know. She just gave me that smile. I saw it in her eyes. She’s proud of it. She pulled the tank into the yard so I would see it and I would know…”

I shook my head.

“She had me wired from day one. Everything was part of her plan. Every last-”

I stopped as I realized something.

“What?” Aronson asked.

I paused as I continued to put it together.

“What, Mickey?”

“Her husband wasn’t even her husband.”

“What do you mean?”

“The guy calling me, the guy who showed up. Where is he now for the big payday? He’s not here because that wasn’t him. He was just part of the play.”

“Then where is the husband?”

That was the question. But I had no answer. I didn’t have any answers anymore.

“I’m leaving.”

I stepped out of the line and headed toward the back door.

“Mickey, where are you going?”

I didn’t answer. I quickly passed through the house and out the front door. I had arrived early enough to grab a curb slot only two houses down. I was almost to the Lincoln when I heard my name called from behind.

It was Lisa. She was walking toward me in the street.

“Mickey! You’re leaving?”

“Yes, I’m leaving.”

“Why? The party’s just starting.”

She came up close to me and stopped.

“I’m leaving because I know, Lisa. I know.”

“What do you think you know?”

“That you used me like you use everybody. Even Herb Dahl.”

“Oh, come on, you’re a defense lawyer. You’ll get more business out of this than you’ve ever had before.”

Just like that, she acknowledged everything.

“What if I didn’t want the business? What if I just wanted to believe something was true?”

She paused. She didn’t get it.

“Get over yourself, Mickey. Wake up.”

I nodded. It was good advice.

“Who was he, Lisa?” I asked.

“Who was who?”

“The guy you sent me who said he was your husband.”

Now a small proud smile curled her bottom lip.

“Goodbye, Mickey. Thank you for everything.”

She turned and started walking back toward her house. And I got in my Lincoln and drove away.

Fifty-four

I was in the backseat of the Lincoln cruising through the Third Street tunnel when my phone started to buzz. The screen said it was Maggie. I told Rojas to kill the music-it was “Judgement Day” off the latest Eric Clapton album-and took the call.

“Did you do it?” she asked first thing.

I looked out the window as we broke clear of the tunnel and into the bright sunlight. It fit with the way I was feeling. It had been three weeks since the verdict and the further I got away from it the better I felt. I was on the road to something else now.

“I did.”

“Wow! Congratulations.”

“I’m still the longest long shot you’ll ever see. The field is full and I’ve got no money.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re a name in this town and there’s a certain integrity about you that people see and respond to. I know I did. Plus you’re an outsider. Outsiders always win. So don’t kid yourself, the money will come.”

I wasn’t sure integrity and me belonged in the same sentence. But I’d take the rest and, besides, it was the happiest I’d heard Maggie McFierce in a long, long time.

“Well, we’ll see,” I said. “But as long as I have your vote, I don’t care if I get another.”

“That’s sweet, Haller. What’s next?”

“Good question. I have to go open a bank account and assemble a-”

My phone started beeping. I had another call coming in. I checked the screen and saw that it was blocked.

“Mags, hold on a second, let me just check this call.”

“Go ahead.”

I switched over.

“This is Michael Haller.”

“You did this.”

I recognized the angry voice. Lisa Trammel.

“Did what?”

“The police are here! They’re digging up the garden looking for him. You sent them!”

I assumed the “him” she referred to was her missing husband, who never quite made it to Mexico. Her voice had the familiar shrill tone it took on when she was on the edge of losing it.

“Lisa, I-”

“I need you here! I need a lawyer. They’re going to arrest me!”

Meaning that she knew what the police would find in the garden.

“Lisa, I’m not your lawyer anymore. I can recommend a-”

“Nooooo! You can’t abandon me! Not now!”

“Lisa, you just accused me of sending the cops. Now you want me to represent you?”

“I need you, Mickey. Please.”

She started crying, that long echoing sob I had heard too many times before.

“Get somebody else, Lisa. I’m done. With any luck I might even get to prosecute you.”

“What are you talking about?

“I just filed. I’m running for district attorney.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m changing my life. I’m tired of being around people like you.”

There was no response at first but I could hear her breathing. When she finally spoke, her voice had a flat, emotionless tone to it.

“I should have told Herb to have them maim you. That’s what you deserve.”

Now I was silent. I knew what she was talking about. The Mack brothers. Dahl had lied to me and said Opparizio had ordered the beating. But that didn’t fit with the rest of the story. This did. It had been Lisa who wanted it done. She was willing to have her own attorney attacked if it would deflect suspicion and help her case. If it would help me believe in other possibilities.

I managed to find my voice and say my final words to her.

“Goodbye, Lisa. And good luck.”

I composed myself and switched back over to my ex-wife.

“Sorry… it was a client. A former client.”

“Everything all right?”

I leaned against the window. Rojas was just turning on Alvarado and heading to the 101.

“I’m good. So you want to go somewhere tonight and talk about the campaign?”

“You know, while I was on hold I was thinking, why don’t you come to my place? We can eat with Hayley and then talk while she does her homework.”

It was a rare invite to her home.

“So a guy has to run for DA to get invited over to your place?”

“Don’t press your luck, Haller.”

“I won’t. What time?”

“Six.”

“See you then.”

I disconnected and stared out the window for a little while.

“Mr. Haller?” Rojas asked. “You’re running for DA?”

“Yeah. You have a problem with that, Rojas?”

“No, Boss. But do you still need a driver?”

“Sure, Rojas, your job is safe.”

I called the office and Lorna answered.

“Where is everybody?”

“They’re here. Jennifer is using your office for a new client interview. A foreclosure. And Dennis is doing something on the computer. Where have you been?”

“Downtown. But I’m heading back. Make sure nobody leaves. I want to have a staff meeting.”

“Okay, I’ll tell them.”

“Good. See you in about thirty.”

I closed the phone. We were coming up the ramp onto the 101. All six lanes were clogged with metal, moving at a steady but slow pace. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. This was my city and this was the way it was supposed to run. At Rojas’s command, the black Lincoln cut through the lanes and around the traffic, carrying me toward a new destiny.